Jersey Girl does Paris

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My last week in the states, at a bar, some fellow with whom I am unacquainted approached me, kissed my hand, and said, "enchanté, ma chérie." I pulled my hand away, and in the jersiest French accent imaginable, I said, "Je ne suis pas TON cherie!" and huffed off.
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My brief layover and plane change in Reykjavik was spent watching the numerous 10-second advertisements for Iceland, from which I learned that the name of the Icelandic language is Islenska, and that the word "geyser" originated thenceforth. I had received a stamp and a cursory once-over of my passport from Icelandic customs folk, but passed through no immigration or customs rituals, boarded my plane to Paris and slept.

Funneling from the plane to baggage claim, into the taxi line, my baggage into a trunk, and I into conversation with the driver, Dominique, I realized that I never received a French visa-upon-arrival as I had expected. But I was in the city now, haltingly and slowly weaving towards the 9ieme arrondissement through the wheel of Paris. Dominique told me, like the cash-exchange attendant, that I speak French very well. Very kind, I told them both, but untrue. I am admittedly talented in parroting accents which lends me the undeserved scent of knowledge, but like violets, the scent is gone upon nose at the second breath. But, then again, I suppose toute est possible.

I immediately addressed my maslovian needs; I went to stretch my plane-cramped legs, fill my belly, and buy a SIM card. I wandered in and out of several shops and spoke to at least three bouquinistes before settling down for some onion soup, as it is called in France. When I returned to the street which once was home to Le Chat Noir Cabaret, I mounted the stairs to the apartment which had been opened to me and which is decked in dozens of old renaissance romantic paintings in ornate woodcarved and gold covered decrepit frames, and which also boasts of a poster in the bathroom declaring, "Here sits the next movie star!" I had tea and biscuits with my hosts and listened in an irresponsibly detached manner to their charged discussion of family affairs in French. I had to remind myself that their sounds have meanings to them, and are not only fascinating, but weighty. Nevertheless, it was enjoyable to watch the rapidfire cadence and bounciness of the speech, the specificity of each of their uses of the language. I thought I heard something about an umbrella, and was wrong.

I returned to the sidewalks in the evening with feet tired but determined to sync with the sun and had a hopeful heart for finding Montmartre by sunset, which is not far from there. Despite the seemingly explicit signage of Paris, I found myself alone in a city (ungridded) in a foreign country past dark. Remembering the moment when my danger sensors blared and I, alert of the young man behind me, slid into a side shop and changed course, I determined to ask for directions. A bit untrusting due to those New York City walking habits, I hesitated in who to ask. Across the dimly lit street (though those Paris street lamps are truly lovely), I noticed a bouquiniste, and thought, "I can trust book folk." Though I could be embarrassed at my pride , I'd rather boast in having asked for, got and followed directions in French.

Paris threatened to rain for two days with a weak follow-through on Wednesday afternoon that hit just as I crossed the Seine and started on line at the entrance of the Musee D'Orsay. With directions on my journal-torn scrap in hand I had utilized those city-walking skills gleaned early in my youth living in the suburbs of New York; though I noticed that I had to temper the speed those skills had been set to rest in. Paris, though grand and bustling, is still leisurely. I paused at the first several patisseries along the way to linger for an extra bouffée d'air parfumée au beurre. My eyes lifted up towards the unspoken gargoyles, and felt that it ought to be someone's job to always remind people that they are there; these old, gold dendrites on the buildings watching their city and how it's changed.

Thursday morning, once packed again into my rucksack, I walked up La Rue Des Martyrs following with greater attention the signs to Montmartre which stands up beyond two sets of steep stone old steps over the city. I came up to a square populated with artists and tourists and beggars and Eiffel Tower keychains and berets. Portaiteers on the edges of the square grabbing folks from their stares with landscapes and abstract canvases held in the center, the terrain of the paint casting shadows at my feet with the sun as strong as it was.

Hearing the echoes of some jazzy reggae and an emphatic singer, I turned the corner to find three black Frenchmen selling their CD on the steps of le Basilisque de Sacre Coeur de Montmartre, an enormous marble thing beholding a view of Paris unmatched. Throngs of people in every language. But inside the cathedral was a nun's song echoing in the domes of the ceiling where a glittering mosaic of Jesus looms over the priest, with Joan of Arc, and St. Michael the Archangel all around on their knees with their heads thrown back and palms turned up to their savior. The inspiration of religion abounds like I'd not seen before.

I'd made my way to a post office before long. It was busy, and when I asked my overly-rehearsed question, I received an answer unexpectedly longer and more complex. I made like I understood precisely, and hurriedly left, deciding to try sending the package to the US once arrived in Chateaumeillant. On to the train station I went.