Jul 21

Paris Moments

by in All Travels, Europe

Three summers in Paris now, and it’s starting to feel like home. Maybe not home, exactly, but a place where, just maybe, we belong. It’s the little things — the moments that are uniquely Paris — that root me here.

We missed the Fireworks last year, but not for lack of trying. Our friend had a viewing spot in mind, and we ran through the cobblestone streets of the left bank to get there. We heard the fireworks kick off, and we ran faster. We got to that perfect spot on the bridge over the Seine, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance, just as the smoke of the finale began to clear. It was not to happen again. We took the Metro this year. And left early. Pay-off.

Fireworks after the Fireworks, Bastille Day 2013

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I watched as a young man sat sipping wine at a cafe while writing music. Like, seriously writing music. He had a blank scoresheet and a stash of sharpened pencils and he carefully drew each note. He drew each note on the musically lined scoresheet, gently swaying his head back and forth as he drew. I write, and the words form in my head and then the keyboard to the page, and I get that. But this young man was creating music with simple pencils and a blank scoresheet. I am quite certain it was magic.

* * * * * *

A new resident moved into the apartment below us.  We know because his stuff — huge, gorgeous pieces or art, crates of Evian, massive, antique chairs and tables and lamps — appears each night at his door as he hauls each piece up the two flights of stairs. Alone. He’s moving in at night and on weekends, no movers, just him. We ran into him on the steps, sweating through his pinstriped business shirt, sleeves rolled up, trying to hoist a bookcase up the stairs. Austin picked up one end and helped hoist it up the stairs. A few days later, from our favorite Italian place across the street, we watched him step onto his Haussmann balcony andtip his bottled Evian into each of the  balcony’s twelve potted trees. He made two passes, carefully watering and checking each tree, depleting the bottles of Evian he’d hoisted up two flights of stairs just days earlier.

 

*******

We often stand waiting at the doors of the little Italian spot across the street when they open at 7:30PM; sometimes they open early, just for us.  We call it our kitchen. We sit at our same table, half inside/half outside, where the leg of the chair might slip off the floor and onto the sidewalk, ensuring a tumble.  The staff  remembers our favorite dishes, the ravioli with blue cheese and nuts, the jambon tortellini, the four cheese pasta. The chef, the waitress and the waiter/manager always smile and wave and say “bonjour!” when we walk by during the day, like old friends. We notice, though, that other patrons sometimes get fresh grated parmesan on their pasta. They don’t request it; the waiter just offers, swoops in and grates, and disappears again. Or occasionally a brown bag of what appears to be warm, fresh bread, delicate grease markings on the bag, just drops on their tables, and maybe even replenished when depleted. We do not get those things. We’re in, but not that in. Last night, we sat at our regular table and ordered our favorite dishes and made small talk with the waitress. It was like every other night. Then she swooped by and dropped the little brown bag of warm fresh bread on our table.

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I order vin blanc at Cafe Universel on Monday nights at our readings.  It’s the least expensive; it’s cold; and I can usually order it in French without stumbling. Azu, the owner, speaks very little English, but it doesn’t matter. His bartending knows no translation boundaries. Yet still, I want to do it right, especially with him. I’ve ordered vin blanc every Monday night of every July for the last three years from Azu. “Bonjour!” we both say, then he leans in to hear. I order, he nods, then plunges a wine glass into an ice vat to chill it, fills the glass with a respectable aligote, and slides it across the bar to me.  He smiles. I say “Merci,” He nods, smiles again, and slips the tab on the bar near me, knowing I’ll see it and pay before leaving. This week, I order, he plunges the glass into the ice, fills it, slides it across the bar, and smiles. “Merci,” I say. But no tab appears. Perhaps he forgot.  I order another glass later, and again, same dance, no tab. “Magnifique photographe,” he says to me and smiles. It takes a minute, but I get it.  Last year, I  got a shot of Azu and his wife, behind the bar. Another friend shared it with them. I never thought about it again.  But Azu did.  The wine, an expression of appreciation. “Merci beaucoup, Azu.”

Cafe Universel, Paris

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