Archive for April, 2009

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Music and love

April 29, 2009

Seeing a show, having one’s world rocked by an excellent musical act is nothing short of bliss a whole lot of the time.

Seeing a friend play live music that rocks one’s world is nothing short of heaven every time.

Seeing a friend play an amazing live show and hear him halfway through, announce that one of his best friends from the western side of the world is there and this song he’s about to play is for her, and then proceeds to play Everybody’s Talkin by Harry Nilsson (one of her favorite songs!)  goes beyond bliss, heaven and into a place where one could easily cry from appreciation if she wasn’t surrounded by a crowd of people. That delightful place of warmth and happiness…which is probably where warm fuzzies live. In very soft looking pink houses. With those bushy flowery fragrant trees whose petals rain down like whispers and never turn brown once they’ve fallen.  And they have sushi as often as they want. And treacle. And they can eat as much tiramisu as they like without worrying about what the dairy’s going to do to them later. It’s a nice place.

It is most assuredly worth brag..eh, blogging about.

And so I shall darlings, so I shall. Later this morning, on the train to see aforementioned most awesome friend on the planet play a show outside of Paris for kids.  The reason why? Because if you’ll notice I said later this morning, that must mean it’s after 4 (technically morning if you’ve been paying attention) and while I had a fabulous night of music and feelin love  and drinks and 230 am pasta madness, it is time to go to bed and see if my dreams can compare with reality.

I bought wheat free hazelnut bread today! It was yummy!

I bought paella. Thankyou Perellos. I am ruined for all other paella.

And the lifespan of the butterfly is precisely the right length.

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Important distinctions

April 27, 2009

I think most people know about those words in french which are false friends. Some you learn quickly. You cannot borrow books from a librarie in france, because it’s a bookstore. A library is a biblioteque. And then there’s all kinds of words that are english looking, french sounding and different meaning. Experience in french is not only an experience, it can also be an experiment, all science-like. And experimente in french is someone who is experienced all jimi hendrix-like, someone who has been schooled, as it were. And yes I make a lot of mistakes, but between hand gestures and a rudimentary knowlege of the words I want to say, most of the time I get by alright. Most people are very patient and help me find the words I want, thought most of the time I immediately forget them.  Of course it doesn’t help that I constantly mix up the tenses and have no idea how to use futur perfect, or passe compose…I live in the present. I may have done that 10 years ago, but in french, at least for me, it’s all happening right now.

There are many words like this, anyway. Words that in english mean one thing and when I use them, that’s my intention. But in french, sometimes, it’s very very very different.

When I decided that I wanted to travel I made a concious decision to not engage is the possibility of an intimate relationship with anyone. The reason for this is that while I was planning and scheming and working and saving and researching and dreaming of foreign lands there is no doubt in my mind that the universe, with it’s not so very subtle way of confounding the best laid plans, would have surely gotten me pregnant. I know there are precautions one can take, but seriously, when it’s your time, it’s your time.

It’s like that dude who was crazy superstitious and stayed home alone from work on friday the 13th while his family went about their normal business because he was afraid he might step on a black cat and have an anvil fall on him or something. Locked all the doors and windows and in doing so, trapped a very rare bee inside the house with him, which must have upset this bee because it stung him, and coincidence of coincidences, he happened to be allergic to this very rare bee and he died. When it’s your time, it’s your time.  And there is no doubt in my mind that if I allowed the possibility of romantic encounters into my everyday existence, I would be mad in love, knocked up and looking at mortgage options mere weeks before I was due to leave. Maybe not, but I was taking no chances. I was celibate. For quite a long time.

And so, it often happens here in social situations, men talk to me. Often the conversation comes around to whether or not I have a significant other. And while sometimes I say yes because it’s easier(though it doesn’t always make a difference in the ploy, merely the tactics) a lot of the time I say that I’m celibate. And instantly I’m corrected because the word is pronounced celibataire. Oh, okay, that’s cool. I am celibataire. It makes me laugh insanely when I think of how many guys I’ve told that I’m celibataire. Because it doesn’t mean not wanting to be involved, not wanting to be having sex.

It means I’m single. Available. Veery, very very different. I was wondering about the frenchmen I was encountering who were telling me they had also taken a vow of chastity…It really is quite delicious how completely naive I can be. Finally I put it together after I was talking to this guy who had told me he was celibataire and so I thought, cool, I can just hang out and be sociable without any of the hangups that go along with potentially (sometimes inadvertently) encouraging or discouraging sexual advances  etc…

Nope. It’s different. Lesson learned, no harm done. And in fact, dude turned out to be super cool! And single, apparently. But yes, from now on I won’t be telling anymore people of my decision to avoid potential travel stifling activities…tho I bet that hitchhiking with a baby all slingy would be a breeze..way easier than with a dog. hmmm….wait, what? Damn you insidious biological imperative! It’s so sneaky. I said that I would remain celibate until I left Canada, but I imagine that consistent movement will make romantic and intimate relationships difficult to cultivate, which really is okay with me. Je suis celibataire et je prefere ca. Besides most of the time it’s way more fun to flirt and have wild imaginings about what could be, than to have the reality slap you in the face like a halibut in some kind of zany interpersonal fish slapping dance.

Ooh! And I was walking about the city last night looking for a particular place where they were having gypsy jazz, got totally lost and stumbled across a gypsy jazz manouche jam session. At least 8 or so musicians, all taking turns, 4 or 5 guitar players, 2 fiddlers and a guy with a flute who took a break from tearing it up Ian Anderson style next door to come and sit in with these guys! Apparently this happens every sunday! Why do I find these things the week before I leave???

I put on a hula show in the middle of the road, ate moussaka (I’ll be sure to hand in my vegetarian card because I have no idea what delicious animal had to die for my dinner), was invited to another bar in Le Marais later this week, made some new friends, went over to someone’s sister’s apartment for drinks, (and wow are they ever a delightful bunch of folks) left after the cops came because we giggle too loudly apparently and ran into aforementioned supercool single guy while dancing down the street to Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers (this either terrifies or amuses french people to no end..there is no middle ground on crazy canadian girls rockin out with a hulahoop while walking down the street singing punk songs at the top of her lungs) looking for a patisserie that wouldn’t be open for another hour. So to kill time, we wandered along the canal, bought some champagne from a guy with bottles in a duffel bag and talked the whole morning through. After 4 am, it’s technically morning, regardless if you haven’t slept. You know, now that I think on it, good things often happen in Paris on sundays for me.

And so how fortunate that my last night in Paris is a sunday. And how unfortunate that my last night in Paris is next sunday.

It’s a happysad kinda feeling.

Oh! and for 3 days now I’ve been trying to upload oodles of pictures, but flickr keeps stalling on me. So at last I have posted all the pics from the Picasso museum, though in hindsight, is it really interesting to look at pictures of pictures? I don’t know that I’m a big Picasso fan. I think he had astigmatism or something. Actually I think it was Monet(manet?) who did have astigmatism and when he finally got glasses that corrected it and saw how the world really looked, he instantly smashed his glasses because he would never be able to paint again if he could see clearly. I think I have Jo to thank for that one. It’s a good one. I do like Monet. Maybe I have astigmatism too and that’s why I’m not a Picasso fan. Call me strange but I find Picasso too austere, I totally know how wierd that sounds, but the more I wandered and looked at the pictures, the more I felt it. I was expecting that it would feel freeing, unbound by rule of perspective or vision or whatever. But it almost felt locked in somehow. I don’t know how to explain, so whateva.

bise bise cheries…

Ok, as an afterthought I actually looked up the word celibate.

1. Abstaining from sexual intercourse, especially by reason of religious vows.
2. Unmarried; unwed.

[Latin caelibtus, from caelebs, caelib-, unmarried.]
Usage Note: Historically, celibate means only “unmarried”; its use to mean “abstaining from sexual intercourse” is a 20th-century development. But the new sense of the word seems to have displaced the old, and the use of celibate to mean “unmarried” is now almost sure to invite misinterpretation (mainly by canadian girls of the slightly insane variety) in other than narrowly ecclesiastical contexts. Sixty-eight percent of the Usage Panel rejected the older use in the sentence He remained celibate [unmarried], although he engaged in sexual intercourse.
This is waaaaay funnier than my je suis tres excitee mishap.
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Folly and frippery

April 24, 2009

Very well darlings, here it is friday night in Paris and where is the intrepid explorer? Laid up in bed (tout seul, how sad) with her swollen foot all covered in frozen peas, elevated and with a very becoming red scarf wound round…yes, the same ankle I did in shortly before Bangface weekender last year. Hmm…I just realized that tonight is the first night of this year’s Bangface weekender. It would appear as though a festival has it in for me…Damn you Bangface, you will not win! I didn’t want to go and encounter your sweaty beersmelly underventilated insane on every level bruhaha anyway…I’m just too close this year. Flying to England for the weekend last year was so very rock star. If all I have to do is dash across the channel, it would just be so common. Anyone can do that. Though I hear there’s a fabulous party in Bali, Indonesia this weekend…perhaps I’ll just pop over and be back in time for a friend’s show next week.

At any rate, the ankle thing was a stupidly preventable incident, regardless of weak ankles having a tendency to want to roll at the most inopportune moments. I started tango lessons on wednesday and wow! I love the tango. I knew this already, but it’s been so long since I danced it I had forgotten just how enamoured I am. The teacher is fantastic (as long as his patience holds out, he does make a tsk noise at me an awful lot) and has just the right balance of stern taskmaster and light humor to enable me.

So here’s where the irony kicks in.

The last thing we spoke of at my lesson on thursday(with another scheduled for friday) was walking versus falling. The example he used being a baby’s development. When a baby learns to walk, she doesn’t step so much as starts to fall forward and her foot somewhat instinctively lurches out to stop her. Then she does a series of falling steps until she lands in mum’s or da’s arms.  Her weight moves forward, the foot shoots out to catch that weight and so she’s not walking so much as falling forward in a path of sorts. But with tango, the foot goes out, the balance shifts from front to back (or vice versa) and then the foot the weight used to be on comes to meet the foot the weight is now on. Equilibre, as le professeur would say. Which is something I certainly need to work on. So after the lesson I went to musee d’orsay (very impressive, or was it very impressionive? ok. that was kinda lame) and as I walked the galleries, I walked like this. Foot sliding out, weight changing over, back foot sliding forward to touch and pass the front foot…granted, it took me a long time to wander through the museum. But they’re open until 930 pm on thursdays and if you go after 6 pm, instead of 8 euros, it’s 5,50!

Then I went dancing. Again, everything was fine! I met this lovely girl named Capucine who dreams of going whale watching, I danced with an overzealous wanker who wore the most insane amount of cologne and tried soooo hard to get laid, it would have been so much funnier if it wasn’t so incomprably sad. Don’t get me wrong, I laughed like a fiend watching him walking up to girls and trying to hit that…all he was missing was the purple satin shirt, some bling and excessive chest hair to be a stereotype. I’ll give him this, he was a good dancer. He knew all the twirl and ballroom-y type moves, sadly he used them to try and bring you in for the “accidental” kiss. So I ended up slapping him, which was quite satisfying and enabled me to meet the guy I was supposed to go out with tonight, except that here I am. He thought that Swayze wannabe was my boyfriend and was so delighted to find out not. But it was loud and whoever was working the smoke machine was trigger happy so we went outside to speak that lovely version of fringlish I’ve come to be so good at. I walked out the door, missed the very slight step and went down like a graceless bird. All squawk and no rock. He was so sweet and offered to put me in a cab right there, but I said no, I’m not so bad, I just need to sit here for a while(and try not to cry like a little girl who’s just twisted her ankle real bad) and when I feel better I’ll take my bike because that’s not like walking at all. And he brought me beers and we talked and he’s sweet and maybe a little young and who cares and when I told him I wanted to go home alone there was no insistence as I’ve grown accustomed to with these frenchies…So that was nice, but no tango lesson today, no dancing tonight, nope, nothing but for me to blog like a blog fiend and upload the insane amount of pictures I took at the musee d’orsay yesterday, the musee picasso wednesday and the second hand vintage clothing stores I spent all day tuesday tracking down!!!

WHOOOOO! Second hand clothing appears to be called fripperies. Hence the names of the various stores The King of FrippKing of FrippI realize it might be difficult to see but yes those are giant plastic bags in the doorway crammed with oodles and snoodles and things. And then there is Vintage Desir, also crammed with goodies and people..Vintage DesirThe touted grandaddy..Free ‘P’ Star, which makes great sense to me now that I know about fripperies. Crammed with clothes, more downstairs, 3 euro bins, it tends to be blissful, but packed.Free 'P' StarThen there was the Frip’irium.Frip'iriumOh, and by the way, that salon de the in the foreground which was the place one used to be able to buy mini molleux(delightful chocolatey goodness in tiny cakey package) is no longer the place one can buy mini molleux….sadly. So don’t go there with any expectations.

And then there is Mamie Blue. While I didn’t get a picture of the outside for some reason, I was blown away by what was inside. This is a picture of the third floor down from street level. When one enters, it seems to be just a little shop, some dresses, hats, coats and the like. Typical second hand fare, prom dresses intermingled with polyester 70’s superstar jumpsuits. But down the rickety winding staircase to a jeans and converse section. Then down more stairs into this,InteriorUnbelievably organized, an amazing selection, I can’t understand why I was the only person in there. And then I started looking at prices. Now I’m all for charging fair prices for vintage. And yes, that neon blue catwoman from the jungle gonna skin you alive shirt is likely the only one in existence and so okay charge a bunch for it. But if you’re gonna charge 60-80 euros for used chuck taylors? I can get new for less! And they have no holes yet. I actually started to think I was mistaken, and the extra zero on things was like a signature. 20 euros for a t-shirt? 15 for a tanktop? Puhlease. I know it’s Paris and everything, but serieusement. Ok, 150 euros for that chanel 3 piece suit, but more than 5 bux for a second hand tshirt is likely the reason there was such a huge selection. Although, to be fair, this is all coming from someone who, until very recently, felt that if you spent more than 10 bux on a pair of pants, they saw you comin.

Mamie Blue was the exception on my excursion, being that it’s located and hop and a skip from Bastille, though there is one near Les Halles I haven’t hit yet. Most of the second hand stores I found are in the 3rd/4thy zone, Le Marais. It’s probably one of my favorite neighborhoods, not just because of all the gay bars, the awesome frippery and not frippery stores but this. Chocolat chaudStraight up chocolat chaud at L’etoile Manquant. And delightfully it’s on the way to my tango lesson! Chocolate melted in a cup with frothy milk to pour on topFrothyWorth the pain and suffering that oft accompanies ingesting dairy? Hells yeah darlings.  But I have noticed lately, my dairy allergy/intolerance seems to be lessened. Especially since I stopped eating wheat(much). I’m starting to think that all those years of believing that I was reacting to dairy, it was actually wheat that was giving me trouble. I am told that sometimes when the body craves something in particular, this is the body’s very sneaky and somewhat ineffectual way of stating an allergy.

You could drink the chocolate without the milk, it’s fabulous by itself, but the milk adds so much of a…mmm…oooh…and just a little bit of oh. Plus there’s a patisserie right next door so you can pop in and grab a viennoise, or a pain au chocolat or a (irresistably fine) croissant aux amandes. Though it should be said, I’m thinking the patisseries in Paris have not yet made the switch to amarant/quinoa/buckwheat flours yet. Hmmm, that could be quite the niche.. how fab would that be. Yes, after touring the world tangoing in every country on the planet, I decided to settle in Paris for a time and open a patisserie that specialized in wheatless baked goods….Wow, I think my brain just had an orgasm, not to mention my drool factor just increased by at least an oodle.

Also, I’m pretty sure I had that idea about bringing someone flours before they used it in Stranger than Fiction, but Will Ferrell pulled it off so well and Maggie Gyllenhall is just so damnably cute that I feel I can forgive them.

Oh! And a quote from fictional hero number one…Pastry from my future bakery if you can tell me her last name. Because I don’t know it.

“Vice, Virtue. It’s best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. If you apply that to life, then you’re bound to live life fully.”   -Dame Marjorie….

Okay, enough rambly for now, I have some arty pictures to upload.

Bisou a vous.

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Je suis tres excitee!!! And other phrases to avoid…

April 21, 2009

Actuellement, c’est le verite. I am very excited. I have my first private tango lesson tomorrow at noon. I have my shoes, thanks to my everlovin sistah! I have excitement bubbling over into a fountain(fontaine) of mirth, joy and effevescent giggling. In short, business as usual for your friend freaka.

I should say though, depending on the company, I’m sure je suis tres excitee is a perfectly fine thing to say. And it’s more than likely that the way I typically say it, hands balled into fists, eyes screwed shut, hair flying wildly about my head as I jump up and down, probably leaves little to the imagination of how I intend aforementioned sentence.

However, it should be known, that this is France. Which would explain the hordes of people walking about speaking a language I barely understand a lot of the time. I have discovered if one uses the viewfinder on their camera more than the display screen, people tend to think you’re a journalist and defer a bit more respect than if they believe you to be an american tourist. Although, once I tell them I’m a Canadienne, the love abounds. As one guy put it, you are french canadian? No? Well, we like english canadians almost just as much. And everyone is enchantee’d to meet me, cuz here I’m the exotic. Whoot-de-dooo! Little miss canadian firespinning tango dancing loopybusgirly european traveler thing..huh, actually, that does sound slightly exotic.

Ah yes, distractions abound. Okee, for instance, if you are meeting someone of the sex you wish to potentially copulate/cohabitate/feel up in an alley/go bowling with (I have yet to see a bowling alley here but I’m sure it happens somewhere) I do not recommend telling them how excited you are to be in Paris. More so if you don’t want to jump into any of the previously mentioned scenarios. Also, when in some crazy basement rocking out to drum and bass or electro or whatever is playing at Point Ephermere, Le Zorba, et al, I don’t care how much more you sweat than the french girls around you (I swear they never sweat, and I don’t mean they perspire instead, I never see these fritches(french-bitches..see?) sweat! I’m down to a tanktop, I can put my hair into a ponytail using moisture alone, my pants are sticking to my legs in a most unflattering manner, my face is beet red, or better, blotchy beet red and the french girl next to me? Wearing a scarf, sweater and jacket, with a pale complexion, makeup perfectly non streaky, lipstick intact regardless of cigarettes and beers consumed and kisses had…and they can’t all have it tattooed on…) do not announce to the guy next to you, it’s really hot in here. It is just like that horribly annoying and talentless song where some generic rapper dude advises girls on their wardrobe. Or his desire for their lack of. Seriously ladies, if you would just get your damn self esteems in order and stop putting out for these derelicts, perhaps they would find something worthwhile to rap about, rather than dems my bitches and such.

Because I am queen of esteeming myself..ha! I deprecate, but these days it’s more in jest than ever before. When I had first arrived, I considered that one of the things I might do while here is something called a relooking. It’s essentially a style makeover. These professional relookers assess not only your personality, your bodytype, faceshape and colors etc to determine what would work, they sketch and put wigs on you and fabrics and the like so that you can see too! It’s not cheap, but hey, it’s Paris, and there is felt a certain frumpiness felt by moi at times when faced with the everyday style that is Parisienne woman. Every night I would think, tomorrow I’ll ride my bike over there and check it out. And every morning I would wake up and think, today I’m going to go play the piano…or go to yoga..or find that organic restaurant near Bastille (it was very tasty). In between, I found an organic makeup store and bought (purple!) eyeshadow and (superawesome) lipstick. I even learned the difference between daytime and nighttime lipstick (and I now have both..ha! Who saw that coming!) I layer skirts over pants and tuck them into legwarmers with ballet shoes and a long black tshirt and show up to a very fancy concert….then I put on a dress with a shawl, long socks and boots and show up to a very casual outing…I never seem to get it right, but I find that it bothers me less and less.  If I went to this ‘relooker’ she would advise me on how to dress in fancy clothes that work with my body type and colors that flatter my eyes and a haircut that I’d probably have to use hair spray on to get it somewhere near how the stylist made it look for that one day. And then, perhaps I would look french, or cosmopolitan, or chic, bourgeosie, dans la mode.

But I wouldn’t necessarily look  much like me. How much would that suck?

Oodles. And if I had fancy clothes, would I be likely to take a bottle of wine and crawl through the tiny window out onto the dirty rooftop next door to watch the sunset over the sacre coeur(I think that’s west of here…)? Well, being that it’s me, probably, but it wouldn’t be a great idea.. Some people have fashionsense, and some people have senseless fashion.

I’m okay with being the latter. Besides, there are so many people out there who are tapped into what it takes to be hautey couturey, do they really need one more?

And now, I have a date with a dirty rooftop and a bordeaux.

bise bise mon amis…

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I have a purpose.

April 16, 2009

It is tango.

And fire.

And fiery tango. Not actually sure if there’s any other sort though, really.

Even if it’s a fire that smoulders, slowly, maddeningly, coursing through your veins until you are overwhelmed by the passion, the music, the motion of two bodies in constant seductive communication, it’s still fire.

Phwew. and just a little bit of rawr.

I was speaking with a (totally superawesome) friend today about having a mission style of sorts while I travel. I realized with some consternation that no, indeed I have no mission whatsoever. Just a floaty sort of drifty amblance across the globe. No intention of meeting anyone in particular, while engaging the desire to meet anyone who’s peculiar. And since the seed was planted, and the thought was there*crikey! I think a something just ran under the couch! Not sure enough to check, but sure enough that I’m now crosslegged on the sofa*that was a completely different thought, but very pertinent to the moment.

Since the thought was planted, I’ve been musing over it all day long. And thinking, of course, there will be times when I take advantage of couchsurfing.com to help me find couches to surf in cities I don’t know, thereby hooking up with friendly like minded peeps who love to entertain travelers and/or are travelers themselves. Yes, this is one way…

There are firespinners everywhere. I have a fire hula, as well as poi. (And I’m learning contact juggling!! I figured it’s a good one for long bus trips, which is the only way I’ll be able to afford to hit as many countries as Europe can throw at me) And while white gas/petrol disaromatise/kero/firewater might be different from country to country, some things (weaves, butterflies, one handed cartwheels into the splits with one handed butterfly maneuver) are fairly constant. And so here is another way I shall connect with whole communities, rich in travel, play and experience.

But then there is tango. And it is also everywhere. Even Iceland. I’ve already checked. And since my sister, sweet and lovin as she is, has fixed my shoes and sent them to me here in Paris, I can and will, tango everywhere I go. And so here is yet another community, rich in international culture and flavor.

And if I start now, here in Paris, can you imagine how fabulous I’ll be by the time I reach Argentina by my birthday next year? I won’t even need lessons, I can just jump straight into a maddeningly passionate affair with some gorgeous and smouldery eyed argentinian tango dancer. And you know, exactly that (a maddeningly passionate affair with some gorgeous and smouldery eyed argentinian tango dancer) is totally on my list. mm, perhaps the next post should be my list. I wrote it on new years the last time I was in Paris, 2005/2006. It’ll be interesting to see what I’ve accomplished so far…

And now I shall be a champion at sleeping.

bise bise.

By the by I’m hating it that a very smirky picture of me is the at the top of the flickr link. I tried every way I could think to move it, but no go. I could delete it, but I figure since I’m not actually in any of the pics taken around Paris, there should be some proof that I’m here and not in some studio that fabricates moon landings when they’re not helping strange women fool the world into thinking she’s in France.

And I love my new bike! Her name is Josephine, not because she’s black, but because she’s got style and class and sass and she’s black. Ha! I should hang bananas around the seat! Oh clever me. And glue pictures of international children on the frame. And tape spy messages under the pedals!!! In case you wonder, I speak of one of the two women I idolize beyond a doubt, Miss Josephine Baker.

Bon nuit.

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Ok, pictures.

April 15, 2009

It’s late. I had a fablious day. I traded my violet deathtrap(I shouldn’t say this, she was a lovely bike, but not what I am needing now) <-ha! i type in english how i try to speak in french. je suis drole….for a bike that is much safer. It has brakes and everything. The seat is confortable, the basket goes on the back, c’est cool. And I had my first experience since I have been here of speaking en francais the whole day. Which might be why my english is being typed like I’m translating it from french. No, this is a lie, not the whole day because I spent the evening with Aidje and he is very sweet and speaks english with me.

But ooh! Restaurant review # 2!

I went to the 18th to return the bike, it’s not far, I was there in about 20 minutes. But the bike shop doesn’t open until 5! I guess when I was there yesterday, it was a freak occurance that I walked up as the owner was unloading a bunch of bikes they had just fixed. And since I had an hour to waste, I wandered up to a cafe I had noticed the day before.  I opened the door, not even noticing the shades drawn and asked if I could eat something. Remember how I said that sometimes restauarants close between 3 and 5? Well, guess who forgot. Yes, it was me. And yes, this restaurant was not only closed, the owner was having a chat with a friend, colleague, who knows. And did she ask me to leave straightaway? No. She said the kitchen is closed so the only thing I have on hand that I can offer you is quiche and salad. I didn’t even want to ask what was in the quiche because if I knew there was meat I’d likely say no and leave. And I was terribly hungry so I said that would be lovely and still! It didn’t occur to me yet that this was above and beyond what was expected of her. So she brings me a quiche made with artichoke hearts and sundried tomatoes and no meat! And okay yes quiche is by definition fashioned of eggs, but eggs don’t walk or look at you with those big eyes and want nothing more than your love and affection because it never occured to them to wonder what a damn food chain is anyway! Yes, and well, the quiche..heavenly..the salad..had dressing!(this is unusual) and baby tomatoes that were so amazing I ate them all! Those who know me well, know that Trish may be a tomato, but she does not eat them…that goes to show how awesome they were. And I had the a la menthe and for dessert! Oh laLA! Fruits Rouges avec sucre the verte. Red fruits with green tea sugar. I don’t actually know that green tea sugar is anything other than sugar dyed green and sprinkled liberally over strawberries, raspberries and what reminds me of salal berries, but I don’t know what they are. A dessert so named looks something like this.Fruits Rouges

And so if you find yourself in Paris, in le 18eme, at the corner of Rue du Ruisseau et Rue Calmels, there is a little place which says Au Bois Blanc above the door, but I think ownership has changed recently and it’s actually Chez Anne now. C’est tres magnifique.

And last night was hilarious and random. I went out chasing a thunderstorm and decided that riding around the city taking night pictures would be cool. And at Bastille, I met Bruno et Karyo. We had some tea and then we raced across the city to Batofar, a supercool venue which is actually a boat on the seine.  It was reggae kind of stuff, not my favorite, but easy to move to and I had a lovely time dancing with them. Then I escorted them home like the lady I am, made sure they could get in and proceeded to get lost trying to my way back across the river to the right bank, where I live.

Tho earlier today when coming back from the bike store, and subsequently the market (some goat cheese at one stall, hummous and falafel at another, vegetables at a third..it’s so civilized shopping like this and I never spoke english once!) I did get lost again, but not as lost…it gets better.

And so I have finally uploaded pictures of Paris. Much more to come. Bise bise.

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Early morning adventures!Later….

April 15, 2009

I’ve become a blog junky. I was riding home from a dub sound system party on a boat at 7am thinking about writing a blog about coming home from a dub sound system party on a boat at 7am.

That’s kind of sad. But I took lots of pictures, my brakes have completely failed, the seat on my bike is absolutely horrible (my butt is so mad at me right now) and I am so insanely tired it’s amazing that I’m in fact writing this. The sad thing is that I’ve become such an addict(everyone must! know! everything I do! sometimes before I do it! That was my Captain Kirk impression, to go along with the PICARD! comment earlier. And the store’s name is actually written all in capitals. As it should be.) ) and can’t even collapse into bed without letting the world know that I’m about do so.

That’s crazy talkin.

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