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Published: November 20th 2009
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It has taken me over three weeks to gain the perspective to write about Paris. Even now, I am tempted to compose the usual blather, stuff you could read in a guidebook if you chose to. Back in Canada, we made the decision to come here arbitrarily, by sticking a pushpin into the map of Europe. Together and separately, we had been to Paris a total of five times, spanning four decades, three seasons, and two marriages. This time, we wanted the adventure of living here, away from the comfort and predictability of home, in order to deepen our understanding of the experience. So instead of rewording what's glorious and eternal about Paris, I will try to sort out what makes this visit different from the others.
Mainly, we impress ourselves with our own proficiency. On previous visits we were preoccupied with Monet's water lillies, designer chocolates, and the jaw-dropping first sight of the Arc de Triomphe. This time around, we find pleasure in unexpected corners. The Gypsy family grins at us as we descend into the metro; they know we're good for spare change. I finger my month-long transportation card proudly; it has my photo on it and it's
my ticket to ride. Our friends at Parler Parlour greet us like regulars; after class, we clink wine glasses and eat the mid-day meal together. Now that we understand cafe culture, we no longer balk at a five-dollar cup of tea. It's not just hot water and a tea bag; we are renting time and space. Our French is changing from rudimentary to serviceable; today I made a joke with the pharmacist and he smiled. The Algerian butcher wants to talk about Niagara Falls; it's the only bit of Canada that impresses him. A pot of chicken soup is in the fridge. We have moved beyond dinners out.
Now, I won't go as far as to say that we got sick intentionally. And when Ron came down with a hacking cough in Amsterdam, I never imagined it would leave us so spectacularly unwell, and for such a long time. For a while, we were managing to have an indecent amount of fun for two sick people left to their own devices, hacking into our armpits on the metro, shpritzing nose spray by the Place de Pigalle, and sucking back ibuprofen tablets as if they were breath mints. Finally, phlegmy
and sleepless, shunned by even the most ragged street people, we had to acknowledge the problem. This illness was not going away. We needed a doctor.
Thanks in part to H1N1 (pronounced: asha/ayna) getting medical attention was easier than expected. Within an hour of placing the phone call, there was a soft tapping on the door. A sweet-faced young man introduced himself as Dr. Attali and entered the house. When we showed surprise by the promptness of this service, he looked puzzled. "How long would you have to wait for a house call in Canada?" he wanted to know. Ron and I exchanged nervous glances. "Well, forever... actually," we were forced to admit. It was the only answer that sprang to mind. Nostalgic for the olden days of house calls and unrushed doctors, we allowed ourselves to be poked, prodded and asked intimate questions in two languages. Where else but in Paris would a doctor wax eloquently about the pleasures of foie gras while taking a blood pressure reading? I could almost watch Ron's cholesterol levels rising. We were handed a sheath of paper to take to the pharmacist, and gratefully allowed ourselves to be medicated to the eyeballs.
But I don't want to leave you with the wrong impression. The mythic Paris still exists. And if you can put up with me, I can describe the perfect croissant in ways that will curl your hair: thick caramel bands with blisters of tan, rife with the taste of toasted butter and a hint of salt, crinkly throughout a delicately crispy shell that shatters all over the place before you even launch into it, a cobweb of a moist layers that requires nothing, not even confiture, to improve it, blunt ends that fold and refold into a boomerang body. No wrong bite.
And so it is with Paris. After three weeks in this city, we still find ourselves halted by the sight of the Eiffel Tower from the steps of the Trocadero. We share a can of fizzy water, shoo away vendors selling crummy trinkets, and brush crumbs off our laps for the pigeons. Paris has charmed its way into our sickly lives, even in the unlovable month of November.
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sensual
Never in my life have I read such a sensually sexy decadent description of eating a croissant - it has given me goosebumps - but - alas, here in the midst of Israel, I am desperately far away from even the most mediocre croissant and will have to satisfy myself with eating a Hanuka do'nut - they have now flooded every bakery and supermarket - three weeks before hanukka. No comparison!!!!! Oh for a taste of that amazing croissant!!! Enjoy every second and feel better. Good idea to take something to strenthen your immune systems like echinicea. lots of love isme.