"In Africa, a thing isv only true at first light and a lie by the afternoon and you have no more respect for it than for the lvely, perfect weed-fringed lake you see across the sun-baked salt plain. You have walked across that plain in the morning and you know that no such lake is there. But now it is there absolutely true, beautiful and believable." -Hemingway
*So apparently moving into a new place is a big deal in France. Our italian neighbor is having 70 people over tonight. The 15 bottles of champagne in our fridge is the proof.
*Each Thursday there's a language exchange at one of the cafes. Met a few people there last night that I'm meeting up with at a local bar to watch the "match" and "have a few." {Two of the only english phrases they know. I mean hey, if you're only gonna learn two, why not make it beer and soccer?} TGIVendredi!
*Weather's getting colder. Having stew tonight.
*Class this morning. Had Golden Crisp imitation cereal for breakfast. Lunch at home. Went to Cafe Le Grillon for coffee and to work on my paper. Due Monday. French toast for dinner: going to the store tomorrow.
*Jaime left a couple nights ago. Had an amazing time in Paris. Sunday, drove along the coast on the Cote D'Azur with Jaime and Brigitte. St. Tropez, Ste. Maxime, Cavaliere.
* glassed-in bistros * the daily special written lightly in chalk on the outside blackboard * the glowing neon lights above the cafes: Le Capitole, Cafe de Paris, Ile de France * the green-domed tops of the newspaper stands and the crabby women that work there * small wicker chairs * small round cafe tables * small discarded flakes of the croissant you just ate on the napkin underneath your coffee * cool weather * warm sweaters and deep breaths of cool autumn air * cloudy sky * light rain * couple in black trench coats sharing an umbrella * feeling the grooves of the cobblestone under your feet * smelling the gyros in the st.michel district * corner cafes and waiters with black and white aprons * peddlers at the base of Montmartre * green metro signs * red and yellow lettering * purple metro tickets * the sound of a violin in the corridors of the metro station * dark red wine * herb-encrusted lamb * 4 dollar cafe cremes at the Metro Cafe * the smell of musk inside notre dame * pillars that lead your eyes up to the ceiling * rose windows * and light that pours in from the outside * its quiet inside the cathedrals * fashionable old women and their tiny little dogs * bare trees * french news reports on the radio * the massive wings of the Winged Victory * small sidewalks * booksellers along the Seine * lamp posts on the Pont Neuf * the worn away steps in the towers of Notre Dame * the 6 EURO you have to pay to go up * Jaime in the Bell Towers of Notre Dame * black rod-iron balconies * blue-slate rooftops * rows of small red chimnies * brown bookstores with red oriental rugs scrunched up underneath the feet of a desk * the smell of books in shakespeare and co * crossing the seine * and knowing that Paris will always be there. We'll look back at it one day and the idea of it will be just as alive as right now. But as for the moment, we're about to leave this amazing city. My only consolation is that, fortunately, there's never any end to Paris. "..The memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."
*8 AM exactly and I'm standing in the Marseille terminal waiting for my flight to Paris. Got to the gate an hour and a half early thanks to there being absolutely no one in this airport. Now theres nothing to do but wait... I'm on my way Jaime!
"The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pierglass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again he shut the door. He took off his hat and came slowly forward. In his black suit he stood in the dark glass where the lilies leaned so palely from their waisted cutglass vase. Along the cold hallway behind him hung the portraits of forebears only dimly known to him all framed in glass and dimly lit above the narrow wainscotting. He looked down at the guttered candlestub. He pressed his thumbprint in the warm wax pooled on the oak veneer. Lastly he looked at the faxe so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth, the yellowed moustache, the eyelids paper thin. That was not sleeping." -McCarthy
