That time

For reserving the shuttles to get me back to Charles de Gaulle, and retrieve me from the airport in Houston. For going through papers, organizing, discarding what I can; for starting to empty drawers and gather scattered belongings, so that they can be assigned tomorrow to luggage. For keeping an eye, still, on who's on strike, which refineries and fuel depots are blocked, for checking that flights are on schedule (still exist; I almost had heart failure when the first search on Lufthansa's site claimed mine didn't).

But also, on this chilly day that was so sunny, but began to sprinkle on me on the way back, taking time to walk over to Île St.-Louis and have lunch; then, as long as I was right there, to waddle into the "supermarket" for a little more fruit and another bottle of water.*

The jinx, c'est moi?

Early yesterday evening, I headed over to Coolin to hear Irish music. Literally within 30 seconds after I set foot on the #4 platform (and right in my ear, this time) the announcement came that there'd been an accident between Châtelet and Cité, and consequently the train wouldn't be coming. And it did specify "accident" this time, which is--interesting, given that that came up in conversation Saturday: a man who has a friend who works for the RATP said he's told him that "accident" is sometimes code for "suicide."

Anyway, walked to Coolin again, to discover that it was a)very warm, b)sparsely occupied, and c)was featuring some soccer match on two big screens rather than music. While I like soccer very much, I'm not really one to sit (alone) in a pub watching two teams I don't know. So I left. More wandering, through St. Germain and the Latin Quarter, ensued (and judging by the immense line at a movie theater, it's not projectionists who are on strike), till (after stopping at an open boulangerie/patisserie for a quiche and a dessert to go), I was coming back onto Île de la Cité just as the last of the sun was glowing on the towers of Notre Dame, as its bells went crazy.

*. . . And to go, this evening, to hear Thomas Kennedy read from In the Company of Angels at Shakespeare and Company. It's rather like being all together in a closet, people packed into every little cranny, and even out front (which was a bit too cold, with the wind that was blowing; I imagine that would be pleasant in summer). After being first tucked into a roomlet behind where he would stand, I lucked into being moved forward into the same room, on a bench where it was practically in our laps that he stood. Very nice. I haven't actually read the book yet, but the excerpts he read were very moving; and an anecdote or two he related during questions, downright disturbing (being heckled at a reading of the original short story in Copenhagen, by supporters of Pinochet).

I come home to find, checking the 24-hour news channel, intermittent coverage of a huge concert in support of the French journalists hostage in Afghanistan since last December, in progress. Incidentally (and this is not a new observation), women news commentators/reporters apparently are required to show cleavage--or, failing that, one of the most ridiculous blouses I have ever seen. But it was see-through.