Rose

It’s a sign, I suppose, of settling in when you glance over your shoulder while busy cooking and are startled to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame there. Not taking for granted, not feeling superior (there’s still FAR too much I don’t know), not losing awe and wonder; just—feeling a bit of belonging. Of just being here, going about normal daily activities.

Even on half an hour of sleep, and once the shuttle driver and I had uncrossed our wires and finally connected at Charles De Gaulle, coming in I kept smiling to myself. A little smog lay over the whole area; it was bright, sunny, already warm in mid-morning. So many sights and signs and places were familiar (we came in through Bercy, past the huge indoor arena where the Métro deposits you on the way to the Cinémathèque Française, for instance). And then once we crossed the Seine past Bercy and began driving down the Left Bank, what a burst of joy. We were closing in fast on the little part of Paris most familiar to me; before I knew it there was Notre Dame, we were crossing back over Pont de l’ Archevêché, and I was home (omitting the fact that this driver had much less a grasp of the Ile de la Cité than drivers last year, not realizing my street is one way the opposite way from that he’d apparently meant to go: backing up when I kept telling him there was a police station right there).

And the apartment, feeling as if I’d been away from it only days, not an incredible eleven months.

It’s very warm—not the blinding, mind-numbing, soul-destroying heat of this summer just past where I live the rest of the time, but quite warm, around 80 F. And sunny. And dry. There are hordes of tourists still, and everyone in shorts, t-shirts, tank tops, sun dresses. Except for the occasional inscrutable person in long sleeves—which, normally, would include me. As it is, I wear sunblock and walk in the shade as much as possible. I forgot (or never thought) to bring a (straw) hat, and am grateful that at the last minute I threw in a cotton skirt, more t-shirts, and a pair of pedal-pusher-length pants. Last year it was already cool here, followed by one week of sort-of Indian summer, though not as warm as it is now.

You actually can’t go home again: I’d thought (after grabbing a couple hours’ sleep) to create a ritual by having my first meal in the same restaurant as last year, facing Place de Jean XXIII. But the sun was hot, there was no breeze, intermittent jets of cooling mist were spraying from under the awning toward the sidewalk, and though the smoked salmon was good and there was a lot of it, the eggs weren’t done. The waiter looked at me as if I were crazy (should I use subjunctive? doesn’t that imply the statement is contrary to fact?) when I ordered tea, when all around me people were ordering Coke on ice or drinking chilled wine or walking up to the sidewalk display for ice cream cones. The people-watching was excellent, as always, and the little bit of caffeine helped.

Making a first trip to the market followed; I’d brought my backpack to the restaurant, in fact. Or also preceded: I’d bought the heavy bottles of water from the little convenience shop next door, right away (and popped some Zyrtec: whatever has been setting off my allergies in the States is apparently here as well). Like the sane person I’m apparently not, I stayed up till 1:00 reading Slammerkin, that I’d brought and started on the plane.

This morning, Friday, I talked with my friend who’d been here a couple of weeks, but we wound up not getting to have lunch together after all; she was too busy helping her daughter pack to move back to Los Angeles. They’re both leaving tomorrow. So I walked up Blvd. St. Michel, the long hill toward the Jardin du Luxembourg, in search of a computer center I’d found online. Though I could have sworn I’d already printed out the ticket to the ballet, it was definitely not here, so I needed a printer. For once (unlike the search for a fax last year) it was ridiculously easy, and took five minutes once I’d found the shop. Then, of course, I wandered through the Jardin, teeming with people at around 1:00 P.M., walking, jogging, sitting, and one immense group of students, high-schoolish age, sitting on the grass. I found a chair in the shade on the far side and sat for half an hour or so myself. A cool breeze came up. Two young women gossiped and giggled loudly to my right. My nearest neighbor, another young woman, sat with her bare feet up on her chair, eyes closed, listening to her iPod. People watching was again superb. There was one not-young woman, wincingly tanned (her shoulder blades! looked like mahogany), wearing tiny shorts and high heels. A woman covered nearly from head to toe in a very formal suit with a below-mid-calf skirt, a hat, glided by into the trees. Surely she was very hot?

After half an hour or so I wandered back past the French Sénat, through the streets between Boul’ Mich and St. Germain, and eventually to Ile St.-Louis. I was intent on bread and some sort of pastry, but by then was desperate for my own bit of ice cream. At one of the various Berthillon outlets I stopped for a cone of raspberry à la rose—how odd it is to taste roses. La vie en rose, indeed.