21. The Agening

Time, ladies and gentlemen. It raises mountains and excavates canyons. It smooths stone and roughens flesh. In human terms it can take an unobtrusive island in the middle of a meandering river in an unremarkable shallow valley and turn it into one of humanity's most fabled cities.

They say time is the fire in which we burn.
Oh, do they? Who says that, exactly?
I, ah, I just...it sounded cool.

When the Romans built a barracks and weapons depot on what we now call L'Ile de la Cite, they couldn't have known that centuries later Paris would sprawl across either bank, that the island itself would house Notre Dame cathedral. And when my parents held me naked and screaming just after I'd peed on the doctor, wondering what would happen in this tiny life just beginning, they couldn't have known that I'd be celebrating my 37th birthday here.

But I did.

Megan asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I realized I had nothing to suggest. I didn't want to go to the Louvre again or go see a movie or the opera or anything like that. I don't seem to get very excited about birthdays any more. I like to get together with friends. Eat something, drink something, have people tell me I'm awesome. But that's pretty much every day.

So here's what I did on this day:

Earlier last week I'd gone to get a textbook for my French class at bookstore that sells lots of language-learning courses and materials. They didn't have it at the time, but the lady ordered it for me. I managed to do the entire exchange with her in French because she wouldn't speak English to me, even though I knew she could; while wandering around in the place I had heard her speaking English to another customer. I think because she works where she does she wants to help language learners practice...nah, I just think she's a jerk.

But on Saturday-- February 18th, my birthday-- Megan went back with me so I could get the textbook that had come in. Once again, all French, no English from that lady. She even admonished Megan when she translated something that the lady had asked me and I had misunderstood. “You mustn't translate for them.” Them, she said. All of us outcast, unwashed, bereft-of-true-culture non-French speakers. Hmp.

After that we went to a cafe for a light lunch. However, the waiter there told us that we couldn't share a plate of couscous. It wouldn't be enough for us, he said. We'd still be hungry, he said. Despite Megan's assurances he refused to let us just order a plate of couscous. So Megan ordered couscous, and I ordered a plate of fries, and we shared the couscous. Maybe he felt like we'd be “cheating” if we somehow pulled one over on him by only ordering one plate but having it feed two people? Maybe he didn't want to get an extra set of silverware for one order? Maybe he just wanted more money out of us? Who knows.

So. Two places, two obnoxious French people. But we had dinner plans which promised to be more fun.

Back at Petit Bateau while we waited for dinner time Megan gave me presents. I got a snazzy folder in which to keep handouts and things from my French class; It's rigid and durable and has a cool ribbon clasp.  I also got Neal Stephenson's latest book, which makes me all kinds of happy. See, I like to read, right? And I'm always running out of things to read here. There's a dearth of choice in English language reading material in Paris, for some reason. In some ways it's been good. I never would have read that biography of Catherine de Medici if I'd had an unlimited supply of reading material to choose from.

Read my blog post about part 1 of our trip to Tours for more about this lady.
 Jousting lances through the eye, love triangles, religious brutalization, power
 behind the throne...this lady got up to a lot.

 I read a book called Room about a boy who grows up without ever leaving a one-room apartment nor really thinking there was a world outside.

This book is sweet and scary and reminded me at times
 what it was like to live in Petit Bateau.

And I'm currently reading a crunchy sort of scifi book about revolutionary San Franciscans trying to live in a future America that's falling apart because of her wasteful ways called The Fifth Sacred Thing.

Normally, the first thing that would put me off would be the name of the author.
  But it's actually a really good read.

All of these are really good books, and I recommend them. But if you were to ask me, “Nat, what would you read if you could choose to read anything?” I would say, “I would like to read a gigantic book by Neal Stephenson that I have not read before.”

I include the others to lend a sense of scale. It's bigger and longer
 than any two of them put together. Bliss.

Boom. Reamde came out...sometime last year. I didn't know about it. So when Megan gave it to me it was like...well, it was like it was my birthday. The perfect present. It makes me very happy, and I'm making myself finish The Fifth Sacred Thing before I start it so that I can savor the anticipation.

Then it was dinner time.

We ate at La Rotonde, a pretty fancy-schmancy place that likes to harken back to the good old days of France, the days of empire when she was the center of culture and fashion. We were joined by our friend Nails, whose name isn't really Nails but whenever we try to type her name into our cellphones the autocorrect turns it into Nails, so that's our nickname for her. We were also met by our friend Maryse, a fellow American living here with her husband and daughter. She brought with her a card from her family, and a postcard that Ellie (her daughter) had picked out from the ones she had bought when they were in Italy. “These are important people, and he's one, too, so he should have this.” Is what she said to explain.

So, in case it's too small, that's Old Pope and Now Pope. No matter what picture he's in, Now Pope's eyes are always shadowed and dark. You know who he makes me think of? Palpatine. 

My pictures of this evening do no one any favors, so I shall only be sharing the ones I took of what I ate. I started with escargot. I've been here for almost six months and have yet to try this singularly French dish, mostly because it's pretty pricey and if I hated it I'd be stuck with expensive gastropods on my plate. Megan would have finished them off for me because she likes them, but still.

Special tools make it extra fun!

I needn't have worried; they were delicious. If you like shrimp, chances are you'll like escargot. Plus, while in the wild shrimp and the Roman snail (the kind usually used for escargot) have a similar diet (dead things, crap, nasty stuff, uck), snails intended for escargot are carefully farmed and fed only healthy stuff.

Gripper things for holding the shell...

Pokey tool  for rooting around in there and pulling out your morsel...

Well, it won't win any beauty contests.

But quite tasty. And look at those lovely locks of mine!

Clean plate, er, empty shell club!

For my plat (main course; in France the entree means the starter) I had steak and fries. Super delicious.

My own personal gravy boat. Though notice how it's barely half full...

In process, action shot. Wine waits in the background.

For dessert I had crème brulee and was too busy eating it to remember to take a picture. But come on, crème brulee, you know what it looks like.

By then it was getting late, so we paid our bill and headed out into Paris. Maryse was taking off on a trip the next day and had yet to pack, so she kissed us goodbye and went home. But Nails insisted we go just a couple doors down and have absinthe.

Now, absinthe got a bad rap in the early part of the 20^th century, due to the purported hallucinogenic qualities of the wormwood with which it is made. It was outlawed, and remained illegal in much of the world until the early 2000s, when several European countries challenged its status based on the new EU classification of things. Rather than just parrot back what wikipedia told me, here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absinthe

Plus, it turns out that all of that “chasing the green fairy” stuff is pretty much hooey. The hallucinogen, thujone, that is present in wormwood-- and so absinthe-- is present in such small quantities that to feel the effects of that drug you would have to drink so much absinthe that you'd be dead from alcohol poisoning. It's a pretty stiff spirit.

What I think lends mystery and magic to the drink is its ritualistic preparation. The spirit is transparent green, and is brought in tall glasses.

 You place a special slotted spoon over the glass, and a sugar cube on the spoon. Then you pour cold water over the cube. The sugar dissolves and drips, along with the water, down into the glass. As the water mixes with the absinthe, the whole thing clouds, and turns a pale milky jade.  This is a result of some of the herbs and oils dissolved in the liquor not being water soluble, so they come out of solution and make the whole thing cloudy...Then you drink it. It tastes like licorice.

After we drank those it was really late, and it was time to go home. Nails headed off to the metro, and we stumbled our weary way back to Petit Bateau. Good night y'all, I said as I passed out. fin.

Best birthday in Paris ever.