30. Paris sous la pluie

The other day it rained. This is not unusual; after about a week of delightful warm weather around the end of March or so, the weather's gone cool and cloudy, with frequent showers. It's nothing like the liquid-oxygen that was the middle of February, nor is it the warm-wet-cotton air of North Carolina or the relentless sun and heat of California that looms before us in a couple months when we return to the US, so I want to relish this cool and wet while we have it.

[Before I get started, though: two girls are sitting next to me here at Villa Borghese. One of them is acting as tour guide to the other, giving her ideas about what to see and do while she's in Paris. I know this because they're speaking English. Tour Guide's is good but not prefect-- she's Parisian-- with some awkward phrasing to get around terms or ideas she doesn't know. But the other girl isn't a native speaker, either. She isn't talking as much-- Tour Guide is dominating the conversation-- but when she does it's heavily accented. And it sounds French. Why are they both speaking English? Maybe the other girl is actually Italian?

Tour Guide's making all sorts of plans for Other Girl, but then she gets something in her eye. “Sheet! I haff somesink een my eye. Ah...it ees quite hurting. Do you haff...a cloth?”

Other Girl gives her a tissue.

“Sank you. Ah. I get it...and now I am crying. Sheet.”

Ah. Now Tour Guide is asking Other Girl what she sells, how many stores she has, and now she's taking out some printouts with pictures of clothing, saying things like, “Thees is ze kind of sing we haff...” This is a business meeting. One of them owns/runs a clothing store, the other is trying to sell her stuff. Though they both look maybe 25. Now I'm feeling bad about not doing anything with my life again.]

But back to this rainy day. Megan and I went for a walk. I got to wear my new hobo coat. Last weekend Megan and I went to Recloses. Remember Recloses? We went there for Christmas. We've been back several times since then but I haven't written about it. I should; there are some good stories, haps and mishaps. It gets harder, feels more forced, to write about it the further away from when things happened it gets. I mean, if I tell you about when we went in February and it was so cold it would sound out of place now that it's all warm (cool) and sunny (rainy). Maybe I'll get to it. Maybe I'll turn this blog into a book (people do that, right?) and include the stories in their proper place.

But hobo coat! This past weekend one of the things we did with the Larrys was go to...I can't remember the name for it here, but you would recognize it as a flea market.

Off to the right is the giant viaduct the train hurtles over every few minutes.

Lots of stuff of all kinds. If I had skads of money and wasn't worried about amassing more things that we'll have to pack up and hump back with us across the ocean I'd have bought many a treasure. Most notably for you Robotech fans, I saw one of those 12” Scott Bernard figures. Even with my issues about getting more stuff, I would have entered into negotiations with that seller, except it was just Scott; he didn't have any of his Cyclone armor.

This, but without all the armor bits. Or the helmet. Just the guy,
 looking like something you found at a flea market...oh.

It was a chilly day, and windy. Megan, who is more optimistic abut weather than I, had not brought a coat with her. She was chilled and rapidly growing more unhappy. Finally she found and bought a coat for her to wear for a mere 15 euros. I helped her pick it out, for I coveted this thing. It was too big for her, but looked cute like that. Chocolate corduroy, 3/4 length, with an acceptable number of pockets and a zip-in liner for extra warmthitude.

This was taken a couple days later, when it wasn't raining.

So once we got back to Paris I claimed it. It's a perfect balance between my pea coat, which is starting to be a little overkill-ey as it gets warmer, and a hoodie,which is still not quite warm enough. As we prepared for our walk (I swear I'm going to get there; but are you in a hurry? We're just chatting, right?) I donned it, stuck some gloves in my pocket just in case, and added a scarf (because it's Paris). And an umbrella. Because, like, it was raining and stuff. Suitably dressed, we headed out toward Rue de Bac.

The reason for this destination was so Megan could put money in her bank account. She has a French bank account because Orange, our cell phone provider, takes their payment out of it. We can't pay at the Orange store, just a couple blocks from Petit Bateau. Our American bank charges $45 for every international transaction, so it doesn't make sense to just transfer money that way. And there is only one branch of her French bank in Paris that accepts human-to-human cash deposits. One. In order to enter this branch you have to go through an honest-to-gods airlock, one at a time, and let the people on the other side get a good look at you: no hats or hoods or sunglasses. They were a bit weird about me coming in the one time I did, as I had no business there other than to be with Megan.

On the one hand, it makes it pretty much impossible to rob this branch without being heavily recorded, and getting back out would be tricky. You'd most likely just wind up stuck in the airlock until the cops came. On the other hand, it's kind of a pain. Every month we have to make this trek across town so our phones keep working. Well, Megan does; sometimes I wuss out and don't go.

But today, despite the rain, it was fun. Rather than being totally goal-oriented and taking the shortest, quickest route, we just started heading in the general direction. The rain was light but steady as we cut through the Luxembourg Gardens.

They do not mess around with their flowers in the Luxembourg Gardens.

We walked on, making our way through the small streets (they're the fun ones), avoiding the big Rues and Boulevards, edging ever closer to the Seine.

This picture makes it look like Megan is tapping her feet, saying,
 "Again? Must you document everything?" But it's not like that.

We stopped to have a coffee at one of the cafes. Despite the rain there were lots of people out: tourist parents with bored-looking children in tow; men loading and unloading trucks with everything from produce to building supplies, ignoring the honks when their trucks blocked the narrow streets; groups of coworkers out for lunch; old ladies with baguettes.

Two cafe cremes (that's just coffee with milk): 8 euros. Feh.

[Back at Villa Borghese I've figured out the deal with the girls. They both speak French. Tour Guide was trying to give Other Girl directions to the bathroom in English, gave up, and just rattled it off in French. So they're both French speakers, but Other Girl is getting ready to have some sort of exhibition-- fashion, I think-- at her store, and they expect lots of English speakers. So now they're practicing English phrases that might come in handy:

“I would like to have a drink with you.”

“Did you have problems finding the show?”

“It's your first time in Paris?” “To. Say 'to'.”

“It's your first time to Paris?”

I had thought about saying something to them, as Tour Guide said at one point how much she loves speaking English and wishes she had more people to practice it with, but...then I didn't. Seemed like more trouble than I wanted. But this last exchange almost made me reconsider.]

Returning to our regular tale, we walked until we reached the Seine and turned left, headed to where Rue de Bac runs into Pont Royal. Across the river the Louvre loomed. It's a huge building, gems and gents, used to be the royal palace back in the long-ago times. I like the way it-- like so many of the old-ass buildings here-- just sits there and is ancient, seems unconcerned at how the streets are filled with cars now instead of carriages and carts.

Louvre don't care 'bout no taxis and shit.

That big glass pyramid that you hear about is in the inner courtyard. Can't see it from the outside.

We reached Rue de Bac, turned left and went down a couple blocks to the bank. I waited outside as that was just easier. A section of sidewalk next to the bank was covered by a scaffolding, so I was out of the rain. While I waited a pack of dogs came by. A bunch of...white dogs of some kind dragged a couple of humans on leashes, but they were all led by a trio of german shepherd-looking guys, one of which had won some contest because he got to carry the bag. That's what his face looked like, anyway: victory. I took pictures, but they were a business-like bunch and had no time to wait for my camera. In a flash they had passed.

Here they come...

...And there there they go.

But then they came back not five minutes later. This time they were led by one dog walking another. The two of them had the behavior down; the one being walked wanted to smell everything, but the one with the leash was all business and kept yanking the other one along.

"Come...on..."
"But George, that guy's taking pictures..."

Megan came out of the bank, where everything had gone uncustomarily smoothly, and we began retracing our path. We kept along the Seine for a bit longer this time, which let me get a couple pictures of Norte Dame peeking up over the other buildings on Ile de la Cite.

That thing up against the river wall is a booth that sells books and knick knacks and stuff.
There're tons of 'em along the river. most of them were closed up today.

We went to the Ponts des Arts-- the foot bridge where the couples write their names on padlocks-- to check on ours, but we couldn't find it. A more thorough examination at another time, when we weren't cold and wet, was warranted.

But despite the cold and the rain, and the puddles which kept finding their way under my feet and into my shoes, I was very happy. This place is very pretty when the sun is shining, but there's also beauty in the rain. It isn't dreary and miserable. It's like...the whole time it looks like the opening scene of a book.

"Petals lay plastered to the wet pavement like pink snow, undisturbed by  print of foot or flap of wing..." 

We were getting close to Place St. Michel, and now we both had to pee really bad. I never noticed this in the US-- maybe because I was always driving or because it's not the case-- but is hard to find a bathroom in Paris. You can't just sidle in somewhere, use their bathroom, and slip back out. no. You get noticed, and there's the threat of being yelled at. We finally just went in to this Irish pub we'd been to once before. Megan went off to pee while I ordered a Guiness. Paying for our right to pee, you know. Had to be done. After Megan came back I peed, and then we finished my beer and prepared to finish our trek home.

Sometimes this lady's cute makes me hiccup.

We made our way home through the area around St. Germain-des-Pres, which for some reason got me thinking about this awesome burrito place on Rue Mouffetard that was not really anywhere nearby but I would like to go there again soon.

But tromp tromp tromp we tromped, through the rain, past a pack of kids on a field trip or something, across the Place St. Sulpice, skirting the Luxembourg Gardens, and finally back to Petit Bateau. Both of our feet were cold and soaked. But I had had a really good time.

Blue's the path we took to the bank; Red's the path we took back.
You actually can't see where Petit Bateau is on this map, but it's only a little below the edge.