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Bonjour.

Today our Cartes d’Orange (Metro passes) stopped working. They do that if you don’t renew them, and there was no sense in doing that with only two days left. We had enough left over single trip tickets to carry us through, so that was fine. But I still felt sad. My Carte d’Orange was my “I’m a Parisian” card. I could go anywhere in town, just slip it in, and Le Metro was mine, all mine! Everyone who lives here has one, and for a while, I did too. Now, it felt like I was back to being Plain Jane Tourist. *sigh*

Of course, the real reason for being sad was just the obvious fact that it meant our holiday was at an end. We’re so much like children, that way, aren’t we? I mean, we get a huge present, and all we (oh, fine—all I) can do is whimper about it not being big enough. It’s not as if I have to go back to work today. As a matter of fact, I started the day out with a long run through Montmartre on a windmill quest. Believe it or not, I’d never seen the windmills (“Moulin” means windmill). There’s still two left, one at the Moulin Rouge nightclub, but the other perched up near Rue Lepic where Toulouse-Lautrec and Van Gogh used to live. I finally figured out I had managed to pass this secondary windmill before. To be fair to myself, it’s not very obvious as it’s all perched up on a hill above the streets and the view of it is blocked by buildings in most directions. I waddled about gormlessly about the area in my soggy runny clothes for a bit, then suddenly there it was. It’s actually not very impressive or beautiful. It’s just a rickety old windmill. But it remains, much more authentic than the one at the Rouge, as a reminder of the history of this area.

I must have stared a while, because a dreadlocked young fellow shouted at me from across the street and asked me if I like French architecture. We chatted a bit in the shelter of a doorway (I totally know what this sounds like, but really, this is pretty normal in Paris. People talk to each other, it doesn’t mean anything more than that unless the parties want it to). He felt that Montmartre was once a hotbed of art and edgy nightlife, now, like the windmill at the Moulin Rouge, it had become hotbed of touristy glitz (I’m seriously paraphrasing our Franglish conversation here, but I’ve gotten ok at talking to people who are willing to overlook my grammar)

I told him that was a little true, but not completely true. Yes, the area around the Sacre Couer is a bit overpriced and overrun with camera-laden tourists (guilty as charged, here redface ), the former dance halls are much cleaner than they ever used to be, and what art you see marketed is deliberately imitative of impressionism (although really not that bad. Just not cutting edge). But it’s a small area, and there’s lots of neat stuff nearby down the hill in the cheaper areas. I don’t know if I communicated this well, but I said art always moves to the low rent districts, because artists are poor. But art makes places desirable, and therefore expensive, so then the artists move elsewhere. That’s the way things have always been. But there’s still a lot of art and thought in Paris, just not where it used to be.

He nodded thoughtfully at this, perhaps out of politeness or perhaps just out of not understanding a word I was saying (reading the above paraphrasing, it comes off as far more eloquent than I probably was—I was more like “art is in not expensive cities, then the cities are expensive”), did that Gallic shrug and asked me about California. I said I liked it, it was pretty and I wished my dog was with me now. He replied that he liked beaches and thought California wine was not bad, really. Having gone from the profound to the prosaic, we wished each other good day, and I was on my way.

I really do feel that the Montmartre “scene” is far from dead. Perhaps it’s changed its character since the days of the Moulin Rouge, but it’s still pretty lively. That evening, we ran into our friend from Syria (I confess to having thought her from Lebanon). She was dressed to the nines in a beautiful ethnic silk dress, so I just had to ask her about it (did I mention I’m not really clothing obsessed? razz )

Turns out today marks the end of Ramadan, which is why the area had so many people all dressed up in various African and Middle Eastern outfits. We ended up invited to a party at this Egyptian lady’s smoke bar/restaurant, stuffing ourselves with baklava and mint tea. I have to confess I’m not a huge fan of herb tea, but this was really nice and soothing. Tremendously sweet, too, another difference from the way I really take mine. But half a plate of baklava and two pots of tea later, I was buzzing.

So was the whole place. It was largely filled with boisterous Moroccans, including one talented man who twirled about to the wild Egyptian music with many, um, very interesting hip movements. I asked my friend what on earth he was up to, and she laughed and explained that this was traditional Moroccan wedding music.

“But tonight,” she continued “they are sad because they have no women with them, so he says he is the woman for the evening. That is an old dance for women at weddings.”

He continued to do that whole belly dancer bit while everyone clapped in time to the complicated rhythms. My friend did some of the dancing sitting down, but either modesty or a desire not to compete with the man kept her sitting. Just as well, as if she had gotten up, as buzzy as I was, I probably would have joined her. razz

We listened to the music and chatted over a few pipes of strawberry flavored tobacco. I tried a little bit (after being assured that it WAS tobacco), and I have to admit, I am in no danger of become a smoker. Still, the smoke smelled very nice (much better than cigarette smoke, more like perfumed pipe tobacco), and literally added to the atmosphere. Oxy liked it well enough, and struck up a caterpillar-like pose on the couch as he puffed away. I kept expecting him to say “Whooo Areeeee Yoooooou?”, but he restrained himself.

I should add that our friend speaks more than a bit of English, my better than my French, and would translate when the lively conversation became to quick to follow for Oxy and me. But there is still a certain level of honesty one has in a second language. It’s hard to speak in half-measures. You like a thing or you don’t. You understand or you don’t. We spoke of some of the people we’d met in the hostel, and which ones seemed good people. She asked me what I thought of Dirk, for example, and I could only speak of how honest and good he was. There was no room for hedging with snarky comments, like mentioning the fact that he has an engineering fussiness that gets on my nerves after a week (I really don’t need to check the weather report before I go out, m’kay?) or that I more than once wished I had Oxy to myself. Dirk’s a fellow that helped us out when times were not always good, and will give you the shirt of his back if he thinks you need it more than you do (actually did that with a coat when the weather we hadn’t checked turned out to be blustery). And that was what I could talk about, and really, does the other stuff matter?

Such honesty is possibly a Parisian trait. People have no problem speaking about politics here. Americans may pride themselves on political and intellectual independence, but they’ve got nothing on Parisians. Again, this might be a second language thing, but judging by the hand waving during the café conversations, I suspect it’s not. The neat thing is that people totally accept you whether or not you disagree with them. There’s no “You Americans voted for Bush, so we hate you all.” Far from it. Heck, they really dig cowboys over here. They even like McDonalds (go figure). Of course, they’re not fond of our current president, but jeez, he doesn’t exactly hide his contempt for the French, does he? But as far as individuals go, they’ll listen to you, explain what they disagree with, and then leave it at that while continuing to be friendly. I wish we had that over here—I find I must stay off politics, lest someone say “My god, I can’t believe you voted for HIM!” Perhaps we should all indulge in more Parisian honesty, instead. After a while, we may discover its possible to disagree and still get along.

At the end of the evening, our friends presented us with a gift of a beautiful, hand-blown glass water-pipe. “I want you to look at this sometimes and think of this evening with happiness, for I will remember this night always,” our Syrian friend said, and I promised her I would. Perhaps, once again, it was second language honesty. But I think it’s what I would have said, regardless.

V.