a white rose blooms in paris under a full moon
february 18, 2011
Salaam Dear Ones,
Aenni and I were pumped for a good time as we boarded a small twin engine plane to fly to Paris yesterday afternoon. She was all decked out in a leopard mini and shearling boots, while I looked like I'd just come from camping in my fleece jacket and cargo pants. For once, I had erred on the side of practicality, and I regretted it the moment I saw her. It was a short flight, just an hour, and I had just enough time to finish my travel guide and read about the neighborhood where we'd be staying - Montmartre, legendary home to artists, with winding cobblestone streets, and cafes galore. It's basically on one big hill, with the Moulin Rouge and sex shops at the bottom, and a nunnery and Sacre Coeur Church at the top.
Feeling adventuresome, and wanting to save money, we took the train and then the metro to the neighborhood where our bed and breakfast is. It took longer than the flight, and at times felt like being back in New York City. Gare du Nord might as well have been Grand Central Station. We had to change metro trains three times which allowed for plenty of people watching as we wound through long underground tunnels to get to our next line. The metro system is old and beautiful with lots of gleaming tile and high tech gates where you have to shoot through yourticket to get in and to get out. Between us, we made our little trip without a hitch. What one of us missed, the other one saw, and once we popped out of the hole, Aenni's internal GPS fired up and she led us right to our B & B. Which is a story unto itself.
We have rented a bedroom in an old four-story single family home on a quiet side street in Montmarte. We found it online. We ring the bell and the lady of the house comes to greet us, and she is just tanked. By now it's early evening and she's all red in the face, her eyes all blurry, and she reeks of alcohol. But she's quite pleasant, feeling no pain, and I dust off my high school French as she proceeds to show us about the first floor where we are staying. The building is quite old and speaks of its former grandeur with fourteen foot ceilings and marble fireplaces and beautiful mouldings. We have a small bedroom and a very large sitting room and an outdoor garden at the back. The rooms are stuffed with generations of antiques, too many really, all quite ornate and well worn. Not shabby exactly, but used for a long time. What's kind of weird is that there are kid's toys everywhere. Unusually large kid's toys, like a full-size plastic lawn mower sitting next to the desk, and a stuffed toy horse big enough for riding (if you were five) next to the fireplace. There's a bicycle under the secretary. Yet the house doesn't feel like there are any children living in it. It feels like those things were put in place thirty years ago, and just left, along with the layer from thirty years before that, along with the layer thirty years before that...for about six rounds of thirty. So it's all kind of strange, yet in no way forbidding. Marie Claire, or whatever her name is, perfectly friendly in her smashed kind of way, shows us the WC, gives us the key, and goes upstairs. So we've got the run of the first floor, in all its shabby, old money, time warp wonderful weirdness.
Then Aenni and I go out into the garden to have a pouffy, and there, on the longest stem is dangling the biggest, most beautiful, most perfect white rose you have ever seen. Smelling like heaven. Smelling like the absolute essence of rose. An ayat. A sign. A miracle really, for how can a rose be blooming outside in mid February? This make no logical sense whatsoever, but it makes perfect Sufi sense, and tells us that we are in the perfect place, at the perfect time, and that God is watching us. I cannot tell you how we rejoiced in the beauty and fragrance of that rose and that moment. The sun is coming up and I can start to see the rose in the garden now as I write this, and it gladdens my heart to see it again today, to know that such miracles are real.
Aenni and I walked around Montmarte last night just taking in the sights as we wandered no where in particular. Every third place is a cafe. My guide book said there are 10,000 cafes in Paris, and I can believe it. We stopped in a little joint that looked inexpensive for some pizza, and upon leaving discovered that it was just around the corner from Sacre Coeur. It was glittering and resplendent in the dark night sky, with a hilly little park just in front that sported a carousel that looked to be a hundred years old. We'll have to check it out by daylight when the Africans aren't on the hustle with the toursitas.
The family is waking up. Their footfalls upstairs are quite sharp, and they're conversing in French (imagine that), getting their day started. We shall see what miracles today brings. We're going to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, which is, I believe, the size of a postage stamp and behind bullet proof glass. Should be fun!
Sending all my love,
fattie
Aenni and I were pumped for a good time as we boarded a small twin engine plane to fly to Paris yesterday afternoon. She was all decked out in a leopard mini and shearling boots, while I looked like I'd just come from camping in my fleece jacket and cargo pants. For once, I had erred on the side of practicality, and I regretted it the moment I saw her. It was a short flight, just an hour, and I had just enough time to finish my travel guide and read about the neighborhood where we'd be staying - Montmartre, legendary home to artists, with winding cobblestone streets, and cafes galore. It's basically on one big hill, with the Moulin Rouge and sex shops at the bottom, and a nunnery and Sacre Coeur Church at the top.
Feeling adventuresome, and wanting to save money, we took the train and then the metro to the neighborhood where our bed and breakfast is. It took longer than the flight, and at times felt like being back in New York City. Gare du Nord might as well have been Grand Central Station. We had to change metro trains three times which allowed for plenty of people watching as we wound through long underground tunnels to get to our next line. The metro system is old and beautiful with lots of gleaming tile and high tech gates where you have to shoot through yourticket to get in and to get out. Between us, we made our little trip without a hitch. What one of us missed, the other one saw, and once we popped out of the hole, Aenni's internal GPS fired up and she led us right to our B & B. Which is a story unto itself.
We have rented a bedroom in an old four-story single family home on a quiet side street in Montmarte. We found it online. We ring the bell and the lady of the house comes to greet us, and she is just tanked. By now it's early evening and she's all red in the face, her eyes all blurry, and she reeks of alcohol. But she's quite pleasant, feeling no pain, and I dust off my high school French as she proceeds to show us about the first floor where we are staying. The building is quite old and speaks of its former grandeur with fourteen foot ceilings and marble fireplaces and beautiful mouldings. We have a small bedroom and a very large sitting room and an outdoor garden at the back. The rooms are stuffed with generations of antiques, too many really, all quite ornate and well worn. Not shabby exactly, but used for a long time. What's kind of weird is that there are kid's toys everywhere. Unusually large kid's toys, like a full-size plastic lawn mower sitting next to the desk, and a stuffed toy horse big enough for riding (if you were five) next to the fireplace. There's a bicycle under the secretary. Yet the house doesn't feel like there are any children living in it. It feels like those things were put in place thirty years ago, and just left, along with the layer from thirty years before that, along with the layer thirty years before that...for about six rounds of thirty. So it's all kind of strange, yet in no way forbidding. Marie Claire, or whatever her name is, perfectly friendly in her smashed kind of way, shows us the WC, gives us the key, and goes upstairs. So we've got the run of the first floor, in all its shabby, old money, time warp wonderful weirdness.
Then Aenni and I go out into the garden to have a pouffy, and there, on the longest stem is dangling the biggest, most beautiful, most perfect white rose you have ever seen. Smelling like heaven. Smelling like the absolute essence of rose. An ayat. A sign. A miracle really, for how can a rose be blooming outside in mid February? This make no logical sense whatsoever, but it makes perfect Sufi sense, and tells us that we are in the perfect place, at the perfect time, and that God is watching us. I cannot tell you how we rejoiced in the beauty and fragrance of that rose and that moment. The sun is coming up and I can start to see the rose in the garden now as I write this, and it gladdens my heart to see it again today, to know that such miracles are real.
Aenni and I walked around Montmarte last night just taking in the sights as we wandered no where in particular. Every third place is a cafe. My guide book said there are 10,000 cafes in Paris, and I can believe it. We stopped in a little joint that looked inexpensive for some pizza, and upon leaving discovered that it was just around the corner from Sacre Coeur. It was glittering and resplendent in the dark night sky, with a hilly little park just in front that sported a carousel that looked to be a hundred years old. We'll have to check it out by daylight when the Africans aren't on the hustle with the toursitas.
The family is waking up. Their footfalls upstairs are quite sharp, and they're conversing in French (imagine that), getting their day started. We shall see what miracles today brings. We're going to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa, which is, I believe, the size of a postage stamp and behind bullet proof glass. Should be fun!
Sending all my love,
fattie