I arrived
in Vallauris yesterday after spending 5 days in Paris with my pottery posse,
Rae, Sara, and
Christa. Paris was slightly overwhelming. I was reading
The Greater Journey
while I was there and that book made me realize I should have made a
serious plan in advance. My laid back California ways basically mean
you won't get shit done in a city like Paris, except for whiling away
the hours in little wine bars and cafes, walking across a few bridges,
and getting lost on charming, narrow, twisty streets.
But I
did practice my French. Parisians are very good to practice French
with. I say something in French, they answer me in English. I respond in
French, and they answer again in English. In this way, we both get to
practice, though I'm only good for about two go-rounds in French before I
default to English, and they clearly don't need the practice.
The
only time I am able to speak French with any flair at all is when I
need food. I can ask for a baguette like nobodys business. All I wanted
to do in Paris is go to the
restaurants and
outdoor markets and
eat as much possible. I would circle patisseries, fromageries, and
charcuteries like I was checking out hot men in clubs. In one fromagerie
I went into, I said hello and strung together the longest series of
words I had managed thus far:
je voudrais un fromage a manger maintenant ou ce soir.
This
means "I would like a cheese to eat now or tonight," and I am not sure
if that is the right way to say it, but it gets the hint across to a
cheese man about what I need, which is a ripe cheese, something ready to
go right now. The cheese man said something incomprehensible to me, and
because I was trying very hard to pretend like I knew more French than I
do, I shrugged in what I thought could be a Parisian way and said, "un
chèvre...ou un bleu!?" Like, convince me cheese man, you are the expert!
I could go for a goat cheese, or I could totally go for that cheese
covered in mold right there! How bout you figure it out? He pointed at
some stuff, and said some things, and I nodded like I totally got it,
and I ended up with two wrapped packages, a small little goat cheese,
and a hunk of something that smelled like a goddamn barnyard. Oh, I was
happy.
I went on to buy a chunk of duck pate the size of my foot, some olives stuffed with almonds,
a teeny little basket of strawberries, and a baguette. The perfect
food for happy hour with my pottery posse. I walked and walked with
Sara, and we went to the Louvre. There were several times where the
smell of barnyard would drift up to my nose from the bag I was carrying,
and as I gazed at the master works of art ensconced in the Louvre, I
though about what a great feast I was bringing my friends that evening.
Later, many hours later, as I was unpacking my bag of goodies, I
could not understand why I could not find that giant hunk of cheese that
smelled like a barnyard. Let me say that I had several large glasses of
wine already, so I was easily confused. I pulled all of my booty out
of the bag, and turned it over several times. Everything was there, but
the big hunk of stinky cheese was not there. Then, I looked at the bag
that the cheese man put my cheese in. The cheap, plastic, piece of shit
bag that had a hole in the bottom the size of a big hunk of cheese. The
cheese slipped out of that hole, and it was gone.
I dont know if you have ever lost your cheese before. But me, I
have lost my cheese. First, I was in disbelief. I looked in the olive
container to see if the cheese was there. It was not there, and I could
not believe it. Then I was in denial. The cheese had to be somewhere! I
started looking all over the kitchen, even though I had only been in
there for 30 seconds and did not have time to do anything but pull it
out of the bag. Then, I got angry. I threw the stupid goat cheese I had
left. Stupid goat cheese, I can get you anywhere! Where is the cheese I
really wanted! I ran back to the place where Sara and I had those
gigantic glasses of wine, and looked everywhere. People helped me when
they heard I lost my cheese, but it was not to be found. I ran to
another fromagerie around the corner, but the store was shut tight, as
was everything else. I thought about crying, but that seemed extreme,
and maybe a little crazy. So I just got really, really sad. And then I
cheered the fuck up, because I was in Paris, with my pottery posse, and I
still had that pate. Thank god I did not lose the pate also.
Some favorite pictures from Paris.
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