13 ways of looking at a blackbird

One of my favorite Christmas presents this year was a book S gave me called Trente-six vues de la Tour Eiffel. The reference is, of course, Hokusai’s 36 views of Mount Fuji, but it’s also an homage to a late-nineteenth century series of lithographs also called 36 views of the Eiffel Tower, commissioned when the tower was first built. Patience with the double references is well worth it (if you’re not lost already, imagine holding a mirror up to a mirror and trying to check your hair in the reflection of the reflection) – it’s an almost painfully wonderful book. It describes visually what I can never get at, exactly, in words about the Eiffel Tower – a structure that has become emblematic of Paris everywhere else in the world is also actually visible from almost everywhere in Paris. So it becomes a way of locating yourself within the city, in the same way that Paris, for many, is a way of locating themselves within the world (“We’ll always have Paris.”). And then a structure that was built with no other purpose than to be tall and beautiful and impressive becomes laden – but not heavy, not ever heavy -- with all kinds of meaning. A reference point.

The book’s author, André Juillard, is most famous as an artist of the bandes dessinés (BD in France, graphic novel or comic art in the US, variously), and the pictures profit from his gifts of minor shading and economies of expression. My favorite is view 17, “dans un grenier.” In the eaves of an old attic, a jumble of forgotten stuff piled around a desk. One dimly lit window. Among the stuff: broken chairs, andirons, a cracked washbasin, photo albums, tourist paraphernalia – the flotsam of life. On the far corner of the desk, a lamp in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, with a cockeyed shade. The author’s comment reads: “Between a model of the bateau-mouche and some old Lombard albums, the heart can, with some strain, balance. But the Eiffel tower-lamp, alas….” There’s a dissertation somewhere on the relationship between desire, loss, and kitsch.

The absolute best of the Eiffel Tower tourist trash, in my opinion, is a small glass model about four inches high, that comes equipped with a battery powered base that shines multicolored lights through the model in a repeated pattern, like tiny, spangly searchlights. You can buy these models from any of the touts around the Chaillot Palace for 2 euros, if you are very firm. Each comes with its own red velveteen case. I have given one to my mother and one to Mme. Marron in the south, and if S cannot stoop so low I will buy one for myself before it’s all over. Doubtless to end up in a corner of our attic one day, hélas.

The image is of a motion lamp of the Eiffel Tower. I can only dream.

passeport

The other day I took B to have his passport photos snapped. After seven – no, eight - weeks we’re finally beginning the process of establishing B’s bona fides as a person filling up his own space in the world; in his case he needs a US passport, a social security card, and a piece of paper called a Consular Report of Overseas Birth. As always, there is a circular and dependent relationship between these pieces of paper and the data needed to procure them, but we have a form for all that and I’ll worry about it later.

The photo studio is just off the fancy shopping street that runs behind the embassy. It’s really a glorified copy shop staffed by a couple of bored teenagers in pegged pants; the “photo studio”, complete with flash umbrella, is an open closet in the back of the shop exactly one steep and dangerous step down from the main level (using a baby carrier puts me in a constant state of vertigo; it seems that the only thing that keeps me from feeling like I’m about to teeter off the steady plane is being able to see my feet. It’s like constantly living in a funhouse of wobbly bridges and receding staircases, only not that fun).

Anyway, I unstrapped B, hung my coat on the peg, and followed one of the teenagers into the studio, where the idea was to hold B up high enough to be seen in front of the backdrop by bracing him against my leg, which was meant to be propped on a rickety barstool complete with a rotating seat. How we managed this without complete disaster is beyond me, but it at least accomplished the necessary goal of having B photographed awake and with his eyes open. The look of surprise is not feigned. It’s a sweet picture, while looking not at all like B now and most definitely not like the B of five years in the future, when this passport will finally expire and we will be living somewhere far from Paris, probably. Becoming a parent is pre-loaded with the application software for nostalgia, but I do think about this large piece of my children’s early lives, and my early life with children, being left behind here.

While waiting for the photos to develop, I rifled through a display of postcards on a rack, in a series called Paris Poeme – classic photos of the city inscribed with a quotation from a French writer (though not necessarily a poet). They were clearly not a popular item – though not vintage, most of the cards had warping edges and were beginning to lose their shine. One card had a cheesy picture of old-school Parisian waiters standing in front of a café and popping the corks off bottles of champagne. The Appollinaire quote below read “Ecoutez-moi je suis le gosier de Paris/Et je boirai encore s’il me plait l’univers” – “Listen to me, I am the gullet of Paris/ And if it pleases me I will drink the universe.” I don’t know what Appollinaire would have thought of the postcards, but that scrappier, blowsier personification of Paris made me smile, living in these more polite and organized times. I liked the Whitmanesque flair. And it reminded me why I like living a city with children – one can take the stance of drinking in the universe even when it’s more like drinking from a firehose…

We’ve had a number of visits lately from old friends from various parts of our lives, all of whom have been gracious enough to roll with the flow of our unpredictable yet not exactly exciting life. M was here over the weekend, and it was great to be reminded again of why she is one of my all-time favorite whipsmacking conversation partners. Her account of the visit, posted here, puts it better than I ever could. And I don’t think anyone will ever accuse me again of exaggerating. Thanks, friend.

Meanwhile I bought another set of plane tickets for a trip south. The triumph of hope over experience, no doubt, but we are sure looking forward to it. I imagine the famille Marron are nailing things down as we speak.

in the garden

We woke up to a glorious morning last Sunday, so we packed up the boys and took the bus to the jardin de Luxembourg. I am often convinced our memories of Paris will be packaged as one long parade of Sundays – it’s an unwritten law in France that Sunday is family day, and on a Sunday afternoon it can seem like everyone is going somewhere with a bouquet of flowers (but where do they buy them on Sunday?) for mother or grandmother or Aunt Agnes. And all the parks are full, full. So I suppose it’s inevitable that our Sunday outings, more than any other, make us feel part of the fabric of things. And we don’t even have to visit Aunt Agnes.

The magic of the Luxembourg Garden, though, is that it’s Sunday every day. There is simply no time that you can pass through that gate without seeing multiple generations participating in perfectly executed rituals of leisure. For me, it’s the apotheosis of civilized society – the example I would hold up for Why We Are Not Likely to Blow Ourselves Up Yet. Case in point: there is a coat rack anchored in concrete in the middle of the boules playing area, alongside a kiosk where you can buy un éxpress to sharpen your game. It’s probably my favorite place in Paris, even though the competition is tight – it makes me happy in a simple and uncomplicated way, and I look forward even to the bus ride. I think S looks forward to it, too – it’s an easy bribe to make me happy, and you get to be outside to boot.

The jardin is a peaceable kingdom, ruled by fonctionnaires (and not, as it might seem on first glance, by the gendarme types in fancy dress guarding the French Senate, which is the former Medicis palace facing the fountain. They pretty much stick to their own business unless you walk on the grass somewhere near the Senate. Understanding which pelouses, or lawns, are actually meant to be trod upon in the jardin de Luxembourg is not for the faint of heart.). The fonctionnaires each preside over some domain of directly administered activity, such as the man who rents the toy sailboats, and the sticks to push them with, at the pool in front of the palace, or the one who takes the tickets and turns the crank on the crank-operated carousel on the west side of the park. The fonctionnaire closest to my heart, truth be told, is the one who operates La Roseraie, otherwise known as the best public toilet in the known world. It’s as if you have magically stepped off a garden path into your own bathroom, at home, except that an impeccably groomed, bespectacled bald man greets you at the door (this would be startling at home, of course, but it feels quite welcoming otherwise). La Roseraie has become somewhat of a pilgrimage point for me, having spent all my time in Paris with small children, and about half of it pregnant. But many a visiting unbeliever has been converted to the faith.

The fonctionnaire-administered activities are all run as concessions, so that there is a small fee for participation in these particular pieces of liberté, egalite´ and fraternité. But the fonctionnaires wear their mantle of authority, and commerce, quite lightly, and the sublime sense of order generated by their presence spills over into more informal practices. Joggers, strollers, chess players, tai chi practitioners, and sun worshippers share the space quite comfortably and without interrupting one another. In a way, it does seem like a democratic paradise there on the Left Bank, though, good republican that I am, I’m not sure you would have the same quality of orderliness in a country that had never been ruled by a king.

When we arrived at the jardin on Sunday, we entered at the southern gate and came down a long allée that leads directly to the palace. We stopped at the pool to watch the boats, and then took a turn along the north side, sharing that allée with the joggers. At the Orangerie, people had dragged the green metal chairs that populate every Paris park to the south wall of the building and were sitting in twos and threes, taking in the sun. Since I had the baby strapped in front and was walking a few paces slower, I had a good view of G narrowly avoiding collision with a number of joggers and then winding his way among the sun worshippers, flirting like crazy. G has never met a demographic that he does not take as a challenge to assault with his charm. S just followed along behind him, murmuring in French when it seemed appropriate.

We had strategized for a limited time window by confining our walk to the north and central parts of the park; on the west side, in addition to the carousel, there is an enormous and wonderful fenced in playground (also with a fee) that is a magnet for G but also a destination point in and of itself. We thought the day seemed better for strolling and not too much planned activity. G is still a little too small to understand the theory of boats and sticks, and is mostly happy to run; however, there had been some discussion between the parents about the ponies.

All along the central allée of the park, you see, a group of very patient, if slightly grumpy, men give pony rides to children (the description of the men applies just as well to the ponies). The animals are loosely roped together in two groups of about six each; one group also boasts a green and orange painted wagon. Up to last week, G had shown an enthusiastic but cautious interest in the ponies – I was able to convince him to ride in the wagon on one visit with friends, but a deep love for the stationary horses on every carousel in Paris had not translated into wanting to ride on one that was warm and breathing and smelly. Last Sunday, though, G walked right up to the nearest group of ponies and patted one on the backside (he cannot read the sign that says not to pet the ponies, and his parents, they are slow on the uptake). After some energetic finger-waving and tut-tutting from the pony men, we extracted G and determined that he really did want to ride a pony this time. S gave over the money and one of the men hoisted G up onto the pony in question, a small fat white one with a dirty forelock and swishing tail.

G sat up straight and tall in the saddle – and for once, not wiggling – while the man tied him onto the horse with a rope and fitted his feet into jerry-rigged rope stirrups that hung about five inches above the regular leather ones. When the man pointed, he grabbed onto the saddle horn with both hands and hung on. Once the last small child was tied firmly into place, the same man who had managed G took the lead rope and guided the ponies into a slow walk across the gravel. S and I were both watching G’s face as this happened, and it’s a moment for which I will be grateful the rest of my life.

Since G started talking, it has been customary for his life to unfold with running commentary, even if no one seems to be within earshot. When the pony underneath him started moving, my child was struck dumb, and he did not make another sound until the pony stopped again at the end of the circuit. I think there were just no words in his limited vocabulary to describe what he was feeling.

Well, maybe one. When the ponies stopped at the post, he looked up at S and said, “More.”

S paid up. We watched him go up and down another time, sitting up on his pony, smiling to himself as if he were receiving a visitation by angels. We braced ourselves for a tantrum when it came to the end of the ride, but he was so completely exhausted by joy he practically collapsed into S’s arms. S asked the man what the pony’s name was that G had been riding. It was Dondi. We told G, who then patted the pony on the face and said “Bye bye Dondi, see you next time.”

On the way home on the bus, G cuddled up into S’s arms and said, “I love Dondi, I love Dondi so much.” G has his own little pantheon of things and people dear to his heart that merit that grave pronouncement, ranging from our friends’ daughter J to our old friend D from Washington to, well, falafel. As strange an assortment as it sounds, it’s not random. G understands “like” as a word for describing things that give you pleasure of one kind or another – he likes yogurt, and Sesame Street videos, and slides. But he also grasps “love” as a word for something more transcendent – a connection or experience that leaves you different than you were before. He and J were born under the same difficult, but wonderful star; our friend D taught him part of the alphabet and told him she remembered when he was born (the first person outside of what he understands as his family to know that); “falafel” is a code word for the times when yes, we eat falafel in the Marais, but also for the first time he got to ride the train without being strapped into the stroller. And now Dondi has been added to the list.

That G understands this at two both exhilarates and scares me -- the capacity to feel such complete happiness also leaves you vulnerable to cataclysmic disappointment. When I watched his face as he rode the pony I could feel my heart breaking, and I also wished I had the power to make him feel that way every minute of his life. There is a Richard Wilbur poem in which he describes the experience of watching his daughter try to write a story – talk about exhilaration and disappointment -- as being something like the time a wild bird was caught in an upstairs bedroom of their house. The family could not approach the bird, but could only leave a window open and watch the creature throw itself against the wall again and again until it finally found the opening and cleared “the sill of the world.” The last lines of the poem read:

“It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.”

Now I understand what Wilbur meant. I think we’ll go back to the jardin de Luxembourg tomorrow and look for Dondi again. At least I can give him that.

The image is of the boules playing field in the jardin de Luxembourg. If you enlarge the image, you may be able to just see the coat rack in the middle distance.

a small update

We've all been sick with a cold the last several days -- G running a fever on and off for most of it, meaning that his last relevant contact with the outside world was garderie last Wednesday.  Since then, it's been all Sesame Street, all the time, to the point that I fear even relatively non-toxic television is creating the monster I warned myself about (several times he's woken up half-in, half-out of a fever dream, keening "watch Sesame, watch Sesame."  God help me).  But how else do you keep a two-year-old still and calm without narcotics?

After an astonishing run of mid-February sunshine, making everything glisten like a celluloid dream (Paris in winter seriously dilutes the willing suspension of disbelief engendered by films like Charade and Funny Face; the last two weeks, even sleep-deprived, have revived my faith in Audrey Hepburn, at least), this first fever-free morning dawned cold and damp and grey as yesterday's oatmeal.  The idea of going outside seemed even less inviting.  I explained to G, gently, that I could not be held responsible for the brain rot certain to ensue if we spent yet another morning watching video, and that we would have to spend the morning in the living room playing.  With toys.  And books.

He took it pretty well.  We put the baby in his bouncy seat by the fireplace (yes, that little monkey, about which more later), and G diddled around the room for a while, repatriating several toys and large objects and winding through a few rousing choruses of "Miss Lucy had a Baby."  I worked in a mug of cooling coffee and a few stolen glances at a year-old New Yorker.  Then G crawled up in my lap and danced a plastic polar bear over my knees for a few thoughtful seconds.  He patted the arm of the couch fondly and said, "There's a man in there."

"Oh, really," I said.  "Who is he?"

"Oscar," he said.

"Tell me about Oscar."

"He's a green man.  And he's a grouch," he added, sadly.  "Yeah."

"Oh well, we all get grumpy sometimes," I said.

"Yeah," G agreed, more drawn out this time, as if in heavy sympathy.  He patted the couch again, and brightened.  "Oscar loves la poubelle," he said.

I had to turn my face to hide the smile.  

"I take out la poubelle with Daddy," he said.

"Yes, you do."

"It's yucky."  Session concluded, he found some Legos and threw them over the back of the sofa, managing not to hit me or maim his baby brother.

Garbage in, garbage out, indeed.  I guess we're safe with Sesame Street for another day.

waiting

We’re at the point now where the baby could arrive any minute. It’s raining, as usual, and so instead of being out walking, my usual time staller, we’re all just sitting around the house reading tea leaves and making bets. It seems appropriate that we live across the street from a bus stop. I see people standing out with their umbrellas, craning their necks around the corner, checking their watches. I can relate.

Off and on, G stands over at the corner, talking to his plastic animals and singing – we’ve told him what’s going on, and about half the time it seems to dawn on the edge of his growing consciousness, and the rest of the time it’s business as usual. His regular number is the Twinkle, Twinkle/ Baa Baa Black Sheep/ Alphabet medley. But yesterday morning, he was singing a tune I couldn’t place at first, until I remembered that our bedtime repertoire includes a little bit of the Beatles. He had changed the words to suit his own vocabulary and, maybe, circumstances: “And then while I’m away, I’ll be good every day, and I’ll send all my loving to you.” And then he smiled and gave me a hug.

It reminds me these things are worth waiting for.

everybody on the bus

Even though we live on a relatively busy street, the only real noise disturbance we ever get (besides the occasional muffler-less scooter) is from the city bus. Our apartment is just a couple of doors down from the intersection of a narrow but heavily trafficked one way street (ours) and a slightly wider two-way street. And it is at this intersection that a major city bus route is required to execute an exactly ninety-degree turn to continue south toward the suburbs. Even Haussman’s relentless 19th century modernizations were not made with buses – or Parisian parking anarchy – in mind. Here’s the general traffic picture:

The four corners of the intersection are each anchored by businesses of varying levels of activity – the pharmacy has mostly foot traffic, the fancy Joel Robuchon restaurant has intermittent deliveries as well as valet parking, and the bakery and interiors shop both get about one major delivery per week. In addition, our street, because it’s one way and has a bus lane, is ripe for the double-parking for which Paris is legendary. As long as there isn’t a major delivery truck parked with its lights blinking near one of the corners, or a car double-parked in the livraison zone for the bakery, there is exactly enough room for the bus to swing down the street without hitting a parked car, a store window, or a pedestrian. About twice daily, this is not the case. The bus gets struck halfway in and halfway out of the intersection, like a woman trying on a dress that is too small in the shoulders. And there’s nothing for it except to blast the horn at regular intervals until the offending driver comes out of wherever he or she is lurking and moves the car or van. These people show an amazing lack of chagrin relative to the inconvenience they’ve caused, or maybe it’s just a peculiar French reaction to public shame – they generally walk out at a brisk but not hurrying pace, eyes straight ahead, and drive on without acknowledging the situation with so much as a hand wave. I’ve even seen a couple of folks dare to saunter. The honking has just become a backdrop to our day.

Narrow streets and big buses being what they are, I’ve seen the same scenario play out all over Paris, though never with quite as much élan as the one time I was lucky enough to be a passenger on the afflicted bus. This time the bus route led through a narrow side street along one side of a park, and the offending automobile was an SUV stopped about three feet in front of the bus stop right next to the “No Parking This Side” sign. After about three minutes of impasse, the bus driver let out a gentle but firm toot. After seven minutes, and a couple of more toots, several passengers got off the back of the bus, figuring their feet were faster means of transport at this point, and one man stepped up to the front of the bus to try to explain to the driver, by a series of energetic gestures, that there was actually enough room for the bus to pass through the bottleneck, with just a little direction. The driver patiently explained – using his own gestures -- that a certain number of meters clearance was “requise par loi,” and that he didn’t intend to have his license revoked in order to save a couple of extra minutes.

The man sat down. The rest of the passengers exploded into a high, excited murmur of differing opinions of what might happen next, how long we would be there, and what the driver ought to do – nothing brings out conviviality like minor calamity – when, at 15 minutes, the driver’s voice came over the intercom system. “Mesdames, Messieurs,” he intoned, in his best radio voice, “Veuillez gardez vos oreilles, et je vais resoudre le problème dans quelques secondes” (Ladies and Gentlemen, if you will kindly guard your ears, I will resolve this problem in a few seconds). And with that, he laid on the horn loud and long for about 90 seconds straight. At which point an elegant Parisian woman in high-heeled boots came dashing out of a nearby shop as fast as her legs could carry her, waving her arms in apology. Several other passengers actually applauded as we moved on.

Match point. This kind of road rage I can live with.

small discoveries

I just walked past the travel agency in the building next door for what must be the thousandth time; but only for the first time noticed that there is a giant stuffed rooster on the receptionist’s desk. Stuffed as in taxidermy, not toy. No other decoration in the office at all, except for some worn travel posters. How could I not have seen this before? What does a stuffed rooster have to do with train timetables?

This is why they say the French are enigmatiques.