christmas is here everywhere.

Adam's feet and Leonard Cohen

The winter grabs the exposed skin without discrimination. It is usually the cheeks that get red and puffy and the tip of the nose. In the morning, Adam’s face is the only part sticking out of the long coat, heavy gloves and winter scarf. The fur framing the hood around his face has a functional reason, not just decorative.  Almost an urban Eskimo though his shoes give up his Californian roots.

After a long debate, he agreed to donate a couple of precious hours of his holy Wednesday for boots shopping. On the way to the music Cite – the chosen activity for the day -- we found a large promising shoe store for kids.

With a bit of help from Adam, fine-tuning my accent at the store, we were able to ask for warm winter boots with a questionable European size. An older saleswoman, with a voice adapted to cigarettes and coughing returned with different sizes of the boots we liked. Adam, who was aware that every moment at the store was one less moment of freedom, impressed me with his efficient attitude trying on the boots. Yet, both boots were too small.

The lady looked at me and said in a voice that felt like it was coming from another place, the way I imagine time would sound like: "Madam, it is all too small for your son here.” I looked at the number of the rejected innocent boot and said don’t you have a 36? And with the same patient and clear tone, she said “Madam, he needs a man’s size.” A sense of rebelliousness mixed with refusal to understand overwhelmed me so I continued, this time with a pleading tone “don’t you have a 36?” "No Madam,” she pointed to the store across the street – “There,” she paused to be even clearer “at the man’s store”. I looked at Adam’s feet with pain and pleasure, with horror and pride, with sadness and wonder. How did he grow so fast? I never thought it would be like this, to be pushed out of a certain social rubric by the shoe saleswoman. The closest feelings that I had had was on the last day of Adam’s nursery school, but there I had time to think about it and a group to share it with.

How all this is related to Leonard Cohen? Because this is what I really wanted to write about -- his performance here in Paris, a show we were lucky enough to attend last night. When I was 15 my brother took me to see Leonard Cohen in Benyane Hauma in Jerusalem. Cohen was the singer from the black, white and sepia album playing Suzanne , Like a Bird on a Wire, So Long Marianne and more songs which I adored. On the other side of the large square album were all the words to the songs which I barely understood. Suzanne was the first song I learned to play on the guitar. All the chords were written in neat red pen while all the words, translated to Hebrew, were written in pencil. I played this song endlessly, in candlelight, after a dancing party, to a circle of friends drinking cinnamon tea, around bonfires, in closed rooms where the past belonged to the parents and the future to us. I wondered about Suzanne who took her lover to the river and fed him tea and oranges.

At 15, when everything was painfully possible and I felt I knew everything there is to know, I saw the man who knew Suzanne and was probably the man who drank her tea and ate her oranges.

Sometimes, more often than not, I only know after the fact, the things that change my life. But with the Leonard Cohen performance a couple of years after the ‘73 War, I knew my life was changing as it happened, as he picked on the strings singing his songs. And I was right.

Before joining my army service I went all the way to Hidera Greece to knock on his door at the small house he had on the island. He was not there. For three days I looked in the café to see if he is coming. I got to talk to the waitress who knew him and that was the extent of my contact, plus a poem I wrote and left on his door.

For 35 years I followed his career; his dry spells, his spiritual journeys, his books, new records, his divorces and love affairs. I even met a childhood friend of his who gave me an album signed by him especially for me.

35 years later, here in Paris I watched him through tears for three and a half hours.
It was our 10th anniversary, Pete surprised me with tickets for the show that had been sold out for the last two months. The venue was small and contained a group of strangers who seemed to share nothing except an enormous love for Cohen.

Leonard Cohen, Gray and Old with a voice that aged like wine -- deep and full, told us about life, about time, about separation and attachment, about winning and losing, about playing and mourning. His feeble knees bent as he kneeled in front of us with the same, if not purer, gratitude that we felt towards him. He bowed to his musicians again and again, acknowledging their contributions with sincere awe of their talent. All the musicians on the stage were wearing dark suits and fedoras. The show was all structure and planned to the finest detail. It was formality at it utmost, yet it allowed a spontaneity and intimacy I have never experienced in any show.  This combination of the formal and the unique, the ceremonial and the idiosyncratic -- I have only experienced while practicing Za Zen – the Japanese strict form of sitting.

Adam’s long bare feet, which not too long ago, fit in my mouth -- did grow.   His giggles turned into articulate thoughtful sentences, and his feet now are long and elegant.  I can’t stop asking myself did I miss anything during this magical process of growing, did I stay aware of the time passing, was I present? and am I now?

As Leonard Cohen sang last night:

“ The birds they sang
at the break of day
‘start again’ I heard them say
don’t dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light comes in.”

In my Zen practice in Green Gulch I remember most clearly Norman Fisher saying: it's only when you know you have stopped being mindful of your breath -- only then is when you are able to come back to it.

 

wine cheese and full moon

Each full moon I long, more than usual, for my women friends who congregate together in one of their beautiful houses in Berkeley to talk, laugh, eat, drink, dance and cry together.

When I told my Parisian friend, Eleanor, about our monthly tradition back home and my monthly blues she, without hesitation, said: "lets do it here then".  

Before I knew it, I was punching an entry code on a very old building in the Marais.  I looked behind my shoulder at the full urban moon laying on an old chimney, spreading its silver mist towards the warm street light.  The elegant street light bowing its head, to welcome the blend of lights.  I climbed the wooden worn spiral to the top floor as I followed the intoxicating smell of, what I learned later, was original Hungarian goulash.

Jazzy music escaping the slightly open door was my sign to enter and a hall full of unique original art greeted me.  A moment after my preoccupied host appeared, exchanged three kisses and disappeared back into the misty kitchen.  I took my time with the art around catching my breath till a glass of red wine arrived.   

 

The Gathering was set to 7:30.  I knew better,  showing up at 8, yet I was the first to come.  We talked, laughed even cried a bit, all through sipping unbelievable wines as one of the members works in a well known wine shop -- however, no cheeses were served -- as cheese is a dignified course that follows the main course.  The dinner started at 11:30.   

When I told Adam that I will be away for the evening for a luna girl gathering -- after a moment of orientation he said: "is that the Paris lunas?" and before answering he suggested to franchise all big cities over the world for luna gatherings.  They will provide the option, he explained, for traveling women to drop in each city they happened to be in for a full moon celebration.  Of course, he will be the CEO  since he was part of the idea's early conception.  He thought that it is somewhat of a problem that this company would not generate money, but soon decided, recounting its logic, that it is not for profit because it's good for the world -- followed by an old time jingle -- "if mama's happy everybody's happy".

fskt  rasvct  wome thefri cooloeit took a minute for him to realize 

All women but me lived in Paris more then half of their life.

2008 Beaujolais

Yesterday morning was a lazy late Friday.  Pete and I started our date-day in a near by brasserie for breakfast.  Although it was after 11 am it was quite baffling not to have the normal friendly chat and the strong aroma of coffee accompanying the frequent loud roar of the coffee machine.  There was an absence of customers, with only a few workers congregating outside the door for a morning cigarette. The usual scattered newspapers and quiet radio chat in background analyzing French politics, was all replaced by frenzied movement of dozens of boxes coming into to the store and a strong smell of cleaning chemicals. The coffee, finally served, was luke warm with no sign of friendly chat.  

The owner's hectic behavior, a mix of excitement and anxiety was puzzling to say the least.

Feeling our foreignness, we sipped our compromised cafe creme and double espresso and started a game of chess in the corner as the owner announced, amidst an endless amount of boxes behind the bar "IT IS THE BEAUJOLAIS DAY! are you coming later?" His voice shreiked with excitement

Well, Beaujolais Day, we learned thereafter, is almost a national holiday -- people drink and play music all through the night celebrating the coming out of the yearly crop.  The beaujolais is the only wine that does not need to age and November 20th is a national beaujolais birthday.    

Later, being the first one to arrive for dinner at 7:30, in our favorite restaurant the waitress opened a 2008 beaujolais bottle for us. She waited with  serious anticipation for the first taste "Bon?" she asked with true curiosity, as if asking for the baby's weight right after birth. "Super" Pete quickly relieved her anticipation.  She filled the wide glasses first for me, then for Pete and then... for Adam -- no questions asked -- c'est normal. Adam could not contain his excitement grading his half full glass like a newly given treasure.  I looked with puzzlement at Pete and could see in his eyes "only tonight...its a holiday" I looked around the restaurant -- no Americans. Well, what could I say, "Ok Adam, but with your food".  The worst confession I would like to make is that Adam liked the wine and did finish his half glass. 

Adam and I polished our steak entrecote and Pete used the baguette to dry clean his dish of seafood risoto.  The Jazz singer, picked up Adam as her main audience.  He was fascinated by her performance, when not trying to figure out the sound system and the wireless microphone.  She, with a smoky look, sang Louis Armstrong songs in a pronounced french accent -- leaning on our table -- and wrapping her red shawl around her revealing black dress.  In between songs, to smooth her tarnished voice, she took long mindful gulps of the beaujolais -- whose redness thoroughly matched her red shawl.

Today, we learned from  some in the know French friends that this year the wine has a hint of banana -- that ended all hints of the fantasy that I know wine.  We also learned that the beaujolais is the bench mark for all the 2008 wines, the vines the grapes will share similar qualities.  Thus the Beaujolais' prophetic capabilities explains further the sense of dread and prayer the French exhibit as they open their first bottle.

Maybe it seems that I went overboard with the Beaujolais description but it is nothing compared to the preoccupation we witnessed here.  I took some pictures on the way back from the restaurant of enormous tipsy bands making beaujolais music for a proof.

But before the dinner and after our chess game I took Pete to my Gym to show him another piece of French life, and that is, how the French work out.  We arrived at my "Club-Med" gym in the well off part of the 17th arrondisment.  The interior design tells the tale.  The lounge area is big and surrounded by cushy seats as well as coffee and soda machines.  It is usually densely occupied with people reading papers, magazines chatting, watching TV and the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke.  The Gym itself, on the other hand, is mostly vacant, and the few  who work out are graciously and rhythmically moving on the machines with an ever so slight trace of sweat around their neck or along the back.  Whenever I see someone with a wet big t- shirt and old tennis shoes huffing and puffing, I start to speak to them in English and I am never wrong.   There is absolutely never an offensive smell of sweat in the gym but rather the fragrance is a mixture of expensive of perfumes and aftershaves.  All the french people who belong to the gym are in great shape and are very tan -- don't ask me how -- I have learned to live here with enigmas.  My only hypothesis that they go from the gym to a tanning club close by, or to the hairdresser, or to the nail salon, or for a massage or perhaps to the great brasserie at the corner with lunches to die for.  Which of coarse bring another enigma does anyone work in Paris? If yes when?

On the way to pick Adam up from school, we talked about the Parisian, the gym, and the beaujolais. We love Paris, we are in it, but we are to be ever observers.  Becoming a Parisian who ignores the sirens, the dog poop, the smoke, the cold, and the crazy driving  is too big of a commitment. And even with a commitment to join -- there is no guarantee you will be accepted.  Paris is for the short, intense and passionate encounter.       

 

growing up

Seven weeks passed since Adam's first day at Ecole Bilinge.  He came back with a report card half in French half in English, a big smile signaling the beginning of his two weeks vacation, and of course, a few good stories about the last day at school which was all about... food.  

It was quite humbling to ask his help to decipher the French half of his report card.  

As much as we all adore his teacher, Madam Gros, her hand writing is ilegible.  With Adam's help we understood that she is very happy with Adam performance this year except his unacceptable hand writing.

That evening we went to an Indian restaurant to celebrate the end of Adam's semester, my last Dr check up and the start of our first vacation.  When Pete and I asked Adam about his messy hand writing he reassured us that it really doesn't matter for his generation since they communicate almost entirely through typing and even this is soon to be changed to oral dictation, and then in no time to thoughts recording.  "Really" he said calmly, "you don't need to worry about it." 

 

Before we regained our balance to make an argument he continues with the same matter of fact manner and asks: "Can we stay here one more year?"

Well, I guess we just got an A from Adam for our last semester -- and he is not an easy grader.

More than this ever-surprising city, the delicious food, and the beautiful language I think what makes this year so wonderful for Adam is the simple fact that Wednesdays are off.

God gave us the Sabbath and the French gave us the Wednesdays.  It wasn't easy to stay away from all the wonderful enhancement classes in art, crafts, music, theater and sport offered on Wednesdays.  We kept it free, mostly thanks to Lorelei's suggestion, as a day to recover and connect -- a day free of plans -- a base for spontaneous urges.

I don't know how I will go back to not having this fueling station in the middle of the week. How would I give up sitting in a cafe with a good book watching Adam drinking his hot chocolate buried in "Charlie Bone," "The Lord of the Flies" or "The Lightening Thief." 

This year, I got to know my own son in ways I never did before and I think that Adam got to see that I function beyond cooking, cleaning, getting ready, working or doing errands.  

Last Wednesday, we went together to the Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers -- a museum for technology and the history of science which left to my own devices, I would never visit.  We stayed there almost for four hours -- fascinated, yet able to take only a small fraction of what it had to offer.

During lunch in the Cafeteria, we discussed "speed," something Adam always was captivated by and his interest always puzzled me.  He told me that speed is a relationship between two things: distance and time.  I told him he just wrote a poem and he thought it was very funny of me to think that.  So, that is how we get to know each-other in our Wednesday's escapades. 

****

This morning I heard the piano early in Adam's room.  On my tiptoes I got into his bed and listen to him for a while.  He continued to practice his Jazz scales as I examined the details decoration of the cieling.  Pete left for work, aunt Cindy was still sleeping in the living room, a vacation day with no agenda and no plans.  What would become of this day?  The warmth of his bed, the ragtime blues that fills the room and the soft light of a winter day in Paris filled up the "now".  

I reach to Adam's nightstand and grab his book "Akimbo and the Elephants."  Adam improvised on a minor scale as I sank into the innocent sadness of a boy who discovers that people kill elephants only to sell their tusks.   Adam noticed my tears and told me he is going to switch to major chords to cheer me up, and confides that he also cried when the baby elephant found his mother shot dead by the poachers and trumpeted his heart breaking cry. 

I am thinking of the conversation with my friend Taly from last night who described her moving speech at her daughter's Bat mitzvah.  She compared the parents to Noah who released the dove three times. The first time, the dove quickly comes back, the second time it comes back with an olive branch and the third time it does not return.  

When I step out of the present and think about what will change, when I watch Adam growing in front of my eyes, I feel an acute sense of loss  -- but the loss wouldn't be so grand if these moments weren't so sweet.

 

The bishop has a crush on the queen

There is so much newness in our life right now that even I find myself comforted by some routine activities we have established here.  One of my favorites, other than coffee and fresh croissant in the morning is going to the park in the weekend with our ping pong paddles, a book for Adam and a chess set for us.  The French, who love games, greet us with interested looks and random comments. The setting is beautiful and relaxed but usually this reality quickly dissolves as I dive into our chess game.

Most, if not all, of my games with Pete I lose -- some games with more dignity then others.  The last defeat seemed like Pete handed me an innocent mirror to look into -- therapy for free.  

It was a good game I was holding on to the end with an equal number of pieces as Pete and a slight strategic advantage.  However, in the pastoral setting of the park, I only could feel the desolate desert and being trapped in its vast motionless space.  Where did these feeling come from and why did I lose the game? Pete wanted to know.

In the end game there is lots of space on the chess board and very few pieces. But in spite of the broad open spaces the pieces cannot move much.  The few pawns we had were blocking each other -- locked in a stubborn embrace like Sumo wrestlers.  My panicked king turned into a lonely mad warrior running around between his cornered solders trying to create ways for them to save him -- ordering them to the front lines with the hope that they will turn from frogs to queens.

"All you needed to do was to hang in there and use your King" Pete said later -- and I couldn't. He added passionately: "the King is the strongest piece, he holds the truth, he doesn't need protection, he can survive without all his army, I think you underestimate your power".  It struck me that he said "your" power not "his".  Yet, all I could think of was how vulnerable my king is; exposed and alone and how the fear from the looming checkmate trapped him in my/his own mind.  

If it was therapy I am sure the option of Serotonin inhibiters for my king will come up but since I am not a believer in medicating too quickly the human condition -- I do try to understand my king first.

Adam who by then had finished his book and was starting to play with victim pieces lying on the side of the board, started to write a song titled: "The Bishop has a Crush"

The music is really catchy and the words go something like this: 

"The bishop has a crush on the Queen

the pawn has a crush on the rook

and maybe even so 

it could be yes it could be no

the pawn wont let go of his book"

His fresh angle on reality never ceases to comfort me.  

If you can't understand it -- just sing about it.

A total juxtaposition to our habitual park visit was the event of Nuit Blanche.  Yet one more celebration in Paris -- a white night every year in October in which all cafes, restaurants, art galleries, and churches stay open throughout the night covered by installation, projections of movies, slides and sculptures of light. 

Here the options are countless and the vast space is truly open -- here I feel in a blossoming orchard.

Pete was tired and Adam was in deep sleep so I left by myself at 10 pm to see where my feet would lead me on that white night.  This year most of the art was centered around the five main train stations in Paris.  Gare du Nord, Gare de L'est, Gare de Lyon, Gare de Bercy and Gare de Lazar all mundane and gray in their daily function were transformed into glorious monuments dressed in regal attires -- like  beggars with gowns and pearls.

The Parisians: young teenagers with bicycles and beers, women pushing strollers, families of 2, 3 and more holding the event map, older couples equipped with flashlights and heavy coats and the eternal tourists all united with the hunger to see, to be surprised -- to be transformed.

I always felt that to describe art is like explaining a joke.  Instead of reducing the magical night into sentences, I will just post a few photographs I took during the night.

Before signing off, I will just say that with this experience in hand, I am looking forward to enter another end game and see if I can plant an orchard in the dessert.  

And if I can't...

I might just sing about it.

  

   

French care and health

It is one thing to stand at a culture's doorway: observe, admire, judge, note, detect, be mystified, bemused, or challenged and another to be thrown into the culture's machinery and be forced to function.  I was an excited outsider for a while applauding the different French ways of being and doing.  In the last two weeks, however, I was thrown into a position of unprepared insider and it has shed a different light onto my journey here.  

This last experience also highlighted to me how lonely and empty it can feel without the immediate love and care of our friends and their presence.  With all the political craziness and the wishes to run away as I was watching Sarah Palin on Youtube -- being so far from the people I love clarified a few priorities to me.

After two month of on and off symptoms of bleeding and abdominal pain I realized that the "stress paradigm" should be checked medically.  That meant to pick up the phone call the right place, explain the symptoms, my previous medical history and the current situation all in French -- and that probably explains the numerous avoidance scenarios I came up with.  

After the very first step of calling a Dr who came to our home, just like in Michael Moore's movie, it was clear that I needed a surgery pretty quickly.  It did not leave much time for understanding all the options as well as explaining all the nuances.

To make a short story shorter.  I had a few sonograms and soon after, a surgery and the only way I could do it was to regress a bit to a child state and operate - no pun intended - on intuition and luck rather than information and research.  

The anasthesia was the metaphor of  letting go with a bare minimum information. I went under trusting my body in the hands of the French system. Even before, having had to take a taxi at 6 am by myself when it was dark to a foreign place; trying to read between the lines as to when, where and how was also trusting that somehow things, different as they are here, would work.

When I opened my eyes, at about 2pm, Pete was sitting in the recovery room with me.  We were happy that I would be able to make it on time to pick Adam up who manifested his anxiety in his own way telling me that he loves airplans because he feels in control sitting in the cock pit, being above the world close to the soft clouds.

  

The luck part -- or synchronicity -- or probability -- or sheer coincidence is the most interesting to me.  My dear friend Hagit pushed us before we left to Paris to participate in a retreat at Spirit Rock. There, my dear friend Lee, introduced me to Eleanor who happened to live in Paris and attended the retreat. Eleanor was my only contact here.  Her best friend happened to be an established and well known surgeon in Paris.  

That is how I ended up in Dr Olivian's experienced hands.  I am well now.  I feel much more energy, a slight sense of victory but most of all I am back to being in awe as to how it works so differently here and why.

 

Things work differently

At home most of the stuff doesn’t work. The dryer, goes back to the 70’s, and although it turns the clothes fiercely around with a big noise – it does not dry them. The repair man came and after the mandatory, “Bonjour madam. Ca va?” opened his leather bag meticulously laying his tools out, then checked the dryer by putting a wet towel inside and after a long hour of talking to himself stating hypothesis and arguments, announced that the dryer does not dry. He asked where the desk was, took all his paper work out and very slowly and carefully wrote a fat bill for the landlady. He collected his tools, handed me the bill, told me we needed to call for an appointment to fix it, and left with satisfied smile, ready for lunch.

Yesterday, a different repairman came to fix the television and to adjust the Internet reception. He also, confirmed that there is a problem, made another date to come and handed me a bill.

I am struck by how much all of us don’t care that things don’t work. I dry the clothes on the radiator and at night we mostly talk about our days, read and, of course, eat long dinners. Even Adam, who at first was told he can watch TV as long it is in French, did not seem to mind its absence. Things are done here differently and we all know on an intuitive level that protesting can only harm the process.

Last night, I came back from the equivalent of a PTA meeting. The meeting took place in a beautiful hall of one of the Sorbonne’s branches that happened to be in our neighborhood. 300 parents where invited, 50 RSVP’d and only 40 came. Yet, the cocktail party at the end was ready to serve the original 300. Champagne, wine and hard liquor with little sandwiches in all shapes and colors circled the small crowd. One of the American mothers was complaining about the waste of the budget. Things are done differently here. The less I try to impose my logic and truly understand their way the more fun and connected I feel.

Going to the store, I learned, if I want to receive the service I came for rather than a hostile look and an incomprehensible sentence in fast French; upon entering I first need to apologize profusely for disturbing the sales person, wish him/her a good day, ask how they are, pause and only then, ask for what I need. The American “how can I help you” before even entering the door is a rare commodity here. The store, seems to be the vendor’s territory and entering the store is, in a way, coming into their home.
I wonder about the history of shops in Paris, whether people used to live in their stores and thus the pronounced sense of privacy.

We are back to privileged position of comparing the two cultures often. Adam loves lately to hunt during the day for differences he observes and to perform them as a stand up comedy at dinner. He doesn’t talk only about the difference in fire drills, swimming lessons, lunch time or learning math but the nuances in expressions, tone of voice, sense of space, and the meaning of a smile.

The fragility of happiness and chestnuts

I took a different route to the park today and found a little street with crafty atalliers, art studios, little cafés, and a few galleries. Just near our little apartment -- a treasure. I think I know what the gold rush felt like – the exhilaration of potential -- you never know when another vein will appear. It is also a beautiful sunny day. After a few days preview of what the winter might look like here – the day feels so precious, dipped in gold light.

I sit at Park Monceau near Adam’s school and I have until 4 to write, read and dream. It’s a big park with water, ducks, flowers, sculptures, and rows of trees with symmetrical piles of dry leaves. I watch the people walking their dogs, with occasional very high heels, small dog, cigarette and impressive brisk walk given the height; couples kissing on the bench, an old couple on a flowery blanket - he reads the newspaper she knits; a young girl with a very heavy book leaning on a tree trunk and several others sitting eating their leisurely lunches on the grass. The birds are trained to clean the fresh baguette crumbs and the ducks protest in low key for leftovers.

This idyllic time is broken daily by the Gendarme who blows his whistle, threatening to cite people who sit on the grass. “The grass” he says, “is for the animals not for the people.” The people get up slowly and reluctantly -- they complain, mock him and remind each other how much tax they have to pay… He then, saying that he is just doing his job, starts to complain himself and leaves for another area in the park waving his ticket book, knowing we will all be going back to our marked spots on the soft fresh grass. On different days there are different people, different gendarmes but the script - identical.

I, and all the others, return to our assigned seats, the laptop on my lap, the cool tree trunk on my back and the light playing with the leaves of the tree across. All that beauty around yet, I am feeling a strange sadness today. From the moment I locked the door behind me, packed with Hemmingway’s book: “A Movable Feast” all about his years in Paris, my laptop all charged up, enough change for a little afternoon coffee and a snack for Adam for when I pick him up – I feel sad; sad, that all this is going to be past as I think of it. That my little and big companions are not here, at this moment, to witness with me, to create a shared memory; that my friends are far away and that time does pass. This summer day fades as I try to capture it in my writing- my camera- my memory.

When life announces its movable feast all I can see is its fragile, delicate and unpredictable nature. Then I wonder, what I always wonder sitting on the cushion at Zen retreats mostly trying to meditate; whether letting go of the moment’s preciousness makes it more joyful or more empty….

Hemmingway ends his book by saying, “Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed.”

On days like this I can actually see how Adam is growing before my eyes, his limbs longer, his knowledge wider, his baby features more chiseled. It’s evening now and I am about to let go of this day and this piece and soon kiss Adam good night. In front of me are all the brown shiny chestnuts he picked at the park this afternoon. I tell my self how they will stay here until the next cold day – to be heated in the oven and eaten -- together.

entering into the new

I was missing Adam's company in my urban exploration the last few days. 

 

School started and he plunged head first into the new water.  Cold as it was he amazed me by his adaptability and agility.  At night, before he falls asleep I hear snippets of his day.  No wish on his part to expand or even narrate -- just to state.  Free association is the name of our game in the late night hours--I dont ask and he tells.  

I hear about his new friends Philip from Australia, Helena from Ireland and Luca from Italy. The Czech girl is shy. He can't pronounce her name yet but likes her. Yuito from Japan is cool illustrator but does not talk much, and Shira the Israeli girl already mentions Yom Kipur and the high holidays -- which made me think about the worst place on earth for fasting.

But he continues to talk about Madam Gros who first tells the kids in detail what not to do and only at the end mentions briefly what to do.  It is different from the American Ms. Smith who only told them what to do and always with a smile.  Shaking the teacher's hand everyday when you part is weird to the old him but "kinda cool" to who he is now. The emphasis on neat long hand is something he will never understand when you can just type everything on the computer. And for the number 99 in french -- 4 time 20 plus 10 plus 9 -- it seem wonderfully crazy.  

And one more think just before I leave his bed; "Do you know ima, that french kids eat throughout the lunch hour while the rest finish quickly and go out to play.  And the last thing really," he promises "I love cheese for desert".

I think I am writing this before I go to sleep, just like Adam, to digest, to make sense, to integrate it all.

Here is something that requires digestion. We were invited to parents meeting.  Pete, who wanted to be involved with Adam's process, took the morning off and came to the meeting.  About 25 women and one other dad from California congregated in a mansion like home.  Many nationalities, accents, colors, heights and shapes were there, but one of the only common denominators I could identify was the shoes; an amazing selection of  unbelievable shoes. Pete surprised me when complimenting the simplicity of my shoes at the end of the event.  You noticed? I asked astonished "How can you not" he said matter of factly.  I knew Paris would be good for our relationship.  

  

We had espresso and hors d'oerves made by well known chef. If it was just a bit later then 9am I am sure some of the very old wine bottles on the shelf would be open.  Flyers made with contact numbers and web sites were circling simultaneously with trays of food, and the only people that seemed to be eating where the two dads.  

I raised my hand inspite of my invisible observer cloak I wear in these events and asked about the effect of giving kids their report cards in front of the whole class, suggesting we might be able to modified it for kids who come from a different systems.  The qustion was not clear at first and after few repetition the answer was "this is how you do it here". I was back to my comfortable silence -- thankful for the reminder to enter the new as it is and trust that my child would too.

And back to the discussion before my question -- the menu.  There was only one question that was less appropriate then mine or should I say a true Feux pas.  A mother, Italian if to judge by the accent, suggested the parents will cook for the kids on their birthdays at the school kitchen, to expose them to the diversity of foods.  After a very long silence, the school representative, dryly said: "Its impossible because of safety issues".  If you never knew how contempt looks like -- you would know by now. Safety, of coarse, was not defined, but clearly understood by the tone, inflection and sudden increase of the french accent.

No one asked any question after that and the discussion turned into a series of recommendations and explanations as to how things are done at EaB.  One of many suggestions, was to go to the school web site, find out what is the menu for the next day and discuss it with your child the night before or the morning of and help them get ready and excited for lunch.  We also learned about the "proposers".  People who walk around the cafeteria making suggestions for the kids to try foods they haven't touched, speak softly, eat slower and improve their table manners.

 We were then  advised not to speak French at home between us or with our child and to not check their homework all which will protect them from faulty  accents and grammatical mistakes.  We were assured that in a few months the child will teach us.

Yesterday morning before our 20 minutes walk to school, sipping my coffee while Adam secretly eats his american cereal breakfast I started to mention the menu.  He looked at me with a plea "Please not now Ima, it is too early " -- he read my mind -- I was just trying to do my parental homework. Tomorrow I will try to bring it up before Adam goes to sleep, maybe explain that what he calls "mook" is "Beigets de poisson souce gribiche" and the" inedible vegetable mush" is actually "Semoule et legumes" -- the only words I am allowed to pronounce in French.  Good luck.  

    

magic

Thursday came and with it the end of the summer.  

It suddenly seemed like all the magic disappeared from Paris.  The sun hid behind thick layers of clouds, the wind blew dry leaves and old newspapers in circles, the cafe got hooded with plastic awnings, the metro stations were bursting with rushing Parisians who just returned from vacation.  Lines were everywhere, for lunch, for the market, for a ride in the park.

Adam was feeling very anxious before the first day of school.  All his questions found me in a loss of words or at least a loss of the enthusiasm I had for the last couple of weeks; "why do I have to go to this school, why French, why uniform, why now, can we go home? I miss Yoko" 

His first day, a two hour introduction was about to start.  Pete, Adam and I arrived only to find that all the other confused parents were dismissed leaving their dearest ones with 14 other kids some of who spoke french, some english and some neither.

We were the third parents to arrive.  Each kid chose a seat and without much explanation from the teacher, started to draw the flag of the country they came from.  I could see over the shoulder of the girl, sitting on the other row from Adam, the beginning of the Israeli flag -- she is probably one of the kids that speak neither languages.

We were soon encouraged with a short directive from Madam Knight the principal, accompanied with a warm yet professional smile to leave the premises and return at the end of the two hours to pick up our child.  Sitting at the cafe across the street we reread the thin School regulations booklet again, trying to fish for more information, to no avail.

We arrived early, waiting outside with a few other confused parents exchanging unanswered questions "Is that where we always pick them up?" "Will light gray pants pass for the uniform?" "Where are they going to eat lunch tomorrow?" "What was the name of their teacher?"

 

The kids arrived in a row (as Madaline's books came to mind) each shaking the hand of madam Gros the teacher, saying: "a demain" -- see you tomorrow -- as if they did it many times before.

Adam was still worried, missing his old friends and his old school -- although acknowledged that his teacher is very nice and that it was not as bad as he thought.

"How about we rent Tom and Jerry tonight in French tonight and get some chocolate on the way home?" I tried desperately.  Adam's smile spread and covered his whole face -- It was as if the present moment was pushing the past and the future off the edges making as much room possible for the chocolate.

At the store after a quick chat about Obama and Sarkozy and which one is the "real" best coffee in France, we got our chocolate for free and continued to the video store. There the owner, a very french looking man, showed us a picture of himself as a young man performing at the Olympia theater in Paris.  

"What did you do there?" Adam asked.  "Ohhhhhh" he said half sighing to an old memory half inviting us to ask more.  We did, and he did not answer, only asked Adam to blow on his hand and started to pull feathers out of his palm.  The feathers kept on changing colors then turned into coins that came off his ears while he was spitting black balls. Stuff disappeared and returned, was lost and found in the least possible places.  Adam pulled his dropped jaws back only managing to ask... "but... how do you do that?"

"I don know.  Zis just happan to me" he said with a big laugh.  He seemed like a completely different man than the one who managed this video shop.  Customers were waiting in line for their movie but he was back at the Olympia theater.  We almost forgot the video we came for.

 Adam blew for the last time on his hand and the video appeared in front of us.

The magic returned to Paris -- at least for now.

  

t

city hall

It was time for watching the French from the inside, time to go to the cite' and be granted approval as permanent residents.  

We woke up -- early -- parisian time.  On the way to the Metro, we could see a few unhappy workers dragging chairs out of their cafes for probably the few Americans who would dare to show up at 8am.  

In our possession, thanks to Pete, were our passports, work permission, letters of recommendation, health documents, bank statements, all the forms we ever filled for the move copied and orderly filed.

Adam feeling the importance of day, packed his book to avoid potential boardom of long lines ahead of us.

The city hall -- Ile de la cite' -- is a boat shaped island on the seine with a history of 2ooo years. There -- in a too beautiful building called La Pre'fecture de police -- we were to be stamped as legit. 

Coming out of one of the exits of the Metro station, with the momentary tourist expression of bewilderment, as we were orienting to the right port of this ancient royal complex I could feel my foreignness.  After quick security check we were finally in -- only to witness a quick deflation of the inner building decor.  The same glorious building was filled with old folding chairs and tables, shiny gray paint concealed intricate decorative art on high ceilings, and peeled paint highlighted the areas exposed to the weather or to faulty internal pluming.  

Raws of identical offices branching off dark corridors were separated only by different numbers.  

But once again, to my surprise, this ill-looking internal building was populated by very well dressed workers who all seemed to be engaged with some important task -- talking on old fashioned phones, typing information on old computers or looking at heavy black dossiers.

My optimistic attitude about the outcome of this visit was gradually changing as we sat down a to wait at office B17.

Obviously, the story does not end here nor would it be soon.  I will spear you, however, the coming Kafka like development of this story.  For myself, I will try to keep an open mind observing the different ways of this culture which resonate and awakened my Israeli roots of true bureaucracy.    t 

The Parisian

I  walk around streets, stores, cafes, parks, the metro and I compare incessantly the two or three cultures I know, its ways of being, ways of doing, ways of communicating.  

I love waiting in lines watching closely how the French relate.  No matter how long the line is exchanges of pleasantries are leisurely and intentional -- its part of the esthetics.  

During rush hours the exits at the metro seem like holes through which enormous waves of people burst out gushing into the parisian evening.  Though, when stopping at the boulongerie on the way to supper -- a leisurely chitchat with the sales person, a long moment of contemplation for the right kind of baguette -- investigation of the ingredients -- does not seem paradoxical and do not cause franstrations among others.  

There is a time to rush and a time to halt a time to dart and a time to lag and I cant quite figure when is what.  

Morning coffee is standing up at the edge of the cafe bar while dinner is a lengthy production.  Driving seems like a competitive sport yet politics a serious philosophical endeavor.  I am baffled and curious the way I felt when learning about the american language -- with its sports metaphors -- to "be the quarterback", "hit a homerun", "a grand slam", "get a raincheck", or to "strike out" -- none of which made sense -- yet lured me into its inception.

Tomorow a new day to try and add another piece to the puzzle

     

   

I watch the ease in which Adam using the laptop.  He turn it upside down, hold it in angels, use it as a camera, as a dictionary, a book, a notebook, a telephone, video, a tray for his coracent.  It is in his command no one ounce of intimidation but familiarity and dare I say intimacy.  

jet lag

its almost 3am.  Paris seem deceivingly sleeping.  All her 20th arias spiraled around her heart are pounding to different rhythm.  Vibrating speakers to electric bits or crying saxophones, clinking utensils and glasses, cars horns and motorcycles engines, movies , plays, late night construction digging at the winding streets expending, fixing, connecting -- all in unison and all so separated. 

I can almost touch the loud and soft sounds, the harsh and gentle movements enveloping the old and proud monuments -- standing erect for hundreds and thousands years -- as if always ready to the perfect shot in the perfect spot light.

Here in the 17Th zone of Paris, the more tame and quite area, where the night belongs to the dreamers and the bars to the few, I sit in my new apartment looking out -- listening in -- rubbing my red eyes still, waiting for my body to land. 

I use the screen light of this lap top as my main light though I think I am able to recognize the same dim light from few other windows with open wooden shades and flowers at the its bottoms.  I wonder what they -- the parisians -- think about in these hours.  

Do we all have they same thoughts, same feelings only in different words and different arrangements -- so much is waiting to be learned, so much to dis-cover.   

I miss you my friends -- the night seem long-- there is no Tilden walk tomorrow or Yoko to snuggle with but great smell of coffee and croissant coming from the downstairs bakery soon.

 

first day in paris

After sleeping 13 hours straight, a great cup of coffee that Pete made and a huge shriek from Adam approving our parisian apartment we are heading to explore the metro, the bus, the train and the taxi station in our neighborhood. This is the transportation committee who might have a bit more time later for culinary ventures.  I will keep you posted.