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.