The smell of baked bread in the morning is sinful. I don't know how people walk around with straggling pieces of baguettes in their paws and still fit into such slim fitting jeans. I buy a baguette and am such a wuss. Its so big, I think before grunting “merci” and hand chop signals until the baker snatches it back (bare hands, no less!) and cuts it in half for me before dropping it into a plastic bag and shoving it my way. Au revoir!
9am in the morning and the people of Paris are indeed still holding hands. It really is like the movies. Plan for the day: Eiffel Tower, Cruise The Seine & more sights. I put on my red and white sundress. It makes me feel pretty. And so early in the morning in the City of Light, I need to feel pretty.
Metro stop: Trocadéro. The site from yesterday is still breathtaking. There are no breakdancers this morning. But the sun is blazing. The waterfall is empty this morning. Only a couple of us taking pictures on our way to the Paris' symbol.
The Eiffel Tower lines are already swarming with a massive amount of people. I take pics rather than get in the hour long ride for a peek @ Paris from its top. Instead, I sit and people watch. Glaces stands litter the crowd and even though its still early (in my American head) I reckon – the rasberry looks good. I opt out. My bag is full of baguettes and Ah EM Porte (phonetically it says: to go) sliced meat. Before boarding, I peruse la boutique for trinkets. I can't get the cashiers attention so I grunt “Merci”. Crap! Under pressure I can't function. “It's ok” she smiles. Her english is just as good as her French. “I'm sorry” I cringe. “I meant Bonjour!” I'm pitiful. Really. She is stays smiling. Her dark eyes blinking a forgiveness as her mouth speaks quickly in French. It feels like a “don't worry.”
But I'm too done with myself to continue the Black Girl Jacking up the French Language Show. I hurry away. Soon the cruise will board. And I want a good seat.
The cruise is beautiful. Slow. By 11am its already baking my skin into a double dark chocolate. I find the Paris Plage, a man made beach sitting on the steps of The Seine. I take pictures of everything. The bridges. Le Petit Bont. The naked crab colored sunbathers. The 175 museums. The cathedral of Notre Dame. It is over in an hour.
I am drunk on the sun.
I cross the bridge for the above ground line, 6 Train, and make my way to Chaeteau Rogue.
After 3 stops – its almost like Harlem. I exit and the energy around me is a wasp nest. Like a block party.
Without free food. I find myself at Cafe Drasilia. Bonjour! I call to anyone willing to listen and point to the outdoor seating. The waiter is flying around both the outdoor, indoor seating and the bar. He offers me a Bonjour and shoos me to open seats. I crawl out the window and seat in a garden like area. From here I can see everyone walking down the hill and rest my attention to the young Black French teenagers. They are wearing man purses and a laugh escapes me. A loud one. They have the same bravado as an American teen. Their shoulders push against the wind. Loud brazen laughter fill their lungs. They slap hands in greeting. Same as Brooklyn. They own the world with those arms.
After people watching for an hour and sipping eau de robinet and cafe le crème, I pay the tab and trek toward what I think is the butte of Montmartre. Its set on a hill 130 meters high and my legs feel the entire climb.
I ask in more poor French where to “find Sacré-Cœur” (French to English book blaring loudly from my hands) the woman smiles sweetly. “Do you speak English?” I almost cry “YES!” Instead. I nod, ferociously. She leads me in the right direction and warns "Take your time. It is too hot and the walk is steep. But it is beautiful." Its as if she's advising me on love. I thank her, a lot and head towards the sun, again.
After a quick stop a le bodega (ok i made that one up - so what? chill) for a bottled water,
and ten minutes of (hottest day in Paris, like word!) uphill walking, I find the steps of Montmartre and lose myself in the shade for awhile. Pulling apart the warm and soft baguette wrapping it in pieces of sliced meat. And smiling at the view.
9am in the morning and the people of Paris are indeed still holding hands. It really is like the movies. Plan for the day: Eiffel Tower, Cruise The Seine & more sights. I put on my red and white sundress. It makes me feel pretty. And so early in the morning in the City of Light, I need to feel pretty.
Metro stop: Trocadéro. The site from yesterday is still breathtaking. There are no breakdancers this morning. But the sun is blazing. The waterfall is empty this morning. Only a couple of us taking pictures on our way to the Paris' symbol.
The Eiffel Tower lines are already swarming with a massive amount of people. I take pics rather than get in the hour long ride for a peek @ Paris from its top. Instead, I sit and people watch. Glaces stands litter the crowd and even though its still early (in my American head) I reckon – the rasberry looks good. I opt out. My bag is full of baguettes and Ah EM Porte (phonetically it says: to go) sliced meat. Before boarding, I peruse la boutique for trinkets. I can't get the cashiers attention so I grunt “Merci”. Crap! Under pressure I can't function. “It's ok” she smiles. Her english is just as good as her French. “I'm sorry” I cringe. “I meant Bonjour!” I'm pitiful. Really. She is stays smiling. Her dark eyes blinking a forgiveness as her mouth speaks quickly in French. It feels like a “don't worry.”
But I'm too done with myself to continue the Black Girl Jacking up the French Language Show. I hurry away. Soon the cruise will board. And I want a good seat.
The cruise is beautiful. Slow. By 11am its already baking my skin into a double dark chocolate. I find the Paris Plage, a man made beach sitting on the steps of The Seine. I take pictures of everything. The bridges. Le Petit Bont. The naked crab colored sunbathers. The 175 museums. The cathedral of Notre Dame. It is over in an hour.
I am drunk on the sun.
I cross the bridge for the above ground line, 6 Train, and make my way to Chaeteau Rogue.
After 3 stops – its almost like Harlem. I exit and the energy around me is a wasp nest. Like a block party.
Without free food. I find myself at Cafe Drasilia. Bonjour! I call to anyone willing to listen and point to the outdoor seating. The waiter is flying around both the outdoor, indoor seating and the bar. He offers me a Bonjour and shoos me to open seats. I crawl out the window and seat in a garden like area. From here I can see everyone walking down the hill and rest my attention to the young Black French teenagers. They are wearing man purses and a laugh escapes me. A loud one. They have the same bravado as an American teen. Their shoulders push against the wind. Loud brazen laughter fill their lungs. They slap hands in greeting. Same as Brooklyn. They own the world with those arms.
After people watching for an hour and sipping eau de robinet and cafe le crème, I pay the tab and trek toward what I think is the butte of Montmartre. Its set on a hill 130 meters high and my legs feel the entire climb.
I ask in more poor French where to “find Sacré-Cœur” (French to English book blaring loudly from my hands) the woman smiles sweetly. “Do you speak English?” I almost cry “YES!” Instead. I nod, ferociously. She leads me in the right direction and warns "Take your time. It is too hot and the walk is steep. But it is beautiful." Its as if she's advising me on love. I thank her, a lot and head towards the sun, again.
After a quick stop a le bodega (ok i made that one up - so what? chill) for a bottled water,
and ten minutes of (hottest day in Paris, like word!) uphill walking, I find the steps of Montmartre and lose myself in the shade for awhile. Pulling apart the warm and soft baguette wrapping it in pieces of sliced meat. And smiling at the view.
Thank you for describing everything so beautifully. It is almost as if Im there. Im so jealous. I'm happy that you are taking it alllllll in. Merci! LMAO
ReplyDeleteThis is written so poetically. I love how you do justice to even the most ephemeral moments. I thought I should comment, otherwise I feel like a creeper.
ReplyDeleteheh heh, man purses. i love how reading your blogs always shows me ALL the sides of you, Mo: the innocent and soft, the brooklyn, the poet, the romantic.
ReplyDeletesounds like ur soaking it in mahogany - enjoy and keep it coming.
glad you like it sick. im doing this for you now.
ReplyDeletedaemond, im complex - what can i say?
bonjour Caritas the non-creeper! welcome. i hope you come back and read more :)