2 Exhausted 2 Write Newsletter Archive
"This writing business. Pencils and whatnot. Overrated, if you ask me."
Eeyore from " ? "
October 24-26, 1999
We are still out of our minds. It is 9:40 a.m. and we are on our way to specialty- and flea-markets. We seek two medallions (twin brass Francs?) for the two decorations missing from our new old wall clock, Big Ben (you'd call him Big Ben, too, if you had to haul him on the métro!); and 12 suitably coordinated knives to go with the whopping soup spoons et al purchased Friday. From now on when PawPaw Weis eats at our table, he shall dine with these. If he wants a bigger spoon than this he'll be hard pressed to get it in his mouth!
On the métro this morning I sat next to a guy on the métro who gave me a snootful of Chardonnay with each of his movements, each of his exhalations. He's the first human I've seen who looked like he had mange. A clarinetist performed "Let it Be" on the train and my seat mate yowled the chorus: "LEEEHHHHHHt It BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Across the aisle from me Alan sat across from where Let-it-Be's barmate was sleeping it off.
Sitting next to Alan, though, was the Doppelganger of all Doppelgangers: a dead-ringer for Penelope Keith (Margot in Good Neighbors, Audrey in To the Manor Born, Maggie in Next of Kin). With Next of Kin's French allusions, the uncanny resemblance, her British demeanor, and all the Chardonnay fumes I'd inhaled, I almost gasped "Maggie?"
L'Opéra Bastille costume sale was over by the time we got there though people were lined up for blocks. Something more than a costume sale was going on! With all the police and cameramen I imagine it was a Someone, not a something.
Even though it was over, I still got a theatrical piece for my Sarah Bernhardt collage-to-be at the every-Sunday Porte de Vanves flea market. [It was more brocante than flea. Flea Markets have battery-operated crud from Taiwan; Brocante Markets have local Moms and Pops who go to estate sales, raid Gramma's attic, then sell these old-fashioned trinkets and "meubles"; Antique Galeries/Salons/etc sell Napoléon and Josephine's doodads at lung and kidney prices.]
At Porte de Vanves we got four coins to replace Big Ben's missing medallions; a key for Leisl; a Pooh magazine*; a Grec frite sandwich that was so good we had to return for another (the frites were soooooo good, that upon mortified reflection, they must have been fried in oink); and a purple velvet, gilt bangled Mozart-esque jacket so old and worn you can hardly read the lettering inside. Other vintage costumes there let me know it is a Regifilm (Reginefilm? Regimefilm?) Costume made on Rue Alfort in Paris.*On the fringe of the regular booths there was junk to be had. While Alan went off to look at it and eventually buy a Pooh magazine for the girls, I stepped to the side to make a crib sheet of Franc to Dollar conversions. Previously I had thought that more than half of Parisians weren't being "rude" when they bump right into you and keep going as if nothing happened. It's just the way it is in a crowded, bustling city. It may be the same way in New York. So there I am at a clear out of the way spot. With a yard of space on all sides of me the people who came through still bumped right into me and kept going. By my body language, location, and the way I carried my ZIPPERED backpack (in such places) in front of me like it was a Baby-Snugly, pick-pockets would have chosen an easier hit to "bump" into at the market (in personal and home safety the theory is the same: you don't have to outrun the rampaging bear, you only have to outrun the other campers -- let your predator catch easier prey than you). Parisians are a physical contact people as opposed to three-feet-of-personal-space-minimum-unless-you're-in-Love Americans. I decided they just must like the human contact. 
Much later, however, it did occur to be that only men had gone out of their way to bump me...it could very well be a coincidence.
An older man at the Porte de Vanves brocante market took off his hat to me, bent at the waist, took a vacuum sniff of my two roses, said "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" with tremendous appreciation, and beamed at me. I blushed, giggled like a maiden and fluttered away.
We returned to #131 immediately with that jacket. That heavy, vintage jacket. Alan slept on the métro. I took a photo to prove it. ZZZZZZsnarkZZZZZZZsnortZZZZZZ.
At #131 we enjoyed some milk; took care of necessaries; indulged in consumer guilt, albeit defiant consumer guilt; then took off to accrue more consumer guilt at the stamp market. THE stamp market of Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant in "Charade" fame. And THE stamp market where we got a Sarah Bernhardt stamp.
There was a "perfect" unblemished, virgin Bernhardt stamp for 600F. Then came the same issue but with a *gasp* postmark for 30F! Weeeeeeee!!!!! I prefer a postmark! I'd pay extra for a postmark! Weeeee!!!! 
I bounced, literally bounced along, singing "I've got a Sarah Bernhardt stamp! I've got a Sarah Bernhardt stamp! I've got a Sarah Bernhardt stamp!"
Became accidental viewers of a parade* involving the Chinese President Jiang Zemin and French President Jacques Chirac. The band players didn't march; they rode horses. I had the best spot on the route, up on the steps of the Grand Palais,
and I didn't even care about the parade. I just wanted to peek inside the Petit Palais, but by the time the parade was over, the Petit Palais was closed. 
The government had busloads and busloads of armed security officers. After the parade [military ceremony] was finished many lines of them marched past my perch at the Grand Palais. One higher officer taking up the rear of his men's line stepped my way, doffed his cap like a Knight, spread his arms wide, vacuumed my rose petals with his nostrils, gave an enraptured shake of his head, sighed "Ahhhhhh!", pressed his cap to his heart, and jumped back to the marching line.
*["Mr Chirac welcomed the Chinese leader in a military ceremony at the Invalides monument,
Alan photographed the Pont Alexandre III as though he'd never seen it before. I tried to find a bus that would take us to Champ-de-Mars, but found a friend instead. He asked me about my two yellow roses. English was no barrier -- he spoke it well. He lives in the Trocadéro area. He's been to Seattle and Canada. He would not stop talking to me. He reminded me of a cross between my endocrinologist and Eugene Levy. When we ended up on the same bus, Alan took over the conversation. We exited on the stop before his stop otherwise he might have invited us home! Métroed from there to Champ-de-Mars where we took snapshots of each other with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop.
Hopped a bus and toured in vain for an open grocery store. Ended up at the Arc de Triomphe where we sat next to Avenue Wagram and ate chocolate while gazing at the Arch and the Tower lighting up the night.
Had one of those Life Lessons there. We'd sat with a lovely view of the Arch – until a tour bus parked right in front of us obliterating the view. Grumble grumble grumble. The inconsiderate bus ruined our view, forcing us to move...to a location that let us see the Eiffel Tower and the Arch at the same time. The rotten bus was a good thing.
Bought a Grec complet sandwich at the St-Denis RER. On the tram "home" I exchanged smiles, waves and winks with a toddler who very soon offered me her pacifier. I gave her my two yellow roses as I exited the tram.
We ate our Grec complet sandwich watching the "Dr. Benton in the Deep South" episode of "ER".
A call home revealed that Kilory (not getting to speak to Daddy previously) decided she wanted to talk to ‘rillo PawPaw since it was the next best thing [Alan's dad in Amarillo]. She was upset that of the daily care packages I left for them (most had only a coloring page with notes and stickers -- some had a tiny present) Nikki had received the pink party favor "watch". Kilory cried because she wanted a pink "watch" not the yellow "watch".
Earlier, Farm PawPaw had explained to her about the inner workings of an internal combustion engine. When he finished he asked if she understood. "Uhum," she nodded.
According to their Farm Gramma, Kilory and Nikki have: christened Bubba and Rudi as "Zippy" and "Genèvieve" (I know that Genèvieve is named after the dog in the Madeline books and videos. Zippy is still a mystery.); and Buki is being so spoiled, he doesn't care if I ever come back.
Nikki says she wants her purple necklace to sparkle.
Monday 25 October, 1999
The St-Denis métro gal wouldn't sell Alan the same weekly pass as he bought last week because we aren't citizens. The ones which were sold to him last week for 109F each are for Franciliens. The same card for same-sales-tax-paying touristes like us are 175F each. We took the tram to the St-Denis RER, where I held up a written request for 2 hebdominaires and 218 Francs. We got our hebdominaires, no problem.I have come to believe that when I hold up my notepad that says "C'est combien s'il vous plâit?" to Parisian salesmen whom have not price marked their wares, point to the spot that says "F?", and hand them the pad and my pencil, the salesmen assume I am a French deaf mute. Simple French text I undertand, spoken French flies over my head at Concorde speed! I can write the question and read the answer. I'm not a deaf mute; I'm a French-challenged American.
Today was Flea Market Monday – emphasis on flea. I tried to persuade Alan away from the Clignancourt market but he was determined he'd find bargains. We went.
On the way to Porte Clignancourt/Paul Bert, along Rue de Rosiers, a café patron stepped into my way to take exaggerated joy in smelling my two roses.
For the most part, if you could afford it, then it was in the Porte Clignancourt region, and it was Taiwanese junk.
(If it was in the Paul Bert region, it was "Almost Affordable" to "Not Affordable" -- for such as us.)
As last time, the pricey attractively displayed brocante allowed me to take only photos.
One thing about the Porte Paul Bert/Porte Clignancourt Escapade into the Land of Costly-to-Crud...it reminded me why I like the French so much...
These are good people.
*["Marché Serpette is popular with the (globe-trotting professional) dealers: everything sold here is in mint condition," says "Eyewitness Paris". We say, we kept our backpacks clutched in front of us and tiptoed out, afraid we might sneeze near one of these museum pieces. It was sooooo pricey and history-rich we were afraid to sneeze!]
We did find a raggedly adorable clock repair shop that had keys of all sizes and pendulum nuts for those missing on our Grenelle brocante anniversary clock and Big Ben, respectively. As we didn't have said pieces to fit onto said parts, we mutually decided to return the next Sunday or Monday with the pendulum and the anniversary main mechanism. 
I made the unilateral decision that I would buy a #42 Paris street number sign from said shop at that later time.
I came across a 5-Franc (less than $1) set of a pink watch, pink pearl necklace, and pink pearl earrings. I bought two sets. A pink watch to heal Kilory's watch woefulness, pink earrings to make into pins, and a pink necklace to thrill fashion plate Nikki. [Although I must say, at home Kilory was the one whom insisted on taking – not wearing – her necklace to school so she could show it to Mrs. Gray then send it home with me. "Mrs. Gray wants to see it! She'll like it, Mommy!!"]
Alan bought five decent dress shirts.
![Pépito brand cookies. [Pepito is Madeline's reformed best friend, the Spanish ambassador's son.]](http://www.disaster-area.org/weis/fpepito.jpg)
On the métro back to sawdunee (St-Denis) an impaired young man became enamored of my clip watch [still set on Twin Time]. He shook Alan's hand and said "Bon Jour"; he did the same for me but added a kiss to my hand. Then in impaired French and confused English, respectively, he and I talked about my roses. I gave him one. My last rose I gave to the woman over whom I had to crawl [loaded with full grocery bags] to get out at our bus stop.
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Alpha's Quadrant
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Daddydom
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The Wild
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CLCW
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Sarah Bernhardt
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Motherhood and Housewifery
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Scribble scribble
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Thought Spot
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Nikki & Kilory
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Ballerinas
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I think I can I think I can
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Hundred Acre Wood
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Barney and Freud Tour Vienna
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Celebrating the Seasons
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BB Guns and Frozen Tongues
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Films vs. Movies
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The Nutcracker and the Mouse King
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2 Exhausted 2 Write Newsletter Archive
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Xeriscopic Butterfly Gardening
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Butterfly Gardening for Ninnies
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The Neglectful Gardener
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Antique Roses
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Garden Xeriscaping & Gramma
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Gloomy Grumpy Pawpaw
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Teddy Bear Wars
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Pawpaw vs. The Squirrels
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Pinching Pennies 'til Lincoln Screams
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Dandelion Appreciation
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Virtual Tea Party
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Whoville
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Green Eggs & Hams
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The Zoo
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Chocolate
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101 Reasons to Hate Young Skinny Women
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The Biscuit of Ally McBeal
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Green Gables in My Garden
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Antiques/Brocante/ Junque
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I love Paris in the Springtime
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Like Cats & Dogs
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Hedgehogs
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The Belfry
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Helen's Yellow Brick Road
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Friend Links
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Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
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The Galaxy Song
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Looney Camelot
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Gorey Q
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Donald and The...
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The Doubtful Guest
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Book of Practical Cats
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Greatpa
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Photos
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Family History & Photos
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Civil War Diary of G. T. Granger
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Wes Stoops Memorial
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Love Letter to Gramma
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Diana's Life Lessons
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Jesus Wants Me for a Sunflower
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