27-29, October 1999:Paris

"This writing business. Pencils and whatnot. Overrated, if you ask me."

Our first stop was a St-Denis pharmacy [Hey! That rhymes! SawduNee FarmaCEE]. I was now out of my emergency insulin stock They didn't carry any insulin. We spent much time waiting for and riding on right and wrong buses to the University métro/bus stop.

My three roses got an "Oo la la" out of an older gentleman near L'Opéra de Paris Garnier, where we searched for another pharmacy.

The man at the next pharmacy called Novolin (insulin) headquarters to confirm the exact replacement insulin formula before he special-ordered it for me. French people are so rude. For example: Yesterday a woman saw us consulting our map near the Abbesses métro. She asked us where we wanted to go and gave us concise directions. Rude rude rude!

We would have to return at 5 p.m. when the special order would be in.
So off we went to enter the magical world of the Phantom's L'Opéra de Paris Garnier.
Or at least its magnificent lobby. Ah!

Five dollars each would've have allowed us into the inner magic.
We spent it on postcards of the inner magic and an "Opéra Cats" book that cracked me up.
[I also bought a postcard of Anna Pavlova. Alan didn't understand my enthusiasm.
I explained that in "You Can't Take it With You" Dan Yancy's Mr. Kolenkov would say to my ballerina-who-can't-dance Essie "We have a hot night for it, my Pavlova."
There are different deliveries for any line. I gave the line Dan Yancy's infamous delivery.
Boy did I get looks from the other gift shop patrons!]
L'Opéra was fun.

We ate salad at Au Printemps' Café Flo under the wondrous 1923 stained glass cupola.

Afterward we headed for Galerie Vivienne via the Bourse métro. When we ascended the steps we found a one-day-only Brocante Market in front of the Stock Market Building (the Bourse).

After already having lost his mind at the Grenelle Brocante Market, Alan stumbles into the sea of tables as I urge him "Walk away, Alan! Don't look directly at it, Alan! Keep walking!" No use. It was like watching an alcoholic stumble into a bar.

Funny thing, he didn't buy anything. I bought a charming, definitely old, cameo on a filigree bow for 50F ($8). I found a flowered locket brooch that displayed a French soldier's photo (too early for Franco-Prussian, but possibly WWI or WWII). My imagination ran wild when I wondered what the story was behind the photo in the locket. I took a photo of it thinking it would be too expensive, then snatched it up when I heard "60F" ($10).

Later and no closer to Galerie Vivienne, I discovered a charming old French history book lying in a planter full of trash, near but not next to a table full of books. The man who SEEMS to be the table's dealer is standing by. I approach and ask "Do you speak a LITTLE English?" He shakes his head.

A voice BOOMS from high above and behind me: "I do! What do you want?" I turned and looked the tallest Frenchman I've ever seen squarely in the chest. I look up. Imagine Cosmo Kramer with a larger nose and a bald spot.
"Er, I wanted to know if this book belonged to his booth."
Kramér leans over me and hands the dude twenty Francs. "It belongs to me."
"OK."
"What do you want with it?"
I handed him the book QUICKLY. "Nothing. I just like it."
"It's in French. You can have no interest in this book."
"Yes, I can. I like old things. But it's yours, not mine."
"It is mine, because I speak French. I understand it. It cannot interest you, it is French. You cannot understand it."
[ I'd give soooo much to go back in time, do a Marilyn Monroe/Judy Holiday back arch and a wide-eyed Dharma then lisp 'What makes you think I'd understand it in English?' ]
"I like books! I like old books! I like it."
"You cannot like it! You cannot read it. It is French."
I put my hands up as if to frame his face from afar. "I like it. I never said I was sane."
"What?"
"I never said I was sane!"
"Sane?"
"Sane! Sane! I NEVER said I was sane! I'm insane! I'm a crazy person! I like books I can't read! I'm nuts, OK? Enjoy your book!" I shrugged and walked away.
Behind me I hear him interpreting this to the book dealer, with my inflection, voice and all. They laughed long and loud at me.

Off to Galerie Vivienne, a charming arcaded passage. It was hard to decide between gawking at the ceiling or the mosaic floors.
I was enchanted, Alan seemed bored, so we wandered off to the Place des Victories. Rode the bus back to the Opéra then métroed to the Tuileries. Took pictures there then walked to Place Vendôme.

There, I stood on a hunk of concrete in front of Napoléon's pillar (Colonne de Vendôme). Alan takes a snapshot of me. He videotapes me briefly then scans the square.
Now; his video Modus Operandi is to start at Point A, scan through Point Z, then finish at point A. In order to be doing ANYTHING worth videotaping when he came back to me, I did a wee jig on top of the concrete block. I hear voices shouting French in the traffic. Nothing new; I ignore it...until a car pulls up beside me, the handsome driver cheers to me in an "Encore! Encore!" voice, and tosses a fistful of coins at my feet. I laughed so hard I didn't see where the money bounced/rolled. I don't know what was funnier: a man giving me money for dancing; or Alan trying to find the coins in the cobblestones and traffic. I told him to leave it to bring joy to someone else as it already had brought me joy.

The insulin came in by 5 p.m. as planned. We were pleasantly surprised at how well they spoke English -- only to discover the pharmacy was the "British and American Pharmacy" at 1 rue Auber. So observant of us. After receiving kind instructions on how to calculate dosages with 40 units/ml instead of my usual 100 units/ml, we scampered off to take twilight photos of Notre-Dame de Paris and get a Greek sandwich.

Returned to good ole #131 in time to see my first episode(s) of the "X-Files": "Bienvenüe something something Aracade" ("Arcadia" in English) guesting Abraham Benrubi; and "Alpha" guesting Melinda Culea (taught me by much repetition how to pronounce "dog" en français).

We experienced our first female musician in the métro at Saint Lazare. She was on the opposite side of the tracks and her Celtic singing was so lovely it made me want to get to the other side to give her money.

Rue de Rome is String Alley! Violins of all sizes, cellos, and basses. We got to watch violin makers at work. Appropriate I spent so much time thinking of Linda (and Carol & Darren) as today is Evan's 5th birthday.

We had a Mango glacé cone at Berthillon's original location* then embarked on a wild goose chase for "Sarah Antiques" at 18 Rue Flatters.

[*Berthillon is purported to be the best ice cream in the world, and if not, the best in France. Alan says the best is in Italy.
The patriot I am, I say it's Blue Bell. We'll never know unless Blue Bell formulates a mango recipe because that's what Alan chose. Myself I would have chosen Tiramisu if we were going to throw comparison out the window. Of course I might have named Nikki as Tiramisu if Alan would have let me. We'd be calling her "Major Tira" – and for good reason, too!]

Rubbernecked on the bus all the way to La Samaritaine department store. We chose to eat in La Samaritaine's Le Sands café instead of La Samaritaine's restaurant. Unfortunately the restaurant, not the café, has the view of the Seine. As it was, Alan had a view of St. Chapelle's spire. I had a view of a building, gorgeous by States-standard, but not by Parisian-parameter.
La Samaritaine did indeed have Jean Paul Gaultier perfume, but I just couldn't justify $55 per gorgeous bottle.
*sigh*

Afterward we got hopelessly lost on our way to the Mariage Frères tea shop. Lucky us, for we happened upon charming autumn spectacles outside St. Eustache and went photo-happy. Alan had me pose on the edge of a Les Halles fountain. I stood, the epitome of propriety, until a guy behind Alan began demonstrating how I should work-it-Baby! for the camera. I worked it and afterward laughed and laughed and laughed, again embarrassed at having made yet another public spectacle of myself.

Soon thereafter I saw a black and white postcard of a brunette that from a distance resembled a blend of my mom and me. It was Marilyn Monroe. That's the second time* that from a distance I thought a non-blonde Marilyn Monroe was me.
*Jan Yakush gave me the Monroe book with such a photo because she'd thought the same thing. And I can relate this with all modesty intact because:
1. Blondes have more fun; and
2. Dave Barry has pointed out that "By today's beauty standards, of course, Marilyn Monroe was an oil tanker."

We walked until our dogs were whining to get to the original Mariage Frères tea shop.
My Tea Boy bought himself some Earl Grey Tea inside a Mariage Frères tin for me/us/him.
Boy, did it smell great in there!
I loved the tea pots!
I love tea anything!

We hopped a bus at Tour St-Jacques that drove through the Louvre courtyard and deposited us at the Seine vendors where we took as many souvenirs with us as photos.
Had a ball looking at the old books, wishing Kramér was there so I could lisp "I like the pwetty pictyers/What makes you think I'd understand it in English?"
*flutter flutter batt batt flutter flutter*

I really wanted the book on Berthe Morisot but the cover just wasn't pretty enough.
*flutter flutter batt batt flutter flutter*
I've often wondered what Berthe Morisot's parents thought of her, and whether Morisot's kitchen was clean.

We ate a sit down dinner in the Greek Quarter.
Alan had onion soup/beef bourgingnon/chocolate mousse.
I had crepe fromage/steak and frites/chocolate mousse.

We stopped at the Pont Neuf (Rue Monnaie) métro to take Alan's photo with the money on the wall, then headed "home."
[Stay tuned...that photo was on the END of the roll. I'll have to get it developed by hook or by crook.]

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