Dear Friend,

It is midnight and I am tossing around, unable to sleep. The events about to go down are thrilling and almost unbelievable. I am about to get on a plane to Paris! Paris, the city of pink light and promises locked in Le Pont des Arts. Paris, the ultimate destination for a time travel capsule dropping me in the times of La Belle Epoque and the blissful ignorance dwelling between dreams and reality of an age wielding hope, possibility, and beauty against the turbulence and hardships of a century about to die. 

I wonder if it’s the “joie de vivre– and not the plethora of styles representing artistic freedom –the reason behind its tantalizing charm, as the intellectual me would like to think. Freedom….

You would be as surprised as I was to know that the battle of wills revolving around keeping family traditions, with all the usually running high and hot emotions, succumbed to the mention of Paris. There were skirmishes, yes, weak embers trying to get back to the fire; but the allure of being in Paris at the brink of the 2000, was too much to bear, even for my father, the upholder of said traditions.

The moon is high and smiling, the voices of Piaf, Brel, and Aznavour attempt to lull me asleep, soundtracks to the images popping in my mind one after the other, and the fears crawling on my skin.

Until I cross the Big Puddle,

Yours

Dear Friend, 

No words can convey the array of emotions permeating every breath, and every step I take in this city. Walking in Paris is like stepping into the pages of a history book furtively hiding a fiction story filled with dragons, wands, portals, and otherworldly beings and finding out that somehow, they have merged into one fascinating reality. I am not strolling alone, many ghosts do so along with me. I see them dancing, singing, painting, building, protesting, smoking, eating, and raising their glasses.

Those fond of Renaissance opulence or the 20th-century comfort catwalk in the Passarella of the Champs Élysée and picturesque side rues. Those in the lighter styles of the early days decked in rich fabrics and symbolic accessories stumble as their bewildered eyes cannot get past the lace dresses and Baroque wigs gather close to the Paris Opera House. The Pret-a-Porter enthusiasts of the French Revolution and the feminine defiance in trousers and jackets prefer to remain close to La Bastille. 

All of them a fierce contrast to the century’s whirlwind of change and its bold Art Deco statements, Chanel’s iconic little black dress, and the comfortable clothing moving around in bright colored winter jackets over faded jeans, knitted hats, and Go West boots– me included and despite my family’s disapproval.

I could not handle the classic black winter wool coat with its silky lining lent to me by my cousin; two of those interminable blocks and all my elegance got squeezed under the weight of its Parisian fashion, turning me into Quasimodo.

Time for coffee. I found an Italian Café hidden in a lateral street from the Opera House. Patisserie, delicatessen, cheese, wine, all fabulous. Coffee, a waste of espresso machines, and dark roasted beans.

Ciao

Dear Friend, 

Paris reflects the times, all timelines at once, in its constantly evolving and vibrant spirit. The buildings seem to extend endlessly into an atmospheric perspective of a grey graphite vanishing point. The light, artificial and natural, plays with the façades as a master artist does with chiaroscuro, giving everything a mysterious visual depth. Perhaps it is just me. I am totally biased.

Haussmann architecture is everywhere, with the elegant stone façades, wrought iron window grills and balconies, angled roofs, the iconic chimneys, and dormer windows. Although the style is undeniable, no building resembles another! And the interiors! The marble fireplaces, the elaborate moldings, the chevron floors! Oh, my friend, I cannot believe I am here.

Yes, I know what you are thinking, with all that splendor, I still rented a “private bathroom” attached to tiny studio and had to carry my suitcase banging left and right to the fourth floor. Not even Paris can make me share a bathroom! 

Let me tell you about Guimard’s metro entrances. They are made out of cast-iron painted a shade of oxidized brass green. Sooo Art Nouveau! A couple of them have awnings made of glass imitating the wings of a dragonfly, and the curved metalwork makes them look like weird bugs. The glowing red orb topping the stem-like lamps look like bugs eyes, or maybe a flower bud. When I looked up in the Metropolitan entrance, the red orbs looked back at me. Sauron’s red eye, coming from both sides… or a praying mantis ready to have me for lunch. Thankfully, neither found me appetizing. The red buds smirked and I walked down the stairs to catch the subway. Although the French didn’t approve of the design, they have become emblems of the city. I like them; I can see them moving or flying away!

Butterfly-ing, 

Yours

Dear Friend, 

As I walked towards the Chaussée d’Antin metro entrance from Galleries Lafayette, a dubious small kitchen on wheels waving smoke beckoned me. I have the willpower of a mouse when the nutty, burned-woody smell of barbequed chataignes tickles my nose. Happiness served in a cone of steaming chestnuts ready to be peeled and wolfed down on the go. The perfect treat for a winter day. I switch between rêpes and marrons chataignes day after day; sometimes I take both. LOL. 

What never changes is my daily closing ritual, bon vivant wanderings back home accompanied by creamy chocolate mousse ice cream from Jeff de Bruges, a small chocolate store tucked in the basement of Les Halles, an impressive underground labyrinthine mall nicknamed the stomach of Paris and made famous by Emile Zola’s novel of the same name. No matter how far away I am or how long the ride is, I stop by Bruges.

That’s all I do in Paris, walk, eat, and sit, mouth open for hours in front of a painting or sculpture. These forty-five days of mousse au chocolat glace and the éclair au chocolat tour are making my Parisian adventure deliciously mischievous. Sebastien Degardin patisserie, close to the Luxembourg Gardens is winning the contest, by the way, their éclair is mouthwatering, and the crème, oh the crème…

Mouthful-ly, 

Yours

Oh, my friend,

Dreams of ascension conjured by Notre Dame reach the skies. There is a beautiful elegance, a simple sacredness floating between the limestone walls, giant columns, balconies, and arches. Tons of arches. It feels like stepping into another world. A sense of marvel bathed me in the kaleidoscopic light of the 13th-century intricate rose stained-glass window. Notre Dame is a paragon of the fantastic capabilities of the human mind turned art by reverence. 

That morning, it wasn’t the bell toll but the organist playing Bach’s suite in D minor that brought me to my knees. Still today, my eyes fill with tears as the spell of that day takes over me; all earthy problems dissolved by the magic of a place beating with a heart as big as the visions of those who built it and those the Cathedral’s effect makes anew.

Happily-tearfully, 

Yours

Dear friend,

Paris is a Dog Paradise! They stroll around the city in all shapes and sizes and eat in restaurants with their parents. Behavior? Top-tier British Etiquette! Do all these dogs go to school? I spend so much time staring at them, gesticulating, and making aww noises. Such lack of manners. No treat for you tourist lady! Can’t help myself, so much cuteness lying next to or sitting with their owners at the table. 

I might not speak French, but I speak Dog and couldn’t help but jump towards a small poodle with a beautiful champagne coat walking towards me yesterday. His owner, an elderly lady, was happy to allow me to pet him. After many gestures, random sign language, and horrible Spanglish, we ended up spending the afternoon together, drinking coffee, eating pastries, and drooling over Olive the poodle.

Glut -ingly,

Yours

Dear Friend,

The Champs-Élysées is huge. Many cafés with little tables sat dormant under the weight of upside-down, cramped chairs looking longingly at the sky as they awaited spring. The interior, though, overflowed with customers enveloped in a fog of cigarette smoke–a real life impression of light and movement as in a Turner watercolor. 

The view from the top of the Ferris wheel is as breathtaking as the one from the Sacre Coeur on the hill of Montmartre. The difference? The breath and stability… the swinging seat could not compete with the solid travertine stone of the church. Fun fact:  did you know that the stones whiten under the rain? Upon contact with water, they secrete a white substance–cullet–that flows along the walls and hardens in the sun. This is how the basilica cleans itself every time it rains! Talk about sacred technology!

Between the Ferris wheel and the Louvre is the Jardin Des Tuileries,  a beautiful botanical garden and open-air museum where flowers, trees, Maillol, Rodin, Giacometti hang out. But you know I am here to channel Henri Pol, the bird charmer, and see how many sparrows I can make flutter in my direction with croissant crumbs–I forgot the seeds.

Feed-ingly & Pooped-ingly

Yours

Dear Friend,

As I walked to the medieval fortress and palace for kings of France turned museum, I feel engulfed in a Da Vinci Code virtual reality when the glass pyramid appears in front of me. The entrance looks like a UFO casual drop-off indeed. The “scar on the face of Paris” produces a weird tension between the mind and the gut; nevertheless, Pei’s architecture is impressive. The pyramid follows the main lines and perspectives of the palace, whilst creating a luminous access to the museum’s three pavilions. 

It’s been a whole day, and I haven’t been able to pass beyond the Flemish and Dutch. Detail-oriented takes a whole new meaning here! Between them and Rembrandt standing in front of his easel looking into a mirror-or directly at you-in “Auto Portrait au Chevalet,” I will need a new budget, a plane ticket, and magical time-stopping powers to be able to visit at least one floor during my stay. 

The Mona Lisa’s smirk… she’s small, and so wicked! I swear is the undercover spy of the museum, sees it all, knows it all! But back to Rembrandt! The eyes in his self-portraits are like a vortex; just when they are about to open their secrets to you, they seal it away—and when you dream of those eyes, you wake up in a sweat.

Blinkingly, 

Yours

My friend,

The Pompidou? It’s a Broadway musical in its own right! No stone or wood, no noble materials, but steel, synthetic glass, and plastic! Bright-colored plastic pipes crisscross the building! The ventilation system is blue, the electric cables yellow, the corridors red, and the water pipes green. Escalators and galleries are visible from the outside and the floors are color-coded. It looks like a monstrous Lego sculpture. Then you go in and Marcel Duchamp’s urinal welcomes you! Folie à deux…mille!

All is well when I walk into another hall and a red triangle centered between two flat blue and green zones traversed by black lines directs my bewildered gaze to the painter’s signature. Kandinsky’s. Impression V. That was the moment I understood his words: “The content is what the spectator feels under the effect of the colors and shapes.”

“I feel it, bro, I do!” I sat there for a very long time, crying inconsolably, overwhelmed by the power of art and the fact that a print from a book I loved had magically grown to 5.5 x 3.5 feet and we were both acknowledging each other, soul to soul. From there I forgot about primary color pipes and wires and wandered for four hours, drooling my way through paradise and its Delauneys, Kahlos, Chagalls, Mondrians, Matisses, and Mirós, hanging on clouds of astonishment and gratefulness. 

Drooling,

Yours

Dear friend, 

You know I hate crowds; thus, I armed myself with a helmet of patience, a shield of hope, and an armor of determination; took the sword of “get out of my way”–excusez moi–with a grip of politeness (but a sharp blade) and jumped into battle. Streams of moving dots blended in huge blobs around the metro or covered the windows of bulging buses in patches of color and textures. To where? Trocadéro, the Eiffel Tower’s home, of course.

This 17-foot base and 984-foot high rise stands in all its magnificence among breathtaking gardens. Today, this lady becomes an irreplaceable symbol witnessing the death of a century and all its apocalyptic prophecies and welcomes the New Years and Millennium with an unforgettable pyrotechnic event, unveiling 20,000 sparkling lights and a new beacon. Fireworks climb from the bottom to the top of the tower, igniting like a rocket about to take flight across the cosmos “where no man has gone before.” The scene, the ecstasy… too much to bear.

Goosebumpily, 

Yours

PS: All metro stations were closed after the event, no buses, or taxis. It took me eight hours walking to get back! But when I went out after a short nap, the after-party messy city was resplendently cleaned!

My friend,

Paris’ magical wanderings nudged me in the direction of yet another museum. The old Hôtel Biron with the rambling gardens Rodin fell in love with. Matisse, Cocteau, and Isadora Duncan lived there when it was a dilapidated boarding house for poor artists owned by the French state. Did you know Rodin saved this building from demolition by making the museum the legal successor of his life work!

And I am telling you, “Living there” is not a grammatical error, those bronze and marble bodies move their eyes, follow you, and await to spring over you if you drop your guard. I bet my croissants for a month that if you stay for the night, the sculptures shall get out from their stands and hang out–after scaring the bejeezus of any uninvited guest.

Rodin’s “Thinker” sits in a luscious garden where you can hear The Burghers of Calais whispering their struggles as they walk toward their fates. The Gates of Hell, with Dante’s three spirits of the dead pointing to the sufferings below is terrifyingly beautiful. Sweat dripped from my temples and back as I imagined the gates slowly opening, squeaking, and fire hands reaching out to pull me in. Eroticism lingers in this exuberant space. Rodin’s words – “The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live” impregnate the marble and bronze, and walk the nights when humanity sleeps and spirit is awake. 

Sinking in dreams of clay,

Yours

Dear Friend, 

Today I was caught off guard. “Last of the litter, teacup Yorkshire terrier girl for sale. Call now. Private owner.” I couldn’t help it, the temptation was… unbearable. I called…You know me and Yorkies!… All this, to say, I ended up in Normandy and got a minuscule 0.55-pound puppy. 

Not Caeser, but Princess, veni, vini, vici! She has such a spunky personality and carries her big round baby head high in a manner of self-importance that crashes when she lowers it to eat, and her tiny hind legs going up in the air! If she is too excited, she ends up rolling forward! Adorable! Her parents, Louis and Delphine, have long, flowing, silky coats that swish around as they move. Princess is solid black now with some tan coloring in her legs, ears, around the eyes and muzzle, but her hair will turn to the dark steel and shiny silver threads of her parents in a year or so. Incredible. If it wasn’t for their cuteness and perfection, you could imagine all baby Yorkies having an “ugly duckling” past. Every penny of this trip is going into a tiny ball of fur capable of bringing down a kingdom with her charm. If worse comes to worst, I shall beg on the metro with her as my monkey…the cup will be filled!

She fits in my jacket’s upper pocket! Aww! I made a bed with my hat for her to snuggle. Aww! So much room to spare! Aww!! This animated clutter of playfulness and affection has captivated my heart and everyone else’s she meets. Her little face pops up through the hole between the second and third opened buttons of my jacket, her VIP travel seat. I bought her a sweater and harness. She stood petrified for a minute and the contorted to get herself free from the leash! She agreed to a tiny purple baby cat collar with a minuscule jingle bell.

Credit card slides back and forth! Mafalda–her new name–eats organic lamb dog food, pâte, and Emmental cheese. I eat cheap goat cheese circles and bread. Absolutely, worthy!

Woof, woof-ly

Yours

Oh, my friend, 

Paris took more selfies than memory alone can handle and saved them all in a secure folder deep in my soul. This city mirrors the inner world of wanderers, artists, and the like, and carries the aroma of bohemian struggles and the banquet of riches in the free-spirited trays were glasses of the past, present, and future toast with the soulful liquid grapes blessed by terroir. 

A book of a thousand pages is rewritten with every day here as if in Cinderella’s time; there is no other way so much can be held in this small city! Could J.K. Rowling’s Goblet of Fire have paraphrased this impossibility, when a wary Harry attending the Quidditch World’s Cup event enters the tiny tent of the Weasleys to discover that, despite the outward appearance, it looks like a Saudi Price on the inside? “I love magic,” he says. “Me too!” Paris responds.

I caress the fine threads of dreams and the incandescent joy this adventure has blessed me with, all tied up in a 5-inch black and tan furball that stole my heart and brought the sun and the moon down. No boyfriend can ever compare! To be continued face to face…

Drunkenly, 

Yours