A Better Season

You feel it, walking down the street. There's a buzz. Everyone's out. Café terraces are packed with people. All of Paris has moved outside. It's warm enough to wear a light jacket, or even just a sweater. The light lingers later into the evening. Summer is close. Sure, it's just the start of spring. There's time yet for a brief but brutal reprise of winter. But I don't think it'll happen.

But the real clue is this: Sebastian's opened up the front doors. There's an unhindered view of the street. The better season is upon us.

Hurry back.

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My Stool

I’m standing there thinking it's my bar and you’re sitting in my place. I know I can’t command the prime position on every visit, but if I must be left to stand at the bar, I'd much prefer that our stools be inhabited by regulars.

She is a pretend blond and overly eye-shadowed, talking in unnecessary decibels and flailing her hands around. Everyone in the bar is trying not to listen in on her banal conversation, the one about the complicated itinerary of her next trip and how she'll have too much time at the airport on the way back from New York – understandably frustrating to her but frankly, inconsequential to the rest of us. Her recurrent use of the word “like” is not enhancing her credibility with anyone standing beside me. I’m thinking, honey, could you please, like, lower your voice?

I’m chatting up the barman – quietly – while offering a knowing smile to the older man across the bar. We would roll our eyes at each other but for the mirrors on every wall, so we just flirt instead. We have a common nemesis, the loud one speaking English proclaiming her frequent flyer status for the whole bar to hear.

She is with a young guy with a two-day old beard. They are now both on their phones, both leaning over almost on top of me, stretching to see out the front windows, trying to assess the address, presumably to tell whomever they've called precisely where they are.

“I can’t see any number,” she says, loud and very close to my ear.

“Thirty,” I say, in a dulcet but mono tone.

They look at me like I have spoken in Greek.

“It’s number thirty,” I say, “The address. Here.”

“Oh." She did not expect me to speak English. “Yeah, thanks.”

They resume their conversation, with lower voices.

That worked.

Later she asks the barman about the toilet. He points to the back. I smile, but it’s a devious one. I know the toilet here, a chrome sided, Star Trek styled Turkish toilet, if you can imagine, built for a superhero like Iron Man. I never use it. I’m capable of squatting, but why bother? Half the bars on this street are owned by the same guy, all the barmen know me, at least by sight. Usually I walk next door or across the street where I can sit like a civilized woman.

She slides off the stool – my stool – and walks around the horseshoe shaped bar toward the restroom.  I mutter, under my breath so her English-listening French boyfriend won’t hear, “Good luck with that.”

In her absence he takes out his iPhone and dials nimbly, chatting away in a rough French accent, peppered with slang. I wonder if she hears this in his French. Has she been here long enough to detect the subtleties of the language, or is she still in the just-lucky-to-barely-understand stage?  (I've been there.)  The fact is, she may not listen to him enough to hear it; she was rather adept at talking and they'd been conversing in her language, not his.

The clock ticks forward, that pumpkin-hour-when-I-must-be-home approaches. My little factures are assembled, change waits on the counter. She returns, walking around the bar, tugging at her clothing, the way women should before they leave the restroom but inevitably we’re still checking that everything’s falling correctly on our way out.

“How’d that go for you?” I said aloud, emboldened by the last, fast sip of my second Leffe.

She looked at me, uncertain. “Huh?”

I tilted my head the direction of the toilet.

“Oh, yeah.  It was fine.”

I looked down at her shoes, medium-high heels with a leopard-pattern. They were splashed with water, or something. I tried not to smile, but I couldn't hold it back. She tucked her feet under the bar stool, my stool, drawing them in and out of sight.

Fully Integrated

I'm participating in Reverb10, and this post is in response to a prompt from author Patrick Reynolds: Body integration. This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?

I could tell you about my increased pilates training, and how a dedicated effort to strengthen my core has done just that, strengthen my core. About how after a 50-minute work-out with my rock-star trainer, I put my legs up against the wall for the cool-down meditation and because my mind and body are probably so integrated my thoughts are crystal clear, my emotions quickly channeled. I could tell you about long runs in the country, lost in thoughts that empty themselves out, crossing the threshold and letting the endorphins drive.  I could.

The author of this prompt submits a smokin’ hot shirtless photograph of himself for this reflective end-of-year exercise and I think, well yeah, that’ll put me in my body. I’m not sure that this is what the prompt is meant to evoke, although if you snoop around long enough on this guy’s website you'll see that indeed he does use sex to sell his health regime. It must work.

It does.

I’ve been considering this prompt all day and I can’t think of any better way to get to a more cohesive me, alive and present than a first class orgasm.  Of course there's the physical release, but this catalyzes the letting go of something else that seemed so necessary to harbor, except once released, it heightens the pleasure.  Briefly, I touch it: a clarity creeping dangerously close to some kind of universal memory, experienced only in such private passages, a vulnerable stretch of glistening moments that lasts forever in the moment, but is still, in retrospect, fleeting.

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Further Defined

Here's a word I could easily guess at incorrectly.  Barmecidal.

It feels like it could be something that you drink at a bar for medicinal purposes.  It might mean you've been standing at the bar so long that you are slowly killing yourself.  It could mean somebody has been sitting in your corner spot at the bar for so long that it is absolutely within reason to consider homicide to reclaim the prized red stools. 
Or at least manslaughter.    

But it probably means you've been at the bar for so long, too long, that your capacity to estimate the amount of cash you actually have in your pocket is highly distorted, which is why it seems like a good idea, at the time, to buy another round of patxaran. Ya falta menos.

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Cinco de Mojito

This is a day where you're more than certain to hear us whistling our favorite countdown tune: uno de enero, dos de febrero, tres de marzo, quatro abril.  cinco de mayo...where we stop and cheer before June and July get their due.   

Usually, by cinco de mayo it's warm and wonderful, with all things weather hinting fiercely at the arrival of summer and all that portends: full tables on sunny café terraces, the challenge to find empty chairs at Luxembourg garden, empty Velib stations, longer days and later dinners.   By May, the worst of the winter and wetness of spring are behind.  Usually.

Not so today as the wind whipped like a wild thing and forced us to bundle in heavy (though fashionable) coats and scarves and boots.  Oh, the sun gave hope, but offered little warmth.  Summer feels as far away as ever, but for the bags of fresh mint that lay waiting to be mortared and pestled into that hot weather favorite, the mojito.   Nor could we imagine a rosé; drinking the pink today would be like wearing white before Memorial Day.   

Wearing white, of course, reserved not even for the seis de junio - but for our favorite damn day of the year: seis de julio.   Ya falta menos.

Last Call

The saddest time of the night, if you can remember it.

Something about Mary

Who knew? The Bloody-Marys-to-go that we loved so at Christmas (and that cure even the worst hangover for the rest of the year) were invented right here in Paris, France!

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Portable Potable

A new neighborhood storefront brings temporary relief from the sprawl of trendy, overpriced clothing boutiques and puts some spice in our season. It's called Take Away Cocktails and serves up exactly what it's named, drinks you can drive away with.

It's not a bar; it's a store where you buy what you need to make your own bar. For instance, Santa Claus left me two brown bags under the tree, one with a delicate bottle of Polish vodka and a premium organic-styled glass container of bourgeois tomato juice. Also in the bag, bottles of Tabasco and Worcestershire, and small plastic take-out containers with first class celery salt and black pepper. A lime and celery. And horseradish, not just the kind in the jar - the real deal, the root. We had to grate it ourselves. It was a Bloody in a Bag. Brilliant.

Oh, and the other brown bag? Four Bloody Mary glasses. Just to be sure we drank them out of the correct receptacle. I love it when details matter.

Needless to say, the Christmas morning Bloodies were an outstanding accomplishment.

This little booze boutique opened its temporary doors early in December and sadly closes in just a few days, on New Year's eve. It's a damn shame, because the concept is clever and classy, though destined to fail, I'm afraid, since I don't know that many Frenchies who are huge consummateurs of cocktails, and France is not exactly known for its
to go culture. But it's a nice try.

I was hoping for an extension of carry-out cocktail service, but it's unlikely. We'd better dream up a good drink menu for New Year's Eve, and stock up our bar before they're out of stock - and out of town.

Does this count as an infidelity? I must admit, the novelty was nice. But nothing could keep me away from my corner bar stool for too long.

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Getting Oystered

November is a month with an r, which means it is safe to eat oysters, unless of course you are eating them anywhere near Dee Dee Sue and me, because they make us very feisty. Or perhaps it's the champagne that necessarily accompanies these mollusky meals that brings out the fresh and fickle characteristics that we harbor deeply. Or the consummate waiter, Frank, from the Le Grand Colbert whose enchanting service makes us feel more hedonistic than usual.

Dee Dee Sue usually takes her annual leave during the heart of the r-season, so our oyster fests are limited to early autumn and late spring. But this year, she's returned to Paris in a nearly-winter month, gracing us with her presence in order to take delivery of a new über-bed being installed in her refurbished apartment.

Oysters are an epicurean preference of mine, though I make it a practice not to eat them in places that are too far from the sea, and to consume these delicacies only from September to April. Do you know why oysters can make you sick? It's their libido. They get frisky as the summer approaches, and milkier and murkier, less tasty and a bit off.

So this genital-like jewel that is lauded as an aphrodisiac takes possession of its pheromones and sets out about a seduction of its own, leaving the rest of us whoozy and very much not in the mood if we don't heed the essential safe-sex oyster rule: Never without an R.

Nothing Dee Dee Sue has to worry about. November is the perfect month to reassemble her boudoir. Oysters may be useful.

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A Quick Gallopin

These days my office stops are much less frequent than I'd like. I've had way too many responsibilities, forcing a wave of respectability that really should be uncharacteristic for me but is becoming tiresomely prevalent. And let's face it, without Dee-Dee Sue around, I'm not as suggestible. Oh sure, I stop off for a café-crème or an espresso whenever I pass the office. But I haven't had the time - or the companionship - to put my behind on that bar stool for an entire afternoon or evening, like in the good ol' days.

Companionship isn't a requirement, as inevitably I know someone in the café. And if not, the U-shape of the bar lends itself to playful (or flirtatious) smiles and head-nods (or eye-rolls) and ultimately full-on conversations. New friends are easily made. Everyone standing around the bar is part of the community. Part of the clan. And there's always the barman.

The other night I was thirsty. Thirsty for a cold beer. Thirsty for the companionship of that very same café clan. Thirsty for a break from all this undesired respectability. Yet it clamored: Small creatures to be fed, bathed and indoctrinated with French grammar. There wasn't much time for a stop, not a real stop.

But there was time for a gallopin.

The standard size of a beer in France is the demi, or 50 centiliters (cl). It's more or less a pint of beer. I say more or less, because a US pint is 47.3 cl, and a UK pint is 56.8 cl. Has anyone a clue why the British pints are more voluminous than American ones?

But the gallopin is about 20 cl, the size of a juice-glass, or the content of a medium-sized wine-glass. It was invented its namesake, Gustav Gallopin, who opened up a brasserie near the Bourse and catered to financiers and journalists. Nobody seems to be able to explain why, but he had the idea to offer up this smaller sip of beer. And now you can go to any café or bar in Paris (or most of France) and order a gallopin and get just enough beer to wet your whistle. Which sometimes, is all you need.

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After the Boys of Summer Have Gone

Sadly, the summer season comes around to a close. It flew by too fast, but all the good summery things that are part of our Paris summer came to pass. Rituals were re-enacted, like champagne on the Big Roue at sunset, followed by the wild ride on the swings and a late dinner at Pipos. Kirs were ordered. Leffes were replenished. Once there were even Coca-Colas commanded from those corner bar stools, in homage to the previous day's activity. A weekend brunch stretched from just after noon until nearly midnight, on more than one occasion.

There were pheromones and trains. Navel to Spine. A perplexing bench, finally removed. Pedro Páramo. An American was coming to dinner. Dunk and Squat. A room full of kittens. Whites were washed and worn and washed again. Renovation scheduled and unscheduled and rescheduled. Memories were made and lost. An American came to dinner. Did I mention that?

Okay we had to endure a knucklehead or two. A few aches and pains dampened the party - backs and ankles didn't always cooperate - but we kept our good humor and twittered something pithy.

Summer sped by like the TGV. And while I readily welcome the return to more peaceful days of children-at-school, a quick glance back over the shoulder at the last three months of fun, foolishness and fiesta confirms that life could be a whole lot worse. And honestly, it couldn't get much better.

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Balcony View

Here's what we saw (more or less) every morning from our balcony on Estafeta during the fiesta.




Those white-and-red clad days passed too fast. We drank too much. Slept too little. Though it should be said moderation was practiced (relatively) compared to other years. Age? Wisdom? Infirmity? Exhaustion?

All of the above.

And until next year.

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