PARIS IN JULY
July 8
Paris has its poodles—usually black ones,
Sometimes white. I’ve noticed they are walked around 9
a.m. on short leashes and women—usually dressed in black
also tug at them. The poodle I saw this morning on the boulevard
Raspail was sniffing an abandoned black bra, which lay on
the sidewalk. The owner finally looked down and exasperated
Quietly said “Arret!” and tugged the dog away.
July 9
Rain pours down from the balconies every morning,
An excess from the dozen or so flower pots that seem
held over your head wherever you go in Paris. Therefore
expect to see huge puddles, expect to get water dripped
on your head. However, none of this changes the sky,
which always looks as though it will open up on you at any
moment.
July 12
The same dog walks on the same side of the street as
it had the day before on the boulevard Raspail wagging its tail.
It looks like I would imagine a happy dog looks, however, two
public maintenance men in brightly colored vests are here
spraying water down the sidewalk, getting the ticket stubs,
pamphlets, crepe wrappers, and maps to the gutter.
July 15
Park Montsouris is where we—and all of the 14th—
have picnics and go to kill a few hours. We take stiff baguettes
(stolen from this morning’s free breakfast), a couple nearly rotten bananas,
cheap wine, cheese, water, and dark chocolate. Sometimes oranges.
We sit in the shade of a very large tree.
There are always kids and parents watching to make sure no one is hurt.
We watch the people come and go—the solitary ones on walks, the dogs on leashes, men doing breathing exercises in shorts too tight, children chasing each other with water guns, couples laugh and kiss. We shoo away the pigeons and break bread for the smaller finches.
July 17
We’ve adopted a Parisian grandmother.
We always run into her close to the Porte de Vincennes metro
stop—at this place we stop and get breakfast. She’s usually crossing
a busy street—a tricky thing for an older woman who is no more than
four feet tall and slow-moving and always smiling.
She hasn’t stopped running into us and smiling since.
This lady always brightens our day. Just two days ago we had been arguing
outside the market and she saw us, smiled, and said “Bonne journée!” And
I couldn’t help but smile and set down my orange juice and tell her that
“Yes, it was a beautiful day, and Yes (I think), we’re doing fine.”
July 19
I was just sitting here at my crippled wooden desk
Studying for a phonetics test and I heard hawks.
They’re outside my window and I remembered my grandfather
telling my grandma, “They’re waiting for you, baby!” and it’s not
funny anymore for some reason. Could be the loneliness,
cars going by, tires on pavement, or Paris finally becoming dark when,
really, it never gets dark in Paris.
July 21
When I asked what had been the grave accident
a part of me already knew, so when she said
“Someone committed suicide—threw herself in
front of the metro at Gentilly” my skin got all cool:
I waited for two hours for a ride home.
Finally seated and heading back to the University of Paris
I found myself thinking that Anna Karenina
had done something similar and instantly felt pity
for the woman who lay on the tracks as metros passed
by the body—everyone trying to get a glance at the scene—
the metro cars can’t stop going by it.
No matter how hard I try, I can think of nothing else.
July 23
The most amazing thing I saw in the Giverny museum
was the painting in the corner, small, hardly noticeable. It was Paris painted at night around the year 1900. I remember it was mostly black, but you could see the glisten of the rain—a perfect shiny white. It captured drops on the street at a corner cafe. Big dresses, flourishes, and tuxedos all moving to get out of the rain
and I could see one carriage if I looked close enough. It reminded me what an artist is capable of. The feeling, the mood, the light, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
My eyes went from the pavement, the glimmering rain, to the sky.
Everything was so real to me. I was even looking for the North Star.
August 2
The morning comes and I am energized by it as I sit,
my journal on the rickety, heated table facing the sun.
I think the sun has already made her nest there.
I can tell it won’t rain and I am faintly aware that this is the beginning of the end of my stay in Paris. But right now Paris is awake and already lit up.
It’s a lucky morning. When I put pen to paper, something just happens.
August 3
Today I found my way to the Pompidou Center and what I remember most
was the view from the top. I felt like I was on top of Paris.
To my right—Sacre Coeur—white and shining in the afternoon sun. I saw all of
Montmarte and the Pantheon’s glistening dome. To my right the Eiffel Tower—and then all the distance in between that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. I thought how I’d been lost in those boulevards, desperate to learn the language, how the city can be grasped from far away and not look so big. It’s like having perspective on something can allow you to understand what you never could. And then I just thought of Paris—all its kings, beauty, and sculpture—a work of art in itself and I’ve been in love there