American in Paris: I felt like Josephine Baker II…Sense of Rejection

The whole time that I stayed at Sylvie’s, my mind and body were drawn to that large set of French windows in the living room of her apartment.  I’d look across the cobblestone street and see a man sitting on his balcony with a cigarette in his hand looking off in a distance.  I could hear a faint sound of music floating around his head, coming from the inside of his apartment.  I’d look across and see people moving around through the windows of their apartments.  They seemed busy and hurried all of the time.  As I looked around, engagingly peering into everyone’s homes, I wondered why the French didn’t invest in curtains.  I surely wasn’t protected behind one and I am sure that as well as I could see them, they would be able to see me. This didn’t scare me of course because I was so intrigued with the lives of Europeans who didn’t speak the same language as me but who engaged in the same daily rituals that I did.   On empty days in Paris, when the people with whom I was staying with slept late, my bare feet would walk across the cold floor to that window and I would stare at the slick ice on the ground and the slow accumulation of snow near each opening on the street.  My body would feel the coolness from the window numbing my nose and my fingertips and as my body longed for warmth, my mind just imagined situations of me being in love in Paris.

I didn’t know who he was, but he was gorgeous to me.  He was a shadow in my imagination, of course, but I loved him dearly.  We stayed in that little one room apartment on a secluded cobble stone street in the 10^th arrondissement of Paris.  We didn’t own a car or didn’t have much money, we just knew that we loved the city and we loved each other more.  I was an artist of course, and most of my days were spent in that tiny apartment, writing and creating and peering out of that third story window waiting for this shadow of a man to come home.  At 15:00, everyday, I’d sit on the ledge of those cool French windows and watch my shadow move through the cold rod iron fence that separated our apartments from the street.  He would vigorously walk toward our apartment and looked up to see me waiting for him at the window.  He would flash me a large smile until he was out of distance of my vision and I would run to the door and wait for him to walk up the three flights of stairs into my love.  This is what Paris did to me.  I have no idea why, or what, but as I sat against the cold of Sylvie’s window, I imagined love. 

The few days that I stayed in Paris, when people figured out who I was or where I was from, I was automatically accepted.  I couldn’t successfully communicate with them, but the welcome in their eyes spoke to me for days.  My unique sense of fashion and thinking were not abnormal on the streets of Paris.  In the Metro, I’d see women who were dressed in business suits, women who had on unique garb, traditional dress for different religions and jeans and coats.  My mind raced while at the Roosevelt station of the Metro one evening.  Sitting there in the cold, waiting for the train, I saw couples holding hands and keeping each other warm.  At that point, I didn’t like the place that I was going back to.  I wanted to stay on the streets of Paris with my head in the clouds.  In Paris, I didn’t believe that my love, the person who I gave so much time and energy to, would just leave me without saying goodbye.  In Paris, I’d wait for him on the ledge of my curtain-less large French window until I couldn’t see his shadow anymore.  In Paris, I didn’t have to deal with the man that I loved wanting to have all kinds of other women hidden in back up waiting for me to fall.  I wouldn’t have to worry about him communicating to them undercover and making me believe he wasn’t talking to anyone until I mistakenly found out and my heart shattered under the souls of his feet.  In Paris, he would only love me and smile at me while I watched him floating toward my love through the nakedness of that cold French window.  

I didn’t feel betrayed in Paris.

I wasn’t constantly rejected and called back when the indication of greener grass wasn’t green at all. 

In Paris, I was loved, by everyone, especially my shadow, who shared that tiny apartment with me with the Cold, naked French windows.

 

American in Paris: I felt like Josephine Baker Part I

If I had some extra cheese, or maybe a boo with some cheese to spare, I’d jump on a plane and travel around the world. I guess you already know this. Anyone who knows me knows this. I just had to rant because I miss Paris.

This week marks the year anniversary of which I’ve stepped foot on the grounds of France.

When I landed into Charles deGaulle, on that morning of December 3, my heart stopped. I looked around me and everyone was grabbing overhead for their luggage. I just stood there frozen peeking outside of the window of the airplane.

I didn’t know what to expect. I couldn’t speak French and I was alone.

My heart stopped again, I peered out of the window and I fell in love.

When I showed my Passport to customs the guy uttered something in French to his co-worker with a smile about me being de Louisane. He then gave me a wide smile and told me thank you in English. My heart stopped again.

I was confused at the luggage claim because Charles de Gaulle is so huge. I couldn’t read the signs and was so nervous; I didn’t notice the signs in English under the ones in French. I followed the people who were with me on my flight. All of their chatter was in French. I looked outside of the window near the luggage claim and saw a glimpse of the parking garage…I peered further and saw a crumb of Paris. I wanted to devour that crumb so badly. I wanted to forget about my luggage and run out into the street and make love to Paris because that quickly, I was head over heels.

I straightened out my shoes, parched my Fleur de Lis carry-on on the inside of my arm and grabbed my luggage. I was wearing 4 inch heels, but I still found a way to run through the doors of that airport into the December France air.

There awaited Claude and Sabri. Claude was holding his iPad in his hand still chatting to Sabri in French and Sabri looked at me quickly while grabbing my bag. We walked to Claude’s Toyota Prius and he demanded a kiss on the cheek from me to take my bag. It was a playful demand, and how could I deny Claude who has been so jolly and nice to me upon meeting. He kept telling me flirtatious comments in French and I quickly became excited and intrigued about French men. Here, I’d been here less than an hour and I received more love from French men than I have had in over two years in the United States. Claude walked over to the car door and asked for a kiss before he opened it. I gave him a swift peck on the cheek, his eyes lit up and he opened the door and grabbed my carry on. I felt like a princess. I didn’t have to hold anything…I had two French men catering to my every whim. My eyes peered to the streets of France and all of the little cars on the highway were zooming in and out of lanes and they were bumper to bumper to each other. My heart raced then and I sat and stared at a quiet and pensive Sabri and wondered why he wasn’t talking much to me. Claude had a whole lot to say. He didn’t speak English, so the things that Sabri told me were translations from Claude. While CoCo (Claude) drove, he turned around and looked at me and I became nervous in my seat. Look at the road CoCo! I demanded in my head as a chuckle left the bottom of my throat. Sabri finally smiled as CoCo gave us a photo album that was filled with pictures of him and other celebrities riding in his taxi around Paris. I saw all kinds of people—Americans, Parisians, people from Canada and Spain. There was even a picture of Hillary Clinton shaking hands with CoCo and then exchanging kisses on the cheek—the French handshake. My heart sputtered and I stared outside as snow flakes began to fall.

We finally arrived to our lodging which was the traditional apartment of Sabri’s cousin. It was beautiful. The apartments were situated on a cobblestone street and they all had traditional large French windows. The cobblestone was slick from the ice and snow forming inside of each corner. Claude jumped out of the car and opened my door for me. Sabri grabbed my bags and kissed Claude on each cheek as Claude uttered a Tout a’lehuere in my ears as he kissed each of my cheeks and drove away.

There stood Sylvie waiting for us in her tiny apartment. We walked down the slick cobble stone street—me on my tippy toes since I was in heels and Sabri carrying all of my bags in his hands. We embraced the dark stairway which was carpeted and very old. Every step that we took creaked under our footsteps and I tiptoed through 3 flights of stairs. Each story only had two apartments and this seemed like an ancient apartment building. As I walked into Sylvie’s apartment, my eyes darted to the French windows and I embraced them as she and Sabri talked in French. I looked outside and saw cobblestone and snow. It felt like I was in a book…a book about an American traveling to Paris in the 1940s and falling in love with the city and its people. That day, Paris stole my heart and since then, my heart has been bleeding to go back…