Not everything in Paris is beautiful, but as in all cities, if you look close enough, there's always beauty there. It's a gray day, this Tuesday, and we've slept in a little, so we buy some sandwiches at a place and walk around the corner to find a place to munch them. The park's a little dirty, the playground slides are graffitti-covered, and it's got an abandoned air. But there's always the girls themselves, being their exuberant spirits, feeding the pigeons as well as themselves. Then a young family cheered onto the scene, who had no problem with the graffitti at all.
And though the girls found it sad that this pigeon was limping with the plastic line caught in his feet (we couldn't catch him to free him) their concern was real and sweet.
Off we go to Sacre-Coeur. On a trolley! Now we can add trolley to the list of various one level, double-decker, button-pushing, handle-turning, middle hinge swiveling modes of Parisien transportation we've tried.
With facing seats, even. The lovely thing is, it rides on grass. On grass. Middle street lanes of grass. Goes very slowly because it's quiet, and the grass invites people to sort of sit where they shouldn't, so they have to keep it slow, according to K. You get the picture. In my Key to the Kingdom book the streets are paved in grass and the trolleys are yellow -- suspended on the sides of the buildings where no one gets run over, -- but still, yellow.
We walk past shops where columns of embroidered silks, flowered chintze, fluttering taffeta fill the sidewalks. It's the old Algerian section. Khaldia said it was her mother's favorite place to be in Paris, and she would find treasure after treasure. I want to come back. Then, rising like a vision on some Tibetten cloud, Sacre-Coeur. Up there.
Around here?
Yup. I set off. The French words and hand motions of Khaldia don't quite register. 'Grandma!' I turn and see that Khaldia does not follow. She looks at me as if I were about to shimmy up the carousel pole, and says, 'not tren? Take tren?'
Oh! What a thrill! A cable car. A sacre-coeur cable car. Lookie there.
Yee-haw!
Doesn't go quite to the top, but close enough. And Emma Nour's spirit and purse and lunch laden body goes racing up the ramp. She wins. We all win, this magnificent view.
The woman with the hat looked at Emma Nour, and asked her if she'd like her portrait drawn. I remembered all the days when I was hard at work doing just that, and her mom as a child would wander art fairs and find a friendly artist, usually a rival portraitist, and keep her kindly company till the sunset.
Khaldia has a sore finger that needs some tending, so Aicha and I wait for a while here,
Then run down the hill, back to the fabric stores.
Some of us think photo op. Others think pigeon. By now you know what this means.
And it's the best picture of all.
a wonder of color, ribbons, buttons, the thread to repair Teddy, a little souvenier button.
Tomorrow, it's the treasures of the Musee d'Orsay.
Off we go to Sacre-Coeur. On a trolley! Now we can add trolley to the list of various one level, double-decker, button-pushing, handle-turning, middle hinge swiveling modes of Parisien transportation we've tried.
With facing seats, even. The lovely thing is, it rides on grass. On grass. Middle street lanes of grass. Goes very slowly because it's quiet, and the grass invites people to sort of sit where they shouldn't, so they have to keep it slow, according to K. You get the picture. In my Key to the Kingdom book the streets are paved in grass and the trolleys are yellow -- suspended on the sides of the buildings where no one gets run over, -- but still, yellow.
We walk past shops where columns of embroidered silks, flowered chintze, fluttering taffeta fill the sidewalks. It's the old Algerian section. Khaldia said it was her mother's favorite place to be in Paris, and she would find treasure after treasure. I want to come back. Then, rising like a vision on some Tibetten cloud, Sacre-Coeur. Up there.
A looooong way up there.
Up the side, somewhere, lots and lots and lots of steps.
Around here?
Yup. I set off. The French words and hand motions of Khaldia don't quite register. 'Grandma!' I turn and see that Khaldia does not follow. She looks at me as if I were about to shimmy up the carousel pole, and says, 'not tren? Take tren?'
Tren? What tren?
Oh! What a thrill! A cable car. A sacre-coeur cable car. Lookie there.
Yee-haw!
Doesn't go quite to the top, but close enough. And Emma Nour's spirit and purse and lunch laden body goes racing up the ramp. She wins. We all win, this magnificent view.
The line isn't long to go inside. A guard tells us all sternly to keep absolute silence and take no photos. We pocket the cameras and try not to talk, shuffling along with the crowd. Others behind us are not so careful, shushed by more frowning guards. The scent of melting wax and incense. The light is candle lit, golden, the ceilings soar. Saints and Bible scenes fill each nook. The windows are wonders of 19th century Tiffany-like skill. I marvel on this Parisian era drenched in high-minded certainty of the nobility and greatness of man, such a phenomenal monument, such beauty. 1875. I do need to study this history.
Outside, behind the basilica (we walk around and find a corner where we can see a little peek of the Eiffel tower. ) Montmartre, and the crowds occupy the cafe tables, the stools of artists who draw their likeness, and the many pretty shops.
The woman with the hat looked at Emma Nour, and asked her if she'd like her portrait drawn. I remembered all the days when I was hard at work doing just that, and her mom as a child would wander art fairs and find a friendly artist, usually a rival portraitist, and keep her kindly company till the sunset.
The streets look familiar, and I realize I've seen these streets in Utrillo paintings, and the paintings of others I can't remember right now. but I remember the details, the shutters, the cobble streets, . . .
the way the store names are written right on the walls.
Though I don't quite remember "pizzaria, restaurant, piano bar."
Though I don't quite remember "pizzaria, restaurant, piano bar."
Khaldia has a sore finger that needs some tending, so Aicha and I wait for a while here,
then there. Then Aicha spots a lovely place to buy something for her mom. She and Emma Nour debate and debate, finally decide on something especially soft and flowing.
Then run down the hill, back to the fabric stores.
Some of us think photo op. Others think pigeon. By now you know what this means.
"Grandma. My turn."
And it's the best picture of all.
Despite the beauty of the little fabric shops, Khaldia takes me here, and said her mom loved, loved the selection. So the girls endured looking at bolt after bolt while I shopped, then on to the notions store,
a wonder of color, ribbons, buttons, the thread to repair Teddy, a little souvenier button.
Onto the neighborhood where we shop at Adidas for the dad, and the vast perfumery, Saphora for the Aicha, who'd been pondering for days which lovely bath scent to add to her collection. We get lost in the aisles.
The euros carefully counted into the woman's hand, the gift for mom carefully wrapped. I've been wandering along the walls testing perfume after perfume, sprayed on white paper tabs with a place to write the perfume's name. Not having the 42 Euros for Rose or Delphinia, for Tendre or Passion, I collect the scents to remember the moment by. I'm not a perfume person, but, with all these choices, I can see how I could be. It's like a huge pallete of colors, and who could have a pallett and not want to paint? Every morning Khaldia sprays us with her fragrances, smiles, and we feel prettier going out.
It's different here. There's a respect for taking time, making choices, and providing beautiful choices to make. I love the girls' choices, and the seriousness of their choosing, how they work together, reason together, and take joy in their treasures.
Tomorrow, it's the treasures of the Musee d'Orsay.
