Over the course of the rest of the evening she gently and kindly discourages Stephanie from continuing to pursue this.
“Look at him” she says as he sits with his group during their break. “He has his arms folded across his chest. He’s not an open person!”
“And he’s married!” I chime in.
She does that thing French people do with their mouth, emitting a sarcastic little puff of air. “So?!”
I do that little thing I do every time I hear that, rolling my eyes and briefly shaking my head.
I’m not a huge fan of stereotypes but there is, after all, a reason they become stereotypes. Here are a few things I’ve learned. French girls are very frank. They don’t mince words. It can feel very unkind when they tell you “You are a bit fat.” “You look tired, are you getting enough sleep?” “He’s just not interested in you!” But it is more than just frank. It really is an ingrained gift to play with your self-esteem and confidence in order to come out on top. I have watched French girls say that they are going to concede a point in the interest of keeping a relationship, but still asserting that they are, in fact, right.
Learning this about your French girlfriend is a gradual thing. At first they seem very sweet and eager to become your BFF. Last night we were waited on by Amal, Philippe’s newest waitress. The girls loved her and she was efficient and friendly and quick to bring us what we wanted. Of course she’s whippet thin and pretty and she reported to the group that she knew immediately when she was waiting on me last week that I was special and that she liked me. Very charming and impressive. Not at all the stereotype of the rude French server. But then this is Rive Droite, where those stereotypes quickly fall by the wayside, in favor of hipster beards, tattoos, mohawks and multiple facial and body piercings.
Don’t be fooled! Amal is lovely now. But she will ultimately be true to form. Who knows, she may be doing unmentionable things to Philippe in a secret closet as I write this!
Irish girls are also frank and outspoken in a way that takes a bit of getting used to. Siobhan knows I am interested in Philippe, but when he was in a snit because I paid too much attention to the trumpet player she called him controlling and inflexible and it was no wonder he had trouble finding a manager to stay. This after an hour of watching him work at the end of a very busy jazz night. Even though I have spent hours going back and forth with her over whether “A” is interested in her.
“Just say you’re not interested if you’re not interested,” she lamented. (But A is Brazilian and a man. Do Brazilian men say those kinds of things?) “So.. do you think he’s interested”?
My guess is no, but I’m not going out on that limb. I’m an American girl. I’m tactful and kind of evasive.
“Mary, can you be my wingman?!” I ask.
“Absolutely! Philippe! Restaurant man! Another cognac for my friend please! In fact, come have a cognac with us!”
Philippe wasn’t having it.
So the evening was a bit of a strike out for everyone. Stephanie got nothing from Daniele. (At least I got a smile and a nod) I told Philippe I would soon be leaving for three weeks and “tu me manques!”
“Tu vas me manquer” corrected Mary
He met me on the sidewalk while I was waiting for my Uber to dispense not particularly intimate bisous.
“So you will be away for three weeks?” He asked.
“Not yet” I responded “Soon”
Stephanie, Bub and the UK girl shared my Uber home.
“I’ll see you on your birthday at Le Terrass!” Stephanie said when she and Bub headed for home.
“And GCA on Wednesday?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she demurred. “I’ll let you know”. That’s a no.
I went to bed feeling glum. I messaged Daniele. “The music was lovely tonight. Merci beaucoup.”
Minutes later he replied “Merci à vous!”
I woke up feeling even more glum.
A Duel
Place Royale was born some fifteen years before Ninon so by 1627, when Francois de Montmorency-Bouteville tragically lost his life in a duel in that same square, the public space was fairly well established. Closed in on all four sides by royal edifices, the King’s on one end and the Queen’s on the other, it was a grand, sandy, open field for cavalcades, tournaments, games and most recently the endless duels that seemed to become more and more of a problem in the square.
When Cardinal Richelieu returned to Paris he was confronted with these duels right outside his own windows, seemingly on a daily basis. In an attempt to curtail these ghastly events, a fence was erected and the square became a private space where only the well healed locals were allowed to enter. Sadly it still did not diminish the occasions of these gruesome battles.
These barbaric events did not come without a great deal of forethought and formality. There were rules and conventions behind a duel; beginning with the perceived offense. Upon feeling insulted one party would signal the offender that recourse was required, specifically a duel! A thrown glove or often a letter describing the offense and the expected recourse. You have been served notice good sir. The battle is on!
Declining a duel is a whole other matter. One may decline if there is too great a disparity between the parties based on age, societal status, health… any number of disqualifiers. But regardless of reason, one can scarcely get out of such a combat without seriously losing face or appearing a coward.
At this point “seconds” are chosen. Each party designates a person who is responsible for all further communication. The principals at this point stop talking to each other and it is the job of these trusted parties to try to resolve matters without bloodshed. If an apology can be negotiated all the better. The matter will be considered closed.
When no such negotiated conclusion can be reached the circumstances of the duel must be determined. It’s clear that negotiations were not typically very fruitful since literally tens of thousands of duels occurred in France resulting in over 400 deaths in the thirty years bridging the 17th and 18th centuries, a period where dueling was outlawed.
The next matters to be decided - if a duel could not be averted - were the field of honor, where the action would take place, the conditions and what would be considered a successful outcome. Typically the location chosen would be very isolated , such as the Bois du Boulogne, a enormous forested area to the west of central Paris. But the Palais Royale was boldly chosen by many, thumbing the participants noses at the Cardinal, the Royals and showing the world one was not intimidated.
The conditions might be a duel to first blood, until one man was sufficiently wounded so that he could no longer continue the fight, or to the death. More often than not matters were concluded before resulting in death, giving the aggrieved party or the defender sufficient satisfaction and “face”. Too often however the matter was not resolved without a body on the dueling field.
Ninon was walking in the early morning, just as the sun rose, through the square enjoying the beginnings of an Autumn day. The first light showed paths were littered with dry brown leaves. A place where royalty and the hoi polloi came to chat and discuss a lot of nothing, Ninon felt certain that she would not run into anyone she knew this day. Indian summer was hot this year and the household got little sleep on these fetid, humid nights . She really wanted to get some fresh air and let the phantoms of her days clear from her mind.
Alas, that was not going to happen. Entering the square from the west were two gentlemen formally dressed with elaborate hair pieces and epees. Ninon looked to the south entrance and saw two more - equally formal - approaching. Alas, it seemed she would be treated to a duel at dawn. Ninon veered toward the northeast quadrant of the square in an attempt to avoid the matter. The parties met in the center. Without much ado the principals squared off with the seconds standing at the wait. Ninon slipped behind a tree to avoid being noticed but somehow coul
d not help but watch from her hiding place.
It was over shockingly quickly. The parties were not well matched. Within minutes one man: the offender? the offended? who knew? Was lying on the ground dead. The victorious party and his second turned on their heels and marched back to the southern entrance from which they came. The second of the dead man hoisted the body over his shoulder and slowly made his way back toward the western entrance to the square.
Ninon stepped from behind the tree and walked slowly to the battle ground. She stood over a patch of bloody gravel. A life ended. For what purpose? She would never know.
Une Pause et un Nouveau Départ
For the past week I’ve been sad. On Monday I will leave this apartment and check into the Terrass Hotel, down the street, for 5 nights. I have been miserable about leaving this apartment, which I’ve grown to love and this life that I feel so ingrained into. Even though there are pleasures on the other side; friends, family and the most amazing little two year old granddaughter, as well as the excitement of bringing them to Paris in June. I feel like a newly germinated plant that has just taken root and now I’m being plucked; from an apartment that feels like such a sweet home, from friends, from my wonderful neighborhood, from the cafés and restaurants where I have earned my “favorite client” status. From Philippe and Daniele and Thierry.
Family Incoming
So much family. Daughter, two granddaughters, ages two and eighteen. Ex husband. Ex-husband’s fourth wife. And somehow I’m footing the bills for all of it. In some cases, completely unexpected.
For example; Ex and numero 4. The daughter and granddaughters were completely planned and anticipated with great enthusiasm. Izzy’s second trip (and hopefully an annual event), Olivia, a high school graduation gift. Ex and wife claimed that it was a completely unexpected delight. They just concluded a Swiss tour and had five days to blow in Paris. That coincides just perfectly with the days that I paid to bring everyone to Paris. A lunch or dinner was suggested.
“How about Jazz Manouche at La Chope on Sunday?” I suggest.
“Sounds great!” they agree.
So I book.
While the Les Puces de Saint Ouen are hardly off the Paris tourist track, the back restaurant at La Chope very much is. Some tourists might find their way to the bar if they are lucky. I found it when I was invited to meet a group of Charlotte’s friends. It took me half a dozen visits to discover the restaurant in the back room. It’s pure magic, like stepping into Alice’s Wonderland. Ground Zero for the Paris Romanian gypsy culture, Sunday afternoons are my favorite time to visit. There is always live music on the stage, graced by a massive portrait of Django Reinhardt himself.
The huge room is full of oddities: carousel animals, a photo booth, framed guitars formerly owned by famed jazz guitarists, miniature replicas of ferris wheels in recognition of the Grande Roue, owned by the controversial Marcel Campion - seventy something year old godfather of Paris’s Romanian gypsies (who just happens to own La Chope), photos, and paintings, both good and terrible. No space is left empty. The room is full of formal tables set for diners and in one space there is a kind of conversation pit with long canapés and throw blankets.
Most Sundays Campion himself is holding court at his reserved table, surrounded by family and his henchmen. It’s a rare Sunday when he doesn’t pick up his own guitar and join the performers in the front bar for a long set. This Sunday was no exception.
We all show up. The music is great. The “A” team is on tap. It’s hot. We have wine, an extraordinary cheese and charcuterie board, lunch mains, more wine. After two hours everyone decides to go check out the brocantes. They all leave me en masse. Except me and the 250 euro check to be paid.
So where did I go wrong? Did I somehow make it appear to be an invitation? Or did I just forget? That Ex is a sponge, a taker, an entitled leach? That’s why he is Ex. That’s why I have sworn over and over again for the last thirty five years… never again!
Well, again happened.
Back to Work
And then I got sick. A terrible terrible cold in the middle of a terrible terrible heat wave. My apartment was an oven. Outside was an oven. I languished in front of the two fans, one situated on the bedroom dresser pointed directly at the bed, the other in the living room, pointing at the couch. I wanted to do nothing but lay in front of one of the two fans but every time I laid down I broke into a wracking cough. I longed to go “home”. I googled airfares, not even thinking clearly enough to realize the flight would have been hell. The fares were outrageous. I was stuck. In Paris. In hot hot hot Paris.
It would have been nice to read but my face hurt too much to put my glasses on. It would have been nice to sleep through the duration but my wheezing breathing was too disturbing. It would have been nice to die.
And then I felt a tiny bit better. I could put my glasses on. I lost myself in the Perigeaux with Bruno the Chief of Police. And as I felt a little bit better I got the very good news from my property manager that a man would come on Friday at 9 am to install a new air conditioner! I turned the air conditioning so low that I actually wanted to wear a sweater. I could sleep under my comforter. I devoured a second Bruno book.
My cupboards and refrigerator were bare. I finally forced myself out to try to buy something to eat. I got as far as the boulangerie, about a half a block short of the intended marche, grabbed a couple of small quiches and dragged myself back home, to the comfort of my 17 degree bedroom. The two small quiches would last me two days if I was careful. I was careful.
I missed two jazz concerts and most regretfully a weekend in Burgundy with Stephanie and Magalie!
“Have you gone to the Doctor?” Magalie asked. “Go to the Doctor! Don’t just stay that way!”
It is a cold. We don’t go to the Doctor for a cold. I almost felt like I needed a Doctor’s excuse to pass on the planned weekend away. Maybe the French go to the Doctor for colds. Who knows? I’ll have to check this one out later. When I can find someone who speaks English. I found my “sickness French” was woefully inadequate. I had to google the word for cold…. rhume. Hmmm. Sounds appropriate. Maybe I have rheumatic fever. Maybe I have tuberculosis! I googled rheumatic fever. Not good news. I downloaded a third Bruno book.
Sunday morning I woke to find I had slept nine straight hours! I lay very still and took inventory. I think I was going to survive this. I checked my phone and found texted pictures of Magalie and Stephanie enjoying champagne in a beautiful vineyard setting. I even felt a little regret that I was not there. They were having a wonderful time, they reported, but missed me very much. Nice.
I got up, brushed my teeth, took a shower and washed my hair. I opened my kitchen windows to the world. Oh my goodness. Paris is so beautiful!
I think I will live.
Just in time for a very busy week. My calendar tells me I have dinner with Charlotte on Tuesday night, the last jazz evening before the vacances on Wednesday, dinner with the Elliott tribe on Thursday and Friday… le Bal des Pompiers!
But first, I must get back to work. It has been weeks since I have written a real word, much less 1,000 of them a day. Between the family visit and then my malady I have gotten very off track.
Jolie Laide
The French, who are more attuned to the magnificent mysteries of womanhood than most, may be the only people in the world to treasure the concept of jolie laide, the plain or even ugly woman who is so well at ease in herself and so cheerful in her soul that she becomes lovely.
Bruno, Chief of Police
Martin Walker
I’m not suggesting that I’m plain or ugly, but it’s been a rare day that I’ve thought of myself as particularly jolie. Sure, there have been a handful of times in my life that I’ve felt really pretty. But to be so at ease in myself and cheerful in my soul… allowing myself to become lovely. That is magic.
La Fête (and then some)
July arrived with a burst of activity. The National Holiday, on July 14, what most Americans mistakenly call Bastille day (who exactly was St. Bastille, one American friend asked) was nearly dwarfed by the fact that France worked its way to the lofty position of the finals in the World Cup. Not since 1998 had France been that successful. The Country was going nuts. Every cafe was crowded with football fans. And after each victory, every French citizen seemed to personally celebrate as if they had kicked the winning goal. Horns blaring down every rue and boulevard in the City late into the night! While the Champs Elysee was ground zero for the celebrations, with massive crowds bringing out the gendarmes in riot gear and tear gas, my usually tranquil neighborhood celebrated for hours after every victory.
My personal fête started on Wednesday night when I ventured out for the first time after my battle with le rhume. Intending on catching the last jazz soirée of the “season”, I actually caught the football match between England and Croatia and was sucked up into Football fever.
My ex-colleagues in England and Croatia and the US were also wrapped up in the excitement and texts were flying. When Croatia pulled it off in the last minutes of the game my Croatian friend texted: “My friend has two tickets for the world cup finals, Croatia: France on July 15th in Moscow. Unfortunately the game is starting at the same time as his pre planned wedding. If anyone else wants to replace him, his wedding is at the Croatian Catholic Church on Lincoln Avenue, San Jose and his girlfriend’s name is Ivana, she has long blonde hair.” This is serious stuff!
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 12