Paris is like a pendulum that swings from the stereotypical visions of La Vie en Rose to the rough and dark side of the city. Moments between the two can change within seconds where one wrong turn or failed connection can put you in a less than post card worthy scene. One minute you are on the steps of Sacre Coeur enjoying the break-taking views of the city and the next you are at Barbés-Rochuart getting haggled to buy black market cigarettes. This goes with relationships too, one minute you are enjoying a romantic breakfast for two on a rainy morning and the next you are realizing that coffee was stronger than you had thought and need to use the bathroom.
Last night after the show, we scooted back to Sébastien's flat to stay. Since the venue was in Oberkampf and we were heading north, and had no other choice but to scoot past my former apartment in Belleville that I had shared with MF. I had not been back in the neighborhood since the break-up and had always felt that it would make me feel bereaved for my dead relationship but you know what? it didn't. I felt a slight reminiscence for my previous life and the completely different person I was a mere 6 months ago, but not for my previous life shared with him.
The drive back to his place up to the 18th wasn't the most picture-esque one could imagine and was feeling a bit exposed on a Vespa as we drove through the seedier parts of Paris. We made it to his place in tact but really could not imagine a female living in these parts. The streets were dark, desolate and congregations of men could be found sporadically on street corners sprinkled throughout the quartier. I felt safe with Sébastien and also the fact that we were standing in front of his gated building. When I first moved to town, I would put myself in some pretty compromising situations. One time, I had missed my connection as the metro was closing at 2 o'clock on a Saturday night and was left in Stalingrad. If anyone knows Paris, they know that this is not where a petit foreigner with beginners French and no cash wants to be stranded. I was being approached by men who were loitering around the station who were aggressively asking me "Ça va? Mademoiselle, Quoi? Ça va? Ça va?", inches away from my face. It was so annoying, I wanted to scream back "Ça va! OK! Ça va!!! Happy?!?" but I opted against the prelude-to-a-rape option and just walked away. Luckily and I do believe this was my Dad in heaven's doing, I spotted a a girl who looked to be in the same shit situation as me where I learned that she was American and heading to La Motte-Picquet like me, at the time. It was incredible. A cab magically appeared and we escaped the creepy men who had an unfading desire to know how we were. We shared it to the 15th together where I was able to jump out and get cash from the ATM to pay my share. After that night, I've always kept an emergency twenty stuffed in my coin purse or have had a boyfriend with some form of transportation.
I woke up this morning sans Sébastien but to the smell of bacon crackling and coffee brewing on another pouring day in Paris. There were a plush terry cloth robe on the chair next to his bookcase and a little note that read: "Bonjour Mademoiselle. Pour toi...Rejoins moi dan la cuisine, si tu veux.." Moi, Je veux! Je veux! I put the robe on and walked into the kitchen where there was an explosion of culinary madness happening. Sébastien was preparing me an 'American' breakfast. He gave me a kiss and planted me at the kitchen table with a cafeallongéwith a layer of frothed foam at the top. I can get used to being handed coffee minutes after waking up. Breakfast consisted of fried eggs, bacon, buttered toast, fresh squeezed orange juice that he made out of a contraption that was surely built in 1954, a kiwi, strawberry, banana smoothie and because he is French, smuggled in a croissant and confiture and a bridge between our two cultures. I. was. in. heaven. I'm a simple gal. I don't need my man to take me shopping, buy me bags and shoes and all that b.s. Just feed me. Ok, feed me and tell me when you're running late. That's all.
I found a little radio in his bathroom and brought it into the kitchen and surfed through the channels until I found Chérie Fm, the station that plays god awful French love songs from the 80's. We enjoyed our breakfast to the French version of Captain and Tennile.
Breakfast was lovely and was watching the rain drip added a dramatic touch when I realized that I needed the ladie's room. That'll knock the romance out of any situation, the first time you have to christen your new boyfriend's toilet. Gross. This is the struggle of the beginning of a relationship. What do you do if you have to go to the bathroom? After coffee and all of the food that has been consumed, the need to go in inevitable. Everyone knows what's happening if you are in there longer than a minute and antiquated Parisien toilets force you to flush more than once adding a soundtrack to the situation. The return to the table is always a drop uncomfortable as your new partner comes to terms that his dream girl, well poops. It's so awful and have always felt relief once that hurdle is jumped over which usually takes about 6 months.
I wanted to stay at Sebastien's all day and watch movies and eat but unfortunately had to get moving as my final week in Paris was honing in and the layers of things that needed to be done and people to see were mounting as each day slipped by. I said goodbye to Sébastien under an umbrella at the Porte Clignancourt métro station and told him that I'd see him in September. Descending down into the station with misty water colored memories that were abruptly interrupted by houligans trying to sell me métro tickets after they broke the machine forcing passengers to purchase their tickets. And the pendulum strikes...
