Posts Tagged ‘shakespeare and company’

New Dress

November 10, 2015


I returned a dress weeks ago and finally just got the access to the return on Modcloth.

I have been itching to get a new frock, but what with the scooter purchase and the unexpected, “hey let’s go to Paris for Christmas!” I have been loath to lay out any money for a new dress.

I want a new dress.

For Paris.

For my birthday.

Because it’s Monday.

Because maybe I want to wear it somewhere.

Not that I have a date or plans, but you never know.

I am still debating popping into the ARTumnal event on the 21st.

We shall see.

If so, then this is definitely the dress for it.

Or just to have a dress.

It’s nice to have something coming in the mail.

I won’t be spending anything else this month on clothes.

I am trying to keep it all to a dull roar.

Technically I could drop up to $200 on clothes this month, that’s what I put into my spending plan, but that was before Christmas in Paris and frankly, well, I would rather buy things in Paris than buy new clothes here.


I am getting myself a gang of Clarefontaine notebooks.  I see the occasionally here in the city, Flax will carry them, but they don’t tend to carry the collections or the special issued ones.  I suppose I could just order them online, but there is something special about buying notebooks in Paris.

I will definitely be purchasing a special notebook for the trip, me and my glue stick are ready.

“Whenever you go on a trip, grab a glue stick and paste in things to a little notebook, so you can see everything you did while you were there,” a very good friend of mine, who travels a lot, told me this years ago and I do exactly that.

Where ever I am, Paris, Burning Man, London, Rome, New York, I stick and paste little things from my travels in that notebook.

I discovered, in my great hunt for my passport, so many of my notebooks from Paris.

I was a gog at all the places i went, all the little tickets and postcards and strip photos from photo booths in Metro stations, with ribbons and match book covers, with the Metro tickets and airplane boarding passes, the reciepts from museums and the ocassional business card or note from someone I had met.

I was able to remember so much just by flipping through the journals.




And stickers.



I like stickers and I always try to get some from where I travel to.

The museum stores normally have some fantastic ones that you just don’t see anywhere else.

My trip in 2007 I got some phenomenal stickers from the Pompidou, I was just astounded at the whimsy and artistry of them and I never saw them anywhere else again.

But they are in my notebook.

I want as well, a market bag.

I lost my Merle Moqueur tote bag, I think in a Uber one day coming home from school being totally exhausted and stupid I think I left it in the front seat, so I need to replace that.

I would love to go to that bookstore, it’s a great one and definitely my favorite in the city.

Even though all the kids go to Shakespeare and Company, which has its appeal, but it’s a definite tourist stop and Le Merle Moqueur was just a neighborhood bookstore with a great selection of books and paper goods and I got two strands of paper cut outs there that I still have hanging in my house–one of the Eiffel Tower and paper hearts in yellow and orange by my chaise lounge and the other of pale green birds hanging in my bathroom.

I may get another set of paper cut outs.

They are sweet and not a lot of money to buy.

I also will get a hat.

It’s Paris.

You have to get a hat in Paris.


I have to get a hat in Paris.

I always get great compliments on the cabbie hat I got in the city my visit in 2007.

I still have it and whenever I wear it I do feel just a kiss of Paris.

The last time I wore it to school my friend who gave me a ride said, “nice hat!  You look very French today.”

“I bought it in Paris,” I replied with a smile and adjusted the brim.

“Of course you did.”

I chuckle.


I want some tea.



From Mariage Freres.

The Earl Grey.

So yummy.

I remember the first time I had it, visiting my person up in Pacific Heights and she was someone who travelled frequently to Paris, being in fashion, how could she not, and she made me a cup and it was divine.

Just a kiss of milk and heaven in a cup.

Yeah, I take a tin home with me for sure.

Perhaps some perfume from duty-free on the way back out, another bottle of Chanel Egoiste.

I still have some from the Chanel Boutique down on Maiden Lane, but it will be gone soon enough and it’s always nice to have a bottle I bought in Paris, in the airport as the size of bottle I want won’t go through security.

Postcards are on the list.

I will send myself one.

I will send many to friends and family.

It’s what I do.

I love snail mail.

There’s something so lovely and deliberate about sitting down and writing a little note and thinking about the person I am writing to, then the placing of the stamp, sealed with a kiss, the dropping it in the post and letting her go.

The time it takes for mail to get from France to here will be longer than the time I am in Paris, so sending myself a postcard is like a lovely little reminder of the adventures I had while away.

Perhaps a small poster from the booksellers along the Seine.

I pair of earrings.

That is always something I do.

I still have the pair I bought at a brocante (flea market) at Square D’Anvers one of the last weekends I was in Paris.

I always think of walking around that market and the sunshine, it was a warm April day, last weekend in April and it was almost hot and the cafes were overflowing and the music of French being spoken all around me, soon.


I will be there again.

I am looking forward to it.

And I will be well dressed for it!

Sunshine Day Dream

October 21, 2015

I woke up to daisies on my doorstep.

Not a bad way to rise and shine.


That will be my principle today.

Not that I had any time,  not a single down moment or minute, to spare, to call my person and check in with her that my principle was such, but it was.

October is one of my favorite months in San Francisco.

It’s a gorgeous kind of Indian Summer that most out of towners are not aware of, the sun shines bright, there is a lick of cool in the wind if it’s windy, there’s not usually fog and there usually is sun and high, wide, blue, blue, robins egg blue, skies.

My kind of weather.

My outfit was inspired by the flowers.

I wore my bright yellow polka dot shirt and pig tails with a daisy, fake, but still, in my hair.

And gold on the eyelids.

I could have been a bumble bee if you had stuck some antennae on my head–I wore black tights as well–in fact, I had a moment when I thought, if I didn’t already have an idea for a costume for Halloween, I would go as a bumble bee.

It would be super easy.

Maybe for when I go trick or treating with the boys this year, they were in their police office costumes all day today and are definitely ready for the holiday.

Although, Halloween is on a Saturday this year, so I may not be trick or treating with the boys.

Still it’s nice to know I have a couple of costume ideas and options before the day sneaks up.

It always sneaks up.

And then it’s suddenly here and everyone is raiding Mission Community Thrift and Buffalo Exchange and all the stores in the Haight and no, really, I don’t want to spend money on an outfit, but I don’t also want to be left out.

I only have been invited to one Halloween event so far and I am not certain I want to head over to Berkeley on a Saturday night to play Halloween with the kids.


I also just checked and I do have another invite to the party at the Park Gym, that’s a possibility.

Although, I am not sure about heading into the Mission on a Saturday night Halloween.

The Mission on a Saturday night is enough of a horror show as it is.

I heard of another party in Glenn Park.

Who knows.

If I do go out

I will probably dress up like a pin-up girl.

I have all the stuff.

Polka dot dress with a flare out skirt and crinoline, high-heeled pumps, and I know how to draw on a pretty good cat eye.

What I would need, is someone to do my hair pin-up style.

I know a lady who does her’s in a victory roll and it’s hella cute, but I have never done one and I have neither a flat-iron or a curling iron and I can’t tell you when the last time was I owned hairspray.


But it would be fun.

I did have a couple of girl friends that wanted me to go to the Armory party, there’s great dance music going on there and there’s another good party at Public Works, but I am hesitating to commit to anything right now.

Committing the most now to getting as much reading done before school rolls around this weekend.

In fact, I set my alarm a little early for tomorrow so that I can get to the rest of it.


I may pass you by.


I am interested in getting dressed up and going to the ARTumnal Burning Man event that rolls around in November.

I got word from the photographer/architect/artist that I am collaborating with for a project he wants to present there.

I would love to see my work out there in the public eye.

He was quite happy to receive them.

I was happy that he was happy.

I really quite adore them.

In fact.

I am thinking of submitting them to The Bastille–the publication in Paris that published one of my stories when I was living in Paris.

They reached out to me today and said they were looking for submissions.

It’s not paid, but it’s a chance to have my work in another publication and I would get a copy of the publication and an invitation, haha, to read from my work in Paris at Shakespeare and Company.

Not that they would pay to fly me over.

I was thrilled when they picked my story The Button Boy to publish and invited me to speak at the event and read the story at Shakespeare and Company.  But by the time the publication came out I was already living back in the states.

I do want to have a reading one day at Shakespeare and Company.

I mean.


What writer doesn’t?

So in lieu of going to Paris, not that I won’t hey, you want to go to Paris?

Let’s go!

I speak some French and know a few folks over there.

But realistically.

I think the ARTumnal is more likely for me to get into than Paris at this time.

I do want to go back to Paris, especially since one of my fellows in the program at CIIS is from Paris and it would be tres cool to hang out with her there–ma poulette across the Atlantic.

I will too.

I can tell.

I keep digressing on the Paris track.

Ah, the Bastille e-mail is doing it to me.


I would like to go to the ARTumnal.

The tickets are pretty steep.

But I am thinking that I want to be there.

I know I will see people I love and care about.

I know I will see some art and I might even see my own poems somewhere in the big mix of spectacle and carnival, music and mayhem.

If I don’t go out for Halloween, I definitely want to go and get dressed up for this.



I just looked up my school syllabus.

I am in freaking class that weekend.

Damn it.


I don’t know that I can get out to it.


Oh well.

At least the poems are done.

And I am happy I wrote them.

They make me happy.

That’s what important anyhow.





I got it all today.

Who needs more?

Keep Swimming

February 25, 2013

Keep pushing.

Keep submitting.

“How many queries have you sent out,” she asked me from the deep-seated chair snuck up against the second story window in Shakespeare and Company.

I rapidly flicked through the e-mails in my head.

“About thirty, maybe forty,” I said after a moment’s calculations.

“After you hit fifty, stop and start doing follow-up e-mails,” she said with a smile, “that’ll keep you busy for the next few months.”


Yes, it will.

“Have you gotten any response?” She asked, the light glinting off her glasses, I noticed the miniature frame of the window in her frames and then the snow drift that fell from the swollen grey lowering sky.

I shared the response, mostly no’s and one agent in Connecticut who asked for the entire book.

“Push her, follow-up,” she said, leaning forward out of the chair.

The door behind me opened and an employee of the book store came out with a small black and white Holstein, no, wait that is a baby French Bulldog.

Oh, I want one.

I want a little Frenchie to nestle in my lap as I read books in a corner of Shakespeare and Company, really on a cold day there are only a few places more appealing than a warm book store with corners and cubbies and nooks, one in which a stand up piano was softly being played and a woman with a halting French accent picked out a tune on the yellowed keys.

Maybe a warm cafe.

Shakespeare and Company should also open a cafe.

I am sure they have heard that before.

Maybe I could open my own.

Or I could just style a salon in my home, I will have a home someday in Paris, a home with a library and deep cozy chairs and a fireplace to warm up the toes on.

Ah dreams.

Ah, the dreams I get to currently live.

The experience of being here, even when I have no idea how long or wherefore after, I have this, I have had three and a half months in Paris.

Wintery Paris.

Snowy wet cold grey slate salt ice crackled frost white bare branched windy Paris.

Imagine how it will be in Spring.

Just hang in there this month is almost over.

On one hand I don’t want March to come, I don’t want to think past these last few days of my rent being paid and then back in the boat of scrapping and scrabbling.

A friend from San Francisco is here and we had lunch today at le Comptoir de L’Arc, thank you for the treat!  And I expressed that no I don’t know what I am doing, or where I am going, or how I am going to get there.  But I have this, these experiences.

And this is worth an awful lot.

I am happy.

I am happy despite what my writer friend said to me in the book store.

She did not paint the brightest of pictures.

She described the challenge of being a writer and how she has gone about it.  The more she talked the more I was in awe that there were even any books that ever did get published.  Looking at the titles on the bookshelves, how did they do it?

I tried to keep the frown of my face, I sighed.

“The market is over saturated,” she continued, “there’s a lot of books out there like your book.”

Memoir that is.

She’s right, the market probably is over saturated, but when have I cared for odds?


She did say to keep swimming, she did say it would change, she did say there would be a yes, she said, follow-up, then follow-up, then follow-up again.  Hit your 50 queries and start bugging people.

Annoy them.


The person who gets published is often the person who does not give up.

I am not about to give up.

I am here in Paris after all, past the point of my tourist Visa, past the point of my savings, slipping on and off the Metro and transferring stations all over the city to get to a baby sitting gig here or there or elsewhere, just so that I can be here, getting a lunch here from a friend, a small gift of money from another friend via Paypal, a few euro in the mail.

I am getting to live so in the present, that I am constantly being showered with gifts.

Sometimes they look like snow flurries falling through the glazed pane windows of a book shop on the Left Bank in Paris.  I won’t forget the snow falling along the lamp-post of Pont Neuf, or the way the spire of Notre Dame raises up, almost supporting the heavy mass of grey clouds.

Then she said the magic words, words I was waiting for more than perhaps the hows and whats and whys of publishing (honestly after the talk I had no idea if I was meant to be a published author at all) or whether I will get published at all…and then she said,

“you’re a great writer.”

I inwardly heaved a sigh.

Yes, I want to be a published writer living on my words, getting advances and royalties and options and all the stuff she was talking about, yes, drench my ego in the financial glory of glittery literary stardom.

Fete me damn it.

Yet, what I want more, much more, is to be a good writer.

I accept that I may not have the kind of financial success that I dream of.

I have, however, had success.

I have had another person pick up the book and say, you are a good writer.

“You are a great writer, don’t stop writing.”

I am a great writer in Paris.

I’ll keep swimming with that kind of motivation.

That was the push I needed to send out another query today, number 37 (random, arbitrary number I just pulled out of my ass, I have no idea to the number how many I have sent out since I finished the book) toward the next step in the long process of getting published.

I will get published.

I will.

In Paris.


February 24, 2013

That is what I heard today.



Just because I cannot see what lies around the next bend of the road does not mean I need to lie down in the middle of that road and give in.

I can.

I will.

Continue to persevere.

Especially after I ran into K. today.

We were supposed to meet up on Friday at Shakespeare and Company and talk writing and books and what not.  She was unable to make it, we rescheduled and I have her down tomorrow to meet with; of course, it would happen to coincide with another visitor from San Francisco!

I cannot believe how many people from San Francisco I am getting to see.

I gave out instructions and directions today to this friend as she was arriving today into town to stay, at of all places, the Hilton at La Defense.

I know exactly where that is.

I go by it once a week on my way to my baby sitting gig in Courbevoie.

I was able to tell her exactly what line to take into the city tomorrow, what Metro stop to get off at, where to cross the street, which street, walk two blocks, turn right, open door, up three sets of steps, and voila!

I will see you at noon on Avenue George V.

Of course I would have made plans to meet with K. at Shakespeare and Company.

Of course.

I thought about cancelling, rescheduling, negotiating.

I thought about it, then she said the magic words, the sentence that has stuck in my head all day long since she mouthed it this morning.

“I started reading your book, I’m up to page 56, I didn’t want to stop to come here,” she paused with a bright smile.  “I wanted to keep reading.”

The highest flattery to a writer’s ears.

At least to this writer’s ears.

I wanted to read more.

Magic words.

Words that made up my mind than and there to keep my date with her.

I did tell her, however, that another friend was in town and I would be having coffee with this friend at 2pm.  I would make the Shakespeare and Company date, but I would be a little late.

I eagerly, nervously, await her thoughts.

On the writing front, I continue to send out queries.

I sent out two today, unfortunately the first one got bounced back, the e-mail address was incorrect from the data base I am now working with.  I did not feel like sending out another.

Then I saw a post from my friend Beth, congratulating and acknowledging my work.

That quickly made my mind up for me, yes, that’s right, I do seek approval from my peers.

But in this case I don’t care if it is a defect of character, it got me to send out another query.

I also went for a swim today.

First time in three tries that the pool was open.

I swam for about an hour.

It was good for me to get out of my head, into the pool, and just paddle about.

The lanes were not too crowded, despite their being in all three of the open swim lanes, an elderly man or woman, sometimes both, doing some hang-dog version of a back stroke.

I slowed down to a crawl, not the crawl as I would have crashed right on into her, but literally a drifting breaststroke of the barest bit of movement, while in front of me this woman paddled painfully on her back like a frog with her red capped head bobbing up and down in the water.

She had the right side of the lane and grandpa side stroke had the left side.

The traffic jam was behind me a mess of swimmers with kick boards and pull buoys waiting impatiently for the moment where we could all slip through the slow morass.

I have found myself becoming more patient with the slow swimmers, letting myself slow down as well, or flip over and do a back stroke instead–which is my slowest stroke.

I debated in my head what I would write about today.

Would I come back to the house and hide out?

Or would I venture on down the road to Odette & Aime and tackle some reading and writing?

What would I do if I weren’t afraid?

I would go sit my ass down at a table and let whatever comes, come.

I would persevere, despite not having heard from any of the queries I have been sending out.  I would continue with the path, knowing only this, if I didn’t what was the point of coming to Paris?

Maybe it was only to be in the cafe, sitting at a table watching the snow flurries drift down.

Settled against a black leatherette chair with the remnants of my cafe creme in a cup on the table, the blog written (still to be proofed and sent–not this blog, this blog I am writing in real-time and in approximately two to three hundred words I will post up–the blog my friend requested on being 40), I went to open the new book I am reading.

I get an hour of time to read, I grant myself that, often times I get it riding the Metro, but if I have spent the money to get a cafe at the cafe, I am going to do some reading as well.  It is easier to read in the cafe than at the house as well, I feel the need to do it.

I stayed at the table, occasionally lifting my eyes off the printed paper to watch the snow flutter down, or notice that the person striding past the cafe had been walking for some time, the accumulation of snow on his head a cap of white against his tight black curls.

I thought of Cafe Montmartre in Madison.

I remember this one night, which is the one night that my brain likes to have romanticized.

It was January, winter break, the students were gone.  The city was quiet, defiantly belonging to the locals, and shrouded in heavy snow.

The side walks were treacherous and the cars were stranded.

The plows were working over time and then some.

The boyfriend and I bundled up and waded through the drifts to the bar.

I will always remember, for whatever reason, the smell of the bar as we walked in, the wood plank bench, the cafe table we sat at along the wall.  We had Baileys and Frangelico in snifters over ice.  The snow fell, liquid jazz played on the stereo, Thelonious Monk piano notes splattered slowly against my ear drums and the booze heated my feet.

The candles were lit.

The sodium street lights haloed the snow fall.

The bartender polished glasses.

The cocktail waitress paid us just the right amount of attention.

We nestled in the nook, glazed with sweet liqueurs, snow fall, jazz, and the smell of candles burning.

I do not remember a word of the conversation.

But I would have said, this is it, this is the moment.

My whole life in this snifter of booze, creamy sweet, slick sliding down the balloon of glass, my love across from me in a t-shirt and flannel, wet snow shining in his hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail.

My life persevered.

I persevered.

That relationship shattered.

Then I am back, in this time, alone, but not lonely, kept company by the drifts of French spiraling around me, all in correct tense, and fluidly spoken, lyrically spoken, just the good nights and hello’s and how are you’s, flurries like the snow, falling about me.

I am sad for that girl, so in love with that boy.

Yet, I am cannot regret those moments, or any other, that led me here, in front of this computer,writing this blog.

In Paris.


Did That Just Happen?

February 21, 2013

I walked into Bert’s cafe today, on Avenue Marceau, and was waiting in line, when a friend bounded over.

“No way,” she said, “you have to come here, I have to show you something, I was just about to message you.”

In fact, later, I pulled out my phone and there was indeed a message sent from her, confirming our tentative plans to meet tomorrow at Shakespeare and Company and talk writing.

I got my cafe americain and went to her table.

She was tucked away in the back waiting for her husband to bring her a brownie.

Good husband.

I looked down at her table and did a double take.

My entire body broke out in goose-flesh.

There it was.

My book.


“Oh, my gosh, that is so weird for me to see,” I said trying to unsuccessfully not look down, not alert the entire cafe, not say anything too loud, too obnoxious, too American.

Which it was probably too late for that anyhow.

Especially as I was decked out today in my hot pink sweater.

There it was, my book.  My brain was still taking in the information.

Just a stack of pages.

I have seen it printed off before, in fact, I have a few copies of it in 4th and 5th draft printed off.  As well as the third draft and there are at least three copies of the second draft out there too.

Yet, here, to see my book, granted not bound, but the book I wrote, sitting on a cafe table in Paris.  I think a little part of my soul jumped up and down on the trampoline of my heart and shouted,

“I have arrived, motherfuckers!”

It was like Samuel L. Jackson all “Royale with Cheese,” Pulp Fiction style.

That was inside.

Outside, I played it cool.

Or I thought I was until I caught my big grin in the mirror and how my feet danced me out the door after we had discussed what time we were going to meet up at the book store tomorrow.  I wanted to stay and chat but another friend from San Francisco had arrived and I was back out to the cafe tables under the awnings to catch up and drink coffee before heading out to the Eiffel Tower.

I ended up doing a small dance of joy around the table, plopped myself down, and drank the coffee while it was still hot.  We made decisions on where to go and soon thereafter headed to the tower.

It was blazing cold.

It got right into my bones.

Worse, it got right into my feet, which are still, still not warmed up yet, and that was around 3p.m.  This is what it means to be old.  Not the number, not the attitude, not the way I feel, or the emotions I show, or the glee, it’s this.  My feet got cold and like a little old lady I needed a scarf and a hot water bottle stat.

It does not happen that often, but when my extremities get cold, I am seriously screwed.

I just made another hot cup of tea and thought for a moment of putting my feet in the cup.

Not that they would fit.

But yes, that’s the gist of it, old lady cold feet.

That’s how you can tell my age.

A friend was telling me last week that women who wear socks while having sex actually experience a higher rate of orgasms.

Totally makes sense to me.

First of all, I don’t want to have sex if my fee are cold, I’m tense.

If I am tense, my body is not relaxed, of course I won’t reach climax.

Thus the ladies wearing the socks will get off.

Perhaps this is why so many women fake orgasm.

Their feet are cold.

Who wants to have sex with socks on?

You don’t take off your socks to fuck me, you’re not getting any.

Just in case you were wondering.

My desire to do anything today petered out right quick when my feet got cold, the rest of me got cold, and it did not matter that my friends were here, I just wanted to get home, warm up, eat hot food.  In fact, I went to the store and bought “comfort” food.

Like making pan-fried garlic potatoes and pan roasted chicken will heat up my feet.

Maybe if I stick them in the pan.

They would probably fit in the pan, at least better than my tea-cup.

It would be close though.

The food almost worked.

I am still a little chilled, the downstairs part of the apartment is drafty too, so, once this blog is finished, the not so secret secret?

I’m going to get into my bed and hope my feet warm up under the covers.

The weird thing, once they are warm, they are super hot and it’s like I have had my body charged up.  I’ll need to take off layers to get my body temp back to a sort of equilibrium.  But until that happens, socks, slippers, and yes, soon, a throw blanket draped over my lap, old lady style.

Thank you very much.

This old lady can still dance a jig though, and cold feet or no cold feet, I will be walking my ass over to Shakespeare and Company tomorrow to find out what my friend thought of my memoir.

I almost don’t want to know.

I can see the manuscript with a bunch of red lines and comments and question marks.

That’s the way the fear goes.

It’s an honor to have some one read it.  An honor too, as she has been published, her book is out there.  She is a writer.  I can use her suggestions.  So, go I will, cold feet and all.

Appropriate metaphors amply supplied by Paris weather, not by author.

Some Times Life Looks Like A Fairy Tale

November 6, 2012

Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale

Even if it does not always feel like one.

Despite my worries, despite my anxieties, despite my constant getting lost, life, my life really is a fairy tale when I let myself live it.

Fairy tale means to live happily ever after, it is by definition what is called a “eucatastrophe” as opposed to a “catastrophe”.

Just being here in Paris is a dream come true.  It could at any time become a catastrophe, but I believe today I finally let myself realize that I am here, I am living here, I am allowed to be happy here.

Oh, I don’t doubt that there is struggle ahead, I know that there will be work, lots and lots of work.

However, to not stop and smell the Paris, the roses are out of season, I would be remiss.  I am allowed to stop and admire the leaves falling from the trees and watch the color of the sky change from deep robins egg blue to chased wild iris blue in a twinkling of a gust of wind.



I am allowed.

I am also allowed to have even more dreams.

I am getting used to telling people who I came here to write.  That I am a writer.

That I write a blog, that I have written a book, that I am going to publish it here.  Or get published here.

I am embracing myself and embracing this city.  Even when I am confounded by the Metro station or the streets or the sudden bursts of rain.

I found myself on the Left Bank today and went to Shakespeare and Company to pick up a Fusac an English-speaking magazine for ex-pats and a new book.

I got the new Will Self and I also took a photograph of the store and the open Mic poster.

I plan on attending.

I have not done an open Mic in some time.

Why not get back into it?

Paris Open Mic

Paris Open Mic

I told myself, and Radha, that I would get into the stream of writing, I would put myself in situations where writers are and that would probably happen at an Open Mic at Shakespeare and Company.

Shakespeare and Company

Shakespeare and Company

I also dropped a centime in the wishing well.

I wish for the one thing I always wish for, which has been granted me for over seven and a half years.

I also wished for the opportunity to do a reading of my own book at the store.

I want my book to be sold at the store.

Hell, I want my book to be sold just about anywhere, but especially here.

Amongst the tower of books and the towering legends of writers that have wandered through the stacks and made the store a part of their Paris home.

Next to the book store was another dream waiting to be picked up–a luthier.



I picked up cello a few years back courtesy of a friend at the Burning Man organization.  However, I was unable to keep up with it at the time.  I got just a taste again of what it was like and I want to incorporate that back into my life.





Yes, yes, yes.

Perhaps a few other things as well.

I met a woman today who has what I want and I asked her to work with me.  She said yes, and we start tomorrow.

Rock on.

Things are happening and I am allowed to continue the dreaming and also to see that the reality is truly spectacular as well.  Sometimes it is the small things that make me smile, I do not always need stunning architecture to show me I am in Paris.

It could be some thing like walking into a store to buy a wash puff and seeing that they carry Chanel and asking the sales lady if they may also carry Chanel Egoiste pour Homme.

And oh, my, god.

They do.

I bought a bottle.

I truly am in Paris.

I smell like I am anyway.  And yes, yea of the sharp eye, I do wear a men’s cologne, but you would never know by the way it works with my body chemistry, and it really does.

I also settled into life here in the 9th arrondissement just a little more fully tonight as well.  We have a guest at the house for the next few days, a fellow lass traveling through crashing on the air mattress on the floor, and as a way to welcome her in and to celebrate the fact that I have a kitchen and I discovered a grocery store–a good one–in the next block of the apartment.

I cooked a meal.

Very French style.

We had boudin sausage–black, and choucrute (sour kraut), with garlic and shallots, pan sauteed baby potatoes that I boiled first, tossed with parsley and olive oil, then drizzled with Racoulete cheese, bread (for my guests), salade with radish and tomate, and yes, after ward I made espresso.

A double for Barnaby.

A creme cafe pour moi.

That’s right I had a cafe creme in my own home that I made with an espresso machine and some espresso I got from the corner market and layered with steamed hazelnut milk.  And nothing quite says, yes I am in Europe like having dinner at 9:45p.m. followed by a cafe at 10:30 p.m.

Life is good in Paris.

I think I will keep enjoying the fairy tale.

I mean the reality.




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