Advice/Inspiration

Worst Ad For An English Language School Ever

"To be or not? To be"

Thanks, Wall Street English. I will recommend you to all my friends.

Lately...

I guess by "lately" I mean the last month or so:

A spiral of a tree's skeleton as leaves (finally, finally) emerge on a rare sunny day in June.

Me, my friend Lisa and our great ol' pal BJ Novak chilling out and having a glass of rosé at Shakespeare and Company, no big deal. Yeah, as much as we acted like we were friends from way back, BJ apparently was just being nice to us. (If you're interested you can read Lisa's detailed account over at her blog, Ella Coquine.)

Later that night, we happened upon a fabulous brass band playing beside the Seine. They sounded great and Lisa and I started up an impromptu dance party. (Jenna dancing, on purpose, in public? I think my fellow Pengabears would be proud of me.)

A free weekend concert at Place de la République. I saw an actually-cool German folk band. I was obsessed with watching everyone in the crowd, most of whom were clutching onto each other and dancing together as the warm weather has seemingly brought out all the lovers.

(Including the couple on the lower right of the shot below, who consisted of a girl in a wheelchair and her hippie boyfriend, who'd propped her up in the front of the crowd and was dancing joyfully with her until she began to smile and danced with him. Okay, I guess that was pretty sweet.)

A window across the street, completely aglow with golden light from inside the apartment and green leaves and heat.

You guys, I'm totally a chef. Here is the summer version of my endless possibilities with basil and tomato. I call it Jenna's Pasta Salad. It's cold fusilli, cherry tomatoes, basil, salt/pepper and - secret ingredient - goat cheese. AND I will have you know that I recently started cooking meat so a little grilled chicken really took this dish to the next level. Maybe someday I'll open a restaurant called Tomato & Basil.

On 14 Juillet, or what's known to Americans as "Bastille Day" (which no French people say), the day was HOT, in the most pleasant and rare-for-Paris way. I went down to Parc Montouris and caught a free concert by a young cellist and harpist. It was beautiful.

The harp was ridiculous. So ornate.

During the harpist's solo song, the cellist stood to the side and looked very judgmental about the audience for about ten minutes.

But the crowd was a good one, and it always makes me happy to see how many people will turn out (and even stop by as they walk past) a classical music concert.

Including this redhead, who was so French it was just killing me. Her hair was so wild, she watched the concert so contemplatively, and she just sat there and smoked a cigarette right in the middle of this crowd like it was no big deal. I'm pretty sure that wouldn't fly in any public space in America! I think she probably thinks she's living in a French New Wave film.

Later that night, I wandered over to the Sacré Coeur to watch the fireworks. The steps in front of the church were just bananas full of people. SO MANY PEOPLE. I don't think I've ever been amongst so many other humans at the same time. The silly thing was that that spot is the worst place to see the fireworks. I knew they'd be just beside or behind the Eiffel Tower, which is pretty much the only thing in Paris you can't see from the steps of the Sacré Coeur. (To be honest, no place up here would have been "ideal," but I wanted to stay in the 'hood and didn't feel like going all the way downtown, so this was the best I could do.) So I walked past the crowd and ended up sitting along these steep steps just behind Place du Tertre. I love these steps. They feel kind of hidden away and sometimes there's a guitar player there. At the bottom is "Chez Marie," a beautiful, red, little family-run restaurant I went to once with Stephanie. Anyway, I knew I'd at least be able to peek at the fireworks, so I installed myself beside a hundred other people and waited.

When the fireworks started, people got all agitated that they couldn't see perfectly and started to rush away to look for a better view. While I know that it wasn't the optimal view, for me it was actually the ideal spot. I could see the Tower and the fireworks through this latticework and tree, like spying on a neighbor through the peephole. I got to enjoy 14 Juillet in my neighborhood, in one of my favorite spots, and since everyone else scattered to find a better view, there were hardly any people in front of/around me. Just these ten:

(Yeah, I know the photo didn't turn out well, but it actually was a nice and relatively calm experience.)

Wow

In May, Paris had its annual Festival Jazz Saint-Germain-des-Près, an event where all over the Saint-Germain area of the 6th arrondissement there were concerts of every kind of jazz, some expensive and some for free, in gardens and churches and concert halls. One beautiful, sunny Sunday I stopped by the Mairie du 6eme (the city hall of the neighborhood) and caught a free show, the Sidney Bechet Memory All-Stars.

I was surprised and delighted to see the place packed with people. Usually I hate crowds but it made me happy to see that there were still some people who love this old-style swing jazz. I sat next to an old man who told me with glee, in French, that he used to be a drummer and had actually played with Sidney Bechet back in the day. He reminded me of my Uncle Matt, but French. I think old people are neglected in a way, and I think they need to be heard. They need to have their wonderful stories of their adventures heard, because even with wrinkly skin and a frail walk, they are still important. We are lucky if we ever grow so old to be frail.

The venue was magnificent, a beautifully decorated hall with chandeliers and a ceiling ornately painted with a scene of the revolution. The concert began and wow! It was such fun to listen to. This was fun jazz, Woody Allen jazz, the kind that made everyone around me tap their toes and bop their heads. People - polite, old French people! - would call out requests between songs, even though the band had a set list. "Une Fleur!" "Dans les rues d'Antibes!" The band, composed of musicians who've been playing their whole lives and many of whom had also played with Bechet, were perfectly on-point, well-rehearsed and had a great chemistry together.

 

I marveled to watch, in particular, the old ladies in the room. This one lady had electrically bright red hair (a dye job, I think? haha) and moved happily in time to the music, bopping this way and that. In a way it made me think, wow, she's remembering these songs, she remembers when they were popular, the way the world used to be, the way she used to be, and how it feels to be young, and have a body to move.

It was a fantastic show. As with most concerts, it made me feel alive and happy and full. During one of the songs I thought to myself, Wow, maybe this is what it feels like to be in love. The feeling of a sunny afternoon, in a grand and beautiful hall, listening to jazz, for free, in Paris.

One Beautiful Sunday In Paris

It started off with an afternoon picnic on the Champs de Mars...

And lasted well into the sunset, where after a walk from the Eiffel Tower to Saint-Germain-des-Près we encountered the sunset attacking the Haussmanian architecture...

And watched the golden light of the sun set over the Seine, and Paris.

All to be completed with a sunset/moonlit walk along the river. The perfect Paris day.

Sunset Picnic

A few weeks ago I got a call from Elsa informing me that there would be a low-key picnic happening with some friends beside the Seine that night. Luckily, low-key picnics beside the Seine are one of my favorite things in the whole world. We met up near the Bastille and walked down the cobblestone path along the Seine until we found her friends.

It was a glorious, warm night, and the sun set over Paris like a pink dream. It was one of those nights that makes you happy to be alive, and happy to be just where you are.

I knew about half the people there, in a group which turned out to be about 20 friends, so I think I'm making progress breaking into the Paris social circle. We ate cheese and vegetables and charcuterie and drank wine as the sun dissolved into darkness, only to be illuminated by tourist boats drifting past with their lights beaming down on us.

Everyone in Paris was out that night.

Someone brought a guitar and started playing, of all things, a broken-English version of Prince's "Cream." All the girls started dancing and singing along in their French accents, not really knowing the words, and one guy sitting next to me said bitterly, "You see? All this guy had to do was bring out a guitar and all the girls love him." Eventually a random trumpet player happened past us and he and François (the guitar guy) played some salsa music. Then there was nothing but music, laughter, dancing, and the river beside us.