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Hey neighborhood, what's going on?
What is everybody looking at?
And what is that infernal racket, which sounds like it jumped straight out of a Dr. Seuss book about parades?
And why is everyone covered in confetti?
OH right it's LEAP DAY!
So why not have a street fête?
In honor of Leap Day (and inspired by "30 Rock") I donned some blue and yellow and decided to do something I've never before. Or at least so I thought!I decided to visit Cité, an island right in the middle of the Seine, because I thought I'd never been there. But when I arrived I realized I'd been there once last time I was in Paris, and I recognized it by its flower market.
It's nice to see pops of color emerging in the city, and on the last day of February no less.
Oh well. That didn't stop me from enjoying a coffee in the sun, after removing my coat, because it was just that nice out. Spring is in the air!
Ah, there is nothing like café life, and the life of a proper flâneur.
The weather finally warmed up enough for me to break out my Paris trench - one of the best gifts I've ever received (merci à ma mère). I've gotten compliments on this beautiful bunch of threads from women, men (gay and straight), and today even the boulanger.Put it with a good hair day and a fresh blood-surge of confidence, sit it down at a café with a pile of postcards, and indeed, today was a good day.
This is currently my desktop background: Henry Miller's 11 commandments of writing. 
I find myself quoting it to myself pretty much every day.
Discovered this forgotten secret message hiding in plain sight on the wall of my bedroom the other day.
So many possible stories rush to mind...
... watching your 4-year-old, been-everywhere, complimented-by-everyone, out-of-production basic black boots take their final gasp - in addition to the holes in the soles, the vinyl worn away from the toes and sides, the conclusive moment was the zipper busting a tooth - watching it happen while trying on shoes at a SHOE STORE but still not buying anything, instead walking home in shame in the city of fashionistas with busted shoes, because not one pair out of the adorable dozens at the store fit just right. 
We've been through a lot together, old shoes. 
See you in the big walkabout in the sky.
But don't worry, it's getting warmer every day...
I've never been the most outwardly social person. At least not since maybe sixth grade. It takes me years to feel in my element after arriving to a new place, years to form true friendships (though once I do, it's solid as a rock). As an adolescent I was so painfully shy that when other kids would talk to me at school, my mind would go blank, I would turn bright red and not be able to say anything at all. I used to hate calling people on the phone, until one day as a teenager, my mother told me very matter-of-factly, "Well, you just have to do it." I figured she was right... I wasn't going to get out of life without making phone calls. So I did it. And she was right. And one of my first jobs was as a telemarketer (also a nice way to get used to rejection).It can always be a challenge to make new friends, but when you move to a new city, a new country completely, you have no choice. You are alone. As my mom said, you just have to do it.So, in an effort to continue my self-actualization, by which I mean get over myself, I decided to do just that, two nights in a row.You know those Cosmo personality quizzes where they ask if you'd ever go to a party where you don't know anybody at all? I always think that my answer is no, but in truth I've done it a few times (concerts are the best place for this), and this week I've done it twice more.Last weekend I went to a Sunday dinner at Jim Haynes' house in the 14th arrondissement. For 40 years, this dude has been having 50 people (more in the summer), mostly strangers, over for dinner every Sunday night. Sometimes he cooks, sometimes a friend or visitor cooks. Most of the people are travelers from all over the world passing through Paris, and the common language is English. It's just a bunch of strangers eating and talking, and since nobody knows each other, there isn't a whole lot of pressure to be anything, or anyone, in particular.
As soon as I walked in, Jimmy shouted "Hello!" to me and asked my name. "Jenna!" he shouted, ticking my name off his list and introducing me to three people standing nearby. Every time he saw me for the rest of the night, he exercised his memory by shouting my name (and everyone else's around me). He's quite a character.
I met the most wonderful Scottish people, some fellow Americans living in Germany, some French people living in Japan, and some southern belles from Atlanta, GA to name a few.
It was easy and fun and yummy. A very unique Parisian experience (or life experience, for that matter)! 
I've read that in the summer the party spills out to the garden, so I'll definitely have to return. The very next night, I was invited to an open-studio gathering at Lizzy's, an artist friend of Stephanie's who's studying in Paris. I hadn't yet met her, but that night seemed as good an opportunity as any, so off I jaunted to meet some more strangers.Her place is dope.
I met all variety of artists, from all over the world, which was absolutely wonderful and just the kind of party I like to attend. And Lizzy was awesome, so, new friend.
I still have my moments of self-consciousness, but I think going solo to parties in France where I've never met anyone qualifies me as pretty much cured. Ah, if my fellow students from 8th grade could see me now...
I've always longed for a place to go where I could read or write in quiet, away from home but just as comfortably, undisturbed, for as long as I want. I could never find the right place in Arizona or even New York... coffee houses are too busy, and bookstores often don't have comfy furniture or - my inner snob emerging - "the right vibe."All I had to do was come to Paris to find it. It's called Shakespeare & Company.
(photo courtesy versindaba.co.za)It was begun by George Whitman, who wanted to provide a place for writers to come and stay in Paris. To this day, the store receives writers passing through, called "tumbleweeds," to have a place to sleep in exchange for working in the store during the day.
It's an English-language bookstore, which is a nice haven when I need the familiar tongue of my country. They have writer workshops and readings each week, which satisfies the writer and reader (and listener) in me. But my favorite part of the store is the upstairs.
The store is absolutely tiny, crammed full of books, and the upstairs is like an in-place library. It's full of books you can read while you're there, as long as you put it back, and comfy chairs and couches and even a piano.
The air up there is richly quiet, hushed we could say, except for the whispers of travelers passing through for a look and the occasional echoing tickle of the piano. The air is thick, pale, nearly ashen with the dust of decades constantly rearranged by the pulling and placing of used books.I have a favorite chair.
It's right by this window, which looks out to a funny little menagerie of plastic toys outside.
I've been there 6 times already. It's a good place to go for inspiration, or just to have somewhere to go. Sometimes I'll go to just relax and write postcards, or to read from their old collection of old books.
My favorite thing to do is to sit in the back-back upstairs room, which faces out to the street, to the Seine, and to Notre Dame just across the river, to write at the little desk they have there and pretend I live in that room, and all I have to do is write in the quiet and listen to the muffled traffic below and the bells ringing from the church each half-hour.
Often I end up at the brasserie two doors down, which I'm sure is a tourist trap, but nevertheless possesses a wonderfully cheerful atmosphere by way of the very nice waiters, the live pianist who's always there and the lively French conversation happening all around.
My very own heaven, my own though not mine.
