Everything is closed on Sundays in Paris...

Suddenly, I became aware that a week, one quarter, twenty five percent, of my trip had passed. I was not pleased. After two pots of coffee and shaving my legs, Diana and I wandered out into the city to find something to do with ourselves. We headed to our corner boulangerie where she ordered a baguette with salami and pickle, and I had baguette with thon (tuna) and crudite (veggies and an egg). We sat outside to eat them, and I locked eyes with a clocharde, a homeless man, sitting on a blanket on the Rue de Republique. His eyes were very sad, and he was very dirty, and there was the hot yeast smell of baguette in the air. He looked away, speaking only to the men who pass by, saying "Bonjour monsieur," but he didn't ask the women for anything. In fact he didn't ask for anything at all--he wishes the men good day. I was struck by the chivalry. It broke my heart. Everyone ignored him. As we sat there munching our sandwiches I couldn't really enjoy mine anymore. I tried to make myself feel better by pulling a euro coin out of my wallet half way through eating it, telling myself I'd give it to him when I was done. But I kept eating, and let me tell you, I've never had a harder time getting through such a delicious meal. By the time I finished, I had upped it to 2euro, and I gave it to him as we got up to leave. I wish I had given him more.

We walked down Republique, and saw a sign for the Victor Hugo exhibit they've been advertising all around the city. Pounce. We found the square where it supposedly was, but we didn't immediately see a museum. Instead we got distracted by ice cream, and by ice cream, I mean heaven in a waffle cone. I got lait amande and Diana got chocolat and we walked around and window shopped quite happily. The square abuts Rue de Francais Bourgeoise, a nice little shopping district that I'd equate to Larchmont in LA or 23rd street in Portland. I got myself some lipstick, bright red called "Cockney," and now I fit in with the french. Diana bought some black, victorian looking earrings with purple stones, and then we saw the shoes. They're purple heels with satin ribbons that tie up the foot and around the ankle, and they are the most beautiful things we've ever seen. Both of us. Combined. Unfortunately we don't have a spare 150euro ($300) to drop on those at this particular moment, so we plan on visiting them again in the store window next week.

On our walk, we found a little park, a grass square, studded with lights in the ground. Because it was daytime, they weren't on, but we added it to our Parisian bucket list to go back in the nighttime just to see them all lit up. We sat in the square, though, and did some poetry homework until our feet fell asleep a few times over.

On our way out, the lone accordion-playing street performer that had been there all day had grown into a bluesy swing band with a guitarist and a trumpet and a string bass. There was a couple that was walking by and spontaneously started dancing to the music. They were crazy-talented, and while we were watching them, I couldn't stop laughing because Paris is such a big fat wonderful cliche of a city where things like this just happen.

Swing dancing on the street

We went to meet our professor for a movie, but it was sold out. So we joined her and her friend for drinks at a cute little bar on the canal. The bar is the kind with tons of throw pillows and board games and three dollar beers and a big, worn, stuffed animal snake with a felt tongue. The DJ spun Janis Joplin records and music from the punk days of Gramercy Park. Cecelia tried to help me figure out how to make a career out of literature, but I'm afraid I'm still at a loss. Oh well. Today I'll think of Paris, and I'll let the universe figure itself out some other time.

I like french graffiti

Day 8. Week 1. Voila...