A Notre Dame Pop-In

The other evening I was meeting a friend for dinner in the 7th.  I rarely find myself on the left side so I decided to take my time and walk there.  One of my favorite things about Paris is that there is something remarkable everywhere you go.  Sure, there are the obvious things like the Eiffel Tower or Place de la Concorde or the Pompidou.  But really the history is everywhere.  I've been walking by the Carreau du Temple twice a day for nearly a year now, but only recently did it take on new significance as I learned that it was where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette and family were housed before being moved to the Conciergerie (and then being off-with-their-heads-ed).  Before the carreau was there, the spot was a Knights Templar joint/prison;  and this was the royal family's second-to-last stop.  (There is a big renovation underway at the carreau now, and they've found bodies dating back to the 12th century.  There were not one but TWO layers of cemetery under there!  Follow the link above to learn more about the excavation and renovation.)  But what I meant to tell you with all of that wind is that history is everywhere here, so you don't need to seek it out.  (Though you'll find no shortage of it if you do.)

So it happened that Notre Dame was smack in the middle of my wander to the left bank.  It couldn't have worked out more perfectly if I had planned it to arrive there just before closing so that there was no crowd and the day was square in the "golden hour" before sunset.  And there was a mass on.  A mass, people!  That counts for, like, two visits!  I had never seen Notre Dame without a large crowd out front, so I did a double-take that I was actually there.  And I marched right in.

Honestly, I got mad respect for Notre Dame and its perfect Gothic architecture (those buttresses are FLYING!) and its age and its location and all of that.  But really, the inside isn't that remarkable.  I still dare any church to beat the cathedral in Brussels.  Though it's not fair because some churches are older than others and blah-de-blah-de-blah.  I'm not so taken with the interior of Sacré Coeur, either, if you must know.  But I'll take its view any day.

 An unremarkable shot of the Seine.

 The Hotel de Ville.

Low-light iPhone action at Notre Dame.

Lit up.

Not such a big turnout for mass.  Did you know that the current Archbishop of Paris is called André Vingt-Trois?  That translates to André "Twenty-Three."  Cool.

Exterior action.

Feathered

Marabou jacket from Maje
Tee from Sandro
Vintage necklace from Wilbur in Philly.

A Rougette Rant

That's a little misleading.  I'm not going to rant about rougette.  I mean, just look how cute this old-seed French lettuce is!  Who could rant about that?  

I am going to rant about what almost came between me and my rougette.  

You see, I wasn't planning on having any rougette at all.  I was making my way toward some macarons (Georges Larnicol, if you must know) when I saw the market near Hotel de Ville.  Never one to miss a market, I had to stop.  I made a couple of loops, surveying and planning what to make my lunch.  I opted for some fresh (and filleted!) sardines, a lemon, a piece of fourme d'ambert cheese, and… some rougette.  I am quite in love with the lettuce over here, so when I saw these bi-color cuties, I couldn't pass them up.  

There was a queue at the stand with the rougette, so I went to the end of the line.  Just then a lady some feet back from what seemed to be the end of the line proclaimed, "J'attend!" (I am waiting) and in a huff moved herself and her empty rolly cart to the proper end of the line.  Startled by her, I let out a prompt "Pardon!" as has come to be my second nature when bumped or surprised or unable to understand something or in just about any circumstance, really.  


In my mind, you can't go wrong with "Pardon."  I probably say it too often, as I go klutzing around this city.  I don't notice many people saying "Pardon" when they run into me, come to think of it, but I always throw out a "Pardon" in passing if I even brush against someone.  Why not?  It's an easy save.  


Except for this old French biddy.  She was talking under her breath as she assumed her rightful place and then she couldn't WAIT to tell the lady in front of her how I said "Pardon" and not "Excusez-moi" when I had taken her place in line.  (You know what lady?  If you are over 4 feet from the end of the line, it is fair to assume you aren't in it!)  And to say "Pardon" after my action, to not even give her a proper "Excusez-moi!"  Unbelievable!  She was going on about me to the woman in front of her, shaking her head and showing her disdain in her body language, like I wasn't even there.  Or like I was there, but I was some kind of line-cutting étranger ogre.  


I felt myself getting hot.  I felt shaky.  I wanted both to cry and knock this lady's block off simultaneously.  I wanted to leave the line, leave the stand, leave the rougette.  But mostly, I just wanted to say something snappy back to her.  Moments that felt like hours passed.  I decided that this bitch was not going to come between me and my lettuce, and I also decided that I wasn't going to be anybody's fool --in any language, in any country.  


So the next instant she angled her head remotely toward me, I let loose in poorly accented and rudimentary French with something to the effect of, "Merci, madame.  Maintenant je sais de dire 'Excusez-moi' le prochain fois.  J'apprends le Francais maintentent et j'essaie." Basically, what I said or was trying to say was, "Thanks, madame.  Now I know to say 'Excusez-moi' the next time.  I am learning French now and I'm trying."  That's right, I'm trying, you miserable bitch.  I'm TRYING.  


I sure took her off guard with that flurry.


She quipped back that I know enough French to understand what she was saying then!  And she asked what my native tongue was.  Well, thanks adrenaline and emotion for almost making me say "Americain"  (duh, you don't speak "American," well not really...) back to her, but I caught myself and ended up with "Anglais."  Phew.  And that was that.  She was up to order and I can't say I didn't take some joy in hearing her ask for beets for one.  


As I pictured her choking alone on a root vegetable, I realized I was eating for one, too.  Though probably less miserably.  

Yumstuff

Coeur de pigeon tomatoes.  I think they look more like teeth than pigeon hearts, but I mean no disrespect to their heritage lineage.  

My version of rabbit a la moutarde.

Why, why, why do I always have trouble with the bunny?  I know I'm put off because it's about the same size as my cat, which is a little freaky.  But this came with fur still attached!  I almost threw in the towel right then.

Healthy eating... quinoa is my best friend these days.

Stuff on Walls #38

And one thing on the ground.

One Outfit, Three Photos

Necklace vintage (Have you ever had a metal splinter?  Well now I have!  But I still love this necklace.)

Dress Hayden-Harnett (I love the abstract bird print.)

Shoes from Pedder Red in HK (These shall remain the last pair of China-made shoes I buy, though they are remarkably comfortable.)

I Ask You

Where does the cat end and the bed begin?

Liz Claiborne, I Still Love You

(I really blew out the red on the last shot.)  

Check out the elegant simplicity (sans original shoulder pads) of this vintage silk Liz Claiborne dress.  I always get mad compliments on it, which I love because I got it for, like, a dollar back in St. Louis a year or so ago.  One of the (young, Portuguese) designers as work was admiring it and I told him it was old Liz Claiborne and he said, "Who?"  Crazy talk.

Top Half

Such an interesting crepe cut-out blouse from Something Else by Natalie Wood.  And I'm in love with the velvet and leather bow clip from Farmer in Seoul, as well.

These Things Have Been Happening

This morning, I am standing in my kitchen preparing to cut a pear (I know, who cuts a pear… what am I 90?) and thinking about what a disastrous mess my apartment is but how it’s OK because it’s just me and the kittycakes living there now, when the doorbell rings (maybe only the second time this has happened in the past year and it’s always a “what-the?!” moment).  It’s the upstairs neighbor wondering about the water damage in my bedroom and could he come right in and look at the damage now?  At 8:45 am.

I put him off until tomorrow at 8 am (!) and now I’m stressed about tidying up enough to allow a stranger into my apartment without him leaving of the mind that I am a cluttered nutter.  Maybe I’ll tell him I just moved in.  That would explain the boxes in the hallway.  (Yes, there are still boxes in my hallway.  B lives on an air mattress with camping-style kitchen basics and nary a chair to sit on in Sweden.  And I’ve got boxes and boxes of things moved from Belgium that we haven’t even opened yet because they are meant for Stockholm.  Ack!)  So stay tuned tomorrow when a bleary-eyed Jodi lets the concerned upstairs neighbor into her apartment to deal with more water damage!

The other thing of note about the early rising upstairs neighbor is the he knew exactly where my water damage was because he “caused it.”  I said something to the effect of “This building is so full of water damage, blah, blah…” and he was like, “Yes, but this one is because of me.  I caused it.”  What are you doing up there, buddy?  The stairs are already rotting and the hallway ceilings are stained and you’re flooding the bathtub or effing with the pipes up there?!  This building’s got enough problems without your noodling around with anything containing water, thanks.


In other news, there has been hammering on the other side of the living room wall.  Mind-warpingly incessant hammering that begins each morning around 8:45 and stops… when?  I don’t know.  The whack-whack-whack-whack-whack (whack-whack) really makes me want to do something awful.  Whack.  (Too awful to write here.)  This morning I wanted to throw my bowl of cocoa crispies and bang back at them on MY side of the wall.  You know, to send the apartment dweller’s universal “shut up” signal.  But instead I slurped down the rest of my bowl and left Cochino there to suffer through it.  Come to think of it, maybe why that’s she’s been so bugged out when I get home from work these days.  Surely the hammering affects her kitty sensibilities, too!

I am also convinced that this banging is the cause of my current internet woes.  My technological grasp is on par with someone at least two generations above me (See above, the “cutting of the pear."  It all adds up.) so that I just *know* the hammering over there has done something to my router.  (Like, maybe it’s upset the hard-working, cable-plugging mice inside?) 

That blinky light box, it's a router, right?


File under “Fun With French”…
The other day I bought some oregano oil because, though an over oregano-ed pizza is my personal food hell [I speak of the despicable dry stuff here], I’d been reading about oregano’s wondrous ability to clear a cold or boost immunity and all of that. I managed to find it at the fancy pharmacie on the corner of Rue des Archives and Rue de la Verrerie.  I double checked with the counter guy that it was in fact oregano oil.  I got home, put a few drops in a glass of water, took a drink and…. burning, burning, BURNING!  Mucous membranes on FIRE!  I went into panic mode… I was having a reaction to the oil!  I live alone!  I was going to scald my insides and die a writhing death while my cat sat idly by, concerned only with how she could get the crunchers in her own bowl.

Turns out I bought oregano oil for a diffuser (WHY anyone would want to smell this business, I don’t know… again, pizza hell) so it was not meant to be ingested.  Dum-dum over here drank the smelly oil.  I was fine (I am writing to you now) and, yeah, now it's actually pretty funny.  If it was any other kind of oil, I might invest in the diffuser.  But my smelly pizza oil is going in the trash.

One Outfit, Three Photos

Vintage cars shirt, Levi's jacket, Surface to Air skirt, OC shoes (always).