I have more toes than I have days..

La vie est vraiment pooooh. There was a time when I was so RICH with days. Three months is too long for a vacation and too short for a lifetime. But its time for this leaf to fall. It makes me wonder about the autumn season. The trees,do they regret it?

I will hold on till the last moment, and as the last bit of sap is doled out, I will begin my drift. I will sift slowly from metro to train, from train to plane, from toronto to vancouver from here to there. Its simply the season of change. I expect to sprout up in Paris in my time, crack a few pavements, find a new place to flourish. That is a discovery left for later.

As for now, I can easily count the days I have left. This is the kind of easy math I don't like. I am also doing another calculation. Take three months of living, three months of luxurious living, and stuff it into one suitcase of regular size and one carryon size. YEAH baby, lets perform some magic. In fact, its called final days melt down. Je fonds. I look around, not willing to imagine leaving. But bit by bit, I am disappearing. The shelves, the drawers, the hangers are all waiting for Laurence to return.

The only thing left will be my hair..its everywhere, so en fait, je suis toujour here :)

Fete de la Musique!!!

I first heard about Fete de la Musique at the metro station. There was a poster explaining how some of the metro lines would be running all night. What? Why? Fete de la Musique of course!!! What is that??

So I begin calculating. Music groups playing all night, metro running all night..and hey its Tuesday!! What are they thinking? But then again , its Paris and Paris is a very brave city. She puts all the ingredients together for UTTER CHAOS and invites everyone to join in!

Jenny and I just got back from Amsterdam Sunday night. We really STAGGERED home after the drive in the incredible heat. (On the last leg home her car overheated so we had to run the heater in the car to cool the engine ..yeahhh, it was about 93 degrees that day.) So sure, we are ready for another adventure!

I don't know the actual numbers of participants but I do know that at least 2 million people live in central Paris, and I think about half of them were on the metro at about 8pm when I started heading into town. It was not only packed, it was HOT, HUMID STICKY bodies packed. It was so packed in the metro cars, that the usually brave, I'll-squish-in-anyway people didnt DARE try to come in!!! If you know parisiens, you know thats a sign of PACKED!

I got off at Saint Michel, the heart of the heart of the city. Ahhhh breeze! As we ascended the stairs like a school of fish, I could see that the whole of the area was flooded with people. Music was hammering away and the crowd was swaying like seaweed. WE were a tsunami of bodies pouring out of the metro onto the street , flowing over and over and over. I have never seen so many bodies. WE mocked the cars waiting for their turn. The streets were sidewalks and the cars were STATIONARY.

Bands were placed on opposite sides of the street. In fact the fete was occurring all over Paris. Every quarter was hosting different types of music with restaurants and bars open till past 3am and street venders selling snacks and drinks. I have no idea what it takes to throw a party like this but it was simply COOOL!!!!! Even the weather was perfect. How can that be? Jenny reminded me, Leona, its your mayor, he ordered it!

The music was awesome. We saw rock bands of all sorts. There were folk bands, gay pride bands, come-up-and-sing-for-us bands. There was dancing in the street and somehow the parties all seemed so intimate . I still don't understand how its possible.

Jenny and I finally decided have a coffee. Where? A gay bar of course! This is my new favorite trick. Sitting at the bar in a gay bar has got to be THE BEST PLACE for girls to relax in Paris. And when I say relax, I mean, not getting hit on by the fruit man!!!

We stayed out to almost 4am and got home at 5am. That was a lot of walking!!! But here is the mystery. There was alcohol everywhere but I didn't see anyone drunk. People were dancing and singing and swaying and drinking and simply enjoyed themselves. No violence. No puke. Just fun! Amazing!!!

The morning after, Fete de la Musique was like a forbidden party that never happened. Every bit of evidence had been swept and washed away. In fact, one would be a bit suspicious because the streets were a bit TOO CLEAN! Chapeau to all the hard workers who enabled Paris to be a city who can party all night and go to work in the morning!

Thanks to the greatness of this city I saw the recipe for chaos transformed into a night which truy and joyfully celebrated the gift of music.

AMSTERDAM

AMSTERDAM. Need I say more? Already it conjures up so many images. Legalized soft drugs. Legalized prostitution. Canals. Little boats for shoes. If you are imaging all this, you are right. I have always wanted to go to Amsterdam. I got as far as the airport once.

Jenny and I decided on Sunday in about 60 seconds to go to Amsterdam. She had had a tiff with her boyfriend about smoking weed. It was silly because she doesnt smoke at all here in Paris, but did while in Germany. "grrr, the one thing I want to do now is FIND a joint!" she told me.

Ok, so it was 1am Thursday night. We had had about 3 cappuccinos and were chattering about our road trip that we would begin the next morning. "This is sooo cool! We are going to Amsterdam!" We looked at each other, 'hey lets go now!!!!!" It was instantaneous, and why not? We were awake, the trip planner said it would take five hours and we were, AWAKE!!!

I just love the way we kept saying..WE ARE SO SMART. It seemed like such a good idea. So I packed in the dark (cuz my apt barely has any light in the bedroom), threw things in a bag (some falafels, spaghetti sauce and pasta) cuz we knew we would have a kitchen, and we tiptoed down the stairs around 1:30am.

There was no traffic. We were alone on the streets of Boulogne. We giggled to ourselves, marveling at this wonderful plan. In 5 hours we will be in Amsterdam. We are so SMART!!!

Fifteen minutes later we were still in Boulogne. No, not stoned, just dumb. How do you get on the periferique???? How do you get out of Paris??? There is a circular 'autoroute' that one must get on to get outta town. Nothing is obvious,everything is in circles and diagonal streets, therefore forget about logic. We entered and exited Boulogne then Paris several times. Already the trip planner was lying to us.

Ten hours later we were in Amsterdam. We had driven through the night, at times feeling incredibly excited, and at times feeling we that would never get out of LILLE. Each big city was a huge mystery. We didnt have a good map. It showed the cities but not the routes in any detail. We had a trip planner that lied. We might as well have driven blind the rest of the way.

Avoid the RING. Avoid Antwerp! There is Ring 1 and Ring 2. They are woven together to perform evil deeds and to punish the innocent. Unless invited, you will never enter the city, unless released, you will never leave the ring. Beware.

We exited RING 1 several times only to find ourselves back in the RING. It didnt even seem possible. One can go in circles in a forest but on the ring, straight lines will only create a larger RING. It was 5am and we were not feeling so smart, then we started feeling cursed. "It just doesnt make sense, THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!!" Jenny cried out after the fifth failed attempt. She asked me what the maps and trip planner said. I just couldn't see anymore. The trip planner just said that we would have been in Amsterdam at this point.

"Okay, if this doesnt work I GIVE UP!!!" Jenny screached. We had been circling the ring for some time now. These city rings are several miles long Thus far, all the exits have just been entrances back to the RING. I couldnt believe my ears. Is this it? Are we simply too tired and too ill-equipped to get to Amsterdam?

But exactly at that moment the veil lifted. A sign appeared. It was the exit we had been looking for. We had gone completely around both RINGS and somehow found the portal. We don't know how, we don't know why, we just don't want to return.

"It's not possible, it shouldn't work, but it does and I accept it!" Jenny must have said this at least 5 times during our adventures negotiating cities along the way. The roads were a labyrinth and we were her captives. We threw the trip planner and the ancient european map on the floor and just drove on instinct.

People had warned us about having a car in Amsterdam. Its true, everyone is on bikes there. Jenny and I were determined to have the ultimate experience. We had driven 10 hours, gotten past the ring, felt reasonably coherent, had till 3 pm to check into the room, so why not go visit a coffee shop?

Coffee shop is code for place to buy coffee and ask for a menu of hash and weed. However at the 'cafes' they just sell COFFEE. Okay so how do we do this.

The town was empty so it was easy to find parking but we were so excited to finally arrive, we couldn't decide where to put the car. So why not drive into the center and park the car and hang out there for awhile?

Okay, car parked, keys, everything is locked. We are on a very a business like street. We are far from the center of amsterdam where all the little shops and canals are located. Nevertheless at 10am, on a very blah stretch of road is an open coffee shop. Cool.

I am sure we are the first customers. wow! I have always heard about this. I am not a pothead. But I am curious. Weed. Legal. Doesn't seem to go together. In fact its not legal, its just not regulated. Okay so we look at the menu.

We decide to try two different items on the menu. Everything is very inexpensive. We also order a cappucinno. I take a deep breath..wow, its really happening.

I can't roll a joint. I don't even smoke. So I sit there watching Jenny go through the process. This is so amazing. We are finally in Amsterdam and I am in a COFFEE SHOP. Its so cool. I am already so relaxed. Jenny hands me a joint made of just weed. She is making another with hash and tobacco. We are incredulous, its really happening.

We had forgotten that we had just drove 10 hours and had not slept. I had been up late the night before so actually had very little sleep. The effects of a few puffs are quite powerful. Then Jenny said, "You know, after this I can't drive." WHATTTT?

Oh non. What were we thinking??? We are paying 2 euro/hour for parking. We would have to move it or pay continously.

It was so funny. Instantly I went from..dude I'm in Amsterdam, mode...to..SOBER UP WE GOTTA DRIVE that car outta here! I can't get stopped by the police!! I can't get jailed. I can't..JENNY don't look so stoned!

It was just too funny!!!! We were so exhausted from our night of driving, we didnt need drugs to look tired. WALK IT OFF. But this was serious. We had to drive that car out of the city or pay more than our room rent to park the car in the city.

We left the coffee shop immediately and started walking. We are so stupid!!! Everyone knows you don't park in amsterdam. And it is illegal to drive under the influence!!!

We had a quick snack in the car and then started walking. We walked into the center of the city then back out again. Now it was 2pm and we had literally walked for miles. I was determined to be clean and sober!!! Well ragged and sober. I had to call the landlord, find a free place to park the car and not get arrested!! ouffff

Suffice to say, all went well. In fact now that I'm back in my wonderful apartment in Boulogne, I can say that everything went perfectly. We had a beautiful room in an apartment that we shared with a student couple from Australia, and the other pair were 2 friends (women in their 50's) visiting from Ireland. Our common room was the kitchen and toilet and bathroom. There were a maze of doors and locks to ensure everyone's privacy but like the irish woman said," Well I blame me constipation on those nasty locks and doors! You never know when someone is going to come in knocking! I forgot to lock me door the other day and a bloke came right in with me on the toeeeeelet. Now I sit there with a hand on each door and I can't accomplish a thing sitting there like that!" We were just cracking up!!!!!

Rita was so funny and frank. She then told us that she had never tried THE WEED before and fancied to buy some hash cakes with her friend Bernie. No, no, no!!! We warned her. I can't imagine what would happen to those two irish ladies if they ate hash cakes at a coffee shop. I only regret not having their picture. Bernie and Rita , two grannies from Ireland, here to shop and perhaps try hash cakes for the first time. We certainly are in Amsterdam.

And then there was the couple. They were research scientists visiting labs around europe to find employement. OH MY GAWD..and they were BRAIN researchers!!! I am sure they could tell us a thing or two about the effects of weed or hash on the brain.

Just as they left the apt, our landlord showed up in a tizzy because there was a problem with the rental.

It appeared that the couple were suppose to leave that day but had left their things in the room (guess they just had book smarts!) He had another couple coming in in an hour. Rita and Bernie were in their room. What was he to do? He actually had another option. The house boat. He could let the couple stay where they were, and then put this other party on the boat.

I already knew that the house boat was 3 times more expensive and a thousand times better. Jenny said, hey tell him WE would go to the houseboat!!! And I did. And he said, yes sure! that would be better for me too. WHAT? We are going to be on a houseboat in Amsterdam?????

We packed up in 5 minutes. I pulled the sheets for him, we cleaned up the room ourselves, WE ARE GOING TO A HOUSEBOAT!!!!!

We spent hours with our feet dangling over the water waving at the people who motored by. We were 10 minutes walk outside of the Center, we had our own bedroom, huge livingroom and kitchen, and we were on a houseboat. Incroyable. We ate the best cheese, drank VLA (a pudding that is drinkable and yummy, and unique to Netherlands, I think.), and fed the non duck bird that stayed at our window. It was incredible. No, it was perfect. We are so smart :)

Paris, elle est gentille.

For the first time today I walked the streets with empty pockets; not even a centieme to my name! I found a perfect dress at a shop. After considering several colors I made my decision. "Desole mais on ne peut pas l'accpeter." In other words I had to pay cash. I put my visa card away (with a stupid strip versus the french smart chip) and gave her 30 euros in cash.

I put my 1 euro of change in my pocket. eeek! But in europe the euro coin can be worth up to 2 euro so change is real money here. I counted my change. Even including the usually worthless copper coins I had only 8 euro.

I was meeting jenny for lunch. Her boss came with, and chose the resto. Offff. Eight euro buys NOTHING in a restaurant. Laugh all you like but I ordered a salad. Pfffff.

Jenny's boss ordered a main dish and entree. He happily shared the cuisse de grenouille with us. It was a salad with loads of garlic and olive oil and lil frog booties. hahahah..desole mais je vais te manger!!!! Silly little things. Why bother!!!? But the garlic was wonderful.

The restaurant was also silly. They were simply out of everything. By the time my salad had arrived, my avocado was now melted goat cheese on toast, and my mozzarella , a soft boiled egg. ok I admit the egg was supposed to be there but it looked exactly like mozzarella!!!

Anyway by the time I was on my way I was left with just centiemes jingling in my pocket. My poverty was giving me an appetite for dessert.

Hmmmmmm. I counted. okay, I have over 1 euro in coins. I nonchalantly walked up to the metro bakery place and ordered a pain au chocolat. It cost 95 centieme. I realized that I actually had only 93!!! oufff. The girl looked at me, I apoligized..desole j'en ai pas assez. She reached out her hand..I gave her my coins. She counted them. C'est bon! Yes? Yes!!! c'est gentil. I feel like I am a part of the neighborhood. I love this give and take. Life does not have to be so exact. So avocado can become melted cheese on toast and sometimes grace will allow you to buy something for 2 cents less than the quoted price...bon. Ce pain au chocolat etait siiiii delicieux...mieux because she was so sweet.

Crumbs on my face and tshirt, I got on the metro. Now I really had nothing, not even useless change. Time to run home! As I was sitting there contemplating my mometary poverty, I heard the not unfamiliar rant of a homeless person. They have different schticks. Some pass out cards asking for money then quickly come to retrieve them. Others will stand at one end of the car like some great roman orator and make their proclamations followed by a stroll down the car with an outstretched hand. But this time, the booming voice was of a woman and she was PISSED that she was not getting anything. Her rant was angry and loud. I had my back to her, clutching my empty pain au chocolat bag. oooohh nooo, I heard the ranting getting closer and then there she was. It appeared as if she was looking right at me. Yes she was standing right OVER ME. She was bellowing at this point and I was getting ready for her to strike me. I was sitting down with my gaze to the floor. This is horrible. I can see her big white belly. She is rubbing it and yelling out that she is SICK OF HAVING TO BEG. She reached out and grabbed the bar next to me. Her tummy was inches away from my face. Everyone could feel the tension. She continued to bellow.

All of a sudden a hand shot out. The guy just across from me handed her a piece of wrapped candy. Then another walked over and gave her a euro coin. That was it. It released the pressure and she stood back to open the candy. I shot the guy a grateful look. He seemed equally relieved that somehow that silly candy had calmed her.

She got off at the next stop. And I sat there and marveled. C'etait vraiment gentil. Je ne veux jamais partir.

Les fleurs, les fleurs!

I want to write this while I am drowning in the scent of these flowers. It's incredible. If I were in a garden full of lillies, I don't think the fragrance could be stronger. It fills the apartment. Its like its blooming over and over again. But how did they get here?

I write this blog hoping to somehow capture moments of my life in Paris. But sometimes I just shake my head because I'm living it and even I don't believe it.

I got home yesterday evening after spending a good part of the day getting ready to leave the apartment so that I could buy coffee. Buying Nespresso capules for my perfect espresso maker becomes an imperative when I have 6 capsules staring at me (one capsule = one espresso). I decided to go to a different 'boutique' because there are only 4 in Paris, all located in very exclusive neighborhoods.

I was dressed in summer whites, ready for a nice stroll, just when Paris decided to go grey and drizzle. For this reason I stayed the day underground, surfaced for capsules then back to the tunnels. One can do this, go shopping at Les Halles and basically not surface again until returning home. That's what I did yesterday.

So at the end of my mole run, I surfaced to find 4 missed calls from an unknown number. This is very unusual. In fact, it never happens. Hmm....wrong number?

I decided not to go to my drawing class last night. I was too exhausted from buying coffee. hahahahha...and now lacking all motivation. Instead I am studying french history..yes, french history.

My phone rings. Curious. There is that number again. Its something, something about Rome. huh? Ah, ok, its not Fabrizzio, its his assistant. Remember Fabrizzio? He is the gentleman from Rome that I met on the Ryan air flight when we had a 3 hour delay. He had his assistant drive me to the hostel when we got to Rome. He gave me the number of his secretary in case I had any problems. He also had a meeting right after the flight so that was the last time I saw or spoke to him.

Ok, so its his assistant. Yes? Yes, and he was at my apt to deliver flowers and tried calling me but somehow my phone never rang. This is because I was deep in the belly of Paris, avoiding the rain and shopping. Ah, ok, how sweet. He offers to bring the flowers over.

I live in Boulogne. That means that anyone who comes from Paris must normally ride the metro for 35-50 minutes. This poor assistant must come here for the second time.

Around 9:30pm my door rings. Since the assistant drove me to the hostel we were aquaintances so I happily opened the door without checking the peep hole.

Who are you????? There standing in the doorway was perhaps the assistant to Fabrizzio, but not the same one!!! Um, hello, but who are you? "I am the assistant." hahahahaa ok, come in. And as he does, the fragrance of the flowers enters before him.

We chat for a while and I learn that he is the 'french connection' for Fabrizzio's operation. In fact he is a fashion photographer who lives in Paris, who is italian and from Rome, and even lived in Hawaii for 3 months. Amazing. We spend a pleasant evening discussing cultural differences (and I finally get a man's opinion on the difference between, french, italian, polish, serbian, american and yes even hawaiian women!!!) Its great. He tells me that in Paris his friends are gay cuz the french men hate him. hahah I am cracking up. I had the same problem in Rome with the italian women!!

The evening ends pleasantly. I am shaking my head in disbelief. I open the card that he had handed me earlier. Its a very nice invitation to dinner on Friday. I will be in Amsterdam. And I will decline. But where else would I be experiencing this? I'm still shaking my head and drowning in the sweet smell of lilies.

strike a pose

5 minutes

on dessine, on dessine

Devil in the Details

C'est une petite histoire. What you see is me sitting on a nice chair. What I see is me as mayor of Paris. No, I'm not running for political office. But if you knew my heart, you would know that I am true to one thing. I love this city,like my own. The pooh on the street, the pee in the metro, the bustling, the shoving, the lines, le metro,les jardins secrets, les endroits decouverts, la cuisine, l'eau, les gens, la langue, I love it all.

There is a man who loves this city the way I do. His name is Bertrand Delanoe. He is the Mayor of Paris. He has a vision for this city because he loves it. I remember being here in 2002 and marveling at all the free exhibitions and events held to promote this city. "Who is behind this???" I would ask myself. I lived right next to l'Hotel de Ville and like all newcomers, thought it was some kind of 'hotel'. I was soon corrected. Its the seat of the Mayor of Paris! This is the heart of the city's government.

In fact governement or not I just loved the building. I had rented an apartment just 50 paces away and had to walk past it to get to my metro stop. Each morning I would gaze at this building. I will be in there one day, I would tell myself. I love this building.

Later, I was corrected again. "Leona, it is a private building, closed to the public." Ah, the people of Paris are so accepting. Passion somehow finds a way. I am a sprig of grass willing to crack the pavement to see the sun.

Nuit Blanche happened for the first time that year. It was Mayor Delanoe who had the vision to have this wonderful celebration. The world was invited to celebrate the wonder of Paris. All night long the great monuments and museums were open and free to the public. Its crazy what love will make you do! The city stayed awake till 6am to keep her doors open. I stood with thousands in the huge square in front of Hotel de Ville waiting for my dream to come true.

That night I did enter. I saw the majesty of the place. I breathed it in. Yes. You see? it worked. I wanted it so badly and somehow it happened.

Later that night, Delanoe was stabbed. It was a horrible incident. He had opened the doors of the city and he was attacked. Nevertheless, his vision remains unchanged. Nuit Blanche continues to be a wonderful event each year in Paris.

A year later Delanoe, not to be outdone by coastal cities, decided to create la plage a Paris, a beach along the Seine River. Yes, with sand and umbrellas and people sunning themselves. Come in a month and you will see it!

Who is this man? It's now 2005 and everywhere in Paris you will see banners: Paris 2012. Delanoe and Paris bidding for the Olympics!!! You will see in my later pictures that in the posters, the 's' of Paris and the first '2' of 2012 are designed together as a heart. I could have designed it myself!!!

Now if this blog is going on for too long. Quit now. Because the rest is just more ranting on my love for this city.

Its clear that I'm a passionate person. But never in my life have I had such drive to be a part of something. In 2001, I arrived for the first time for 4 days. In 2002, equipped with 5 silly months of self taught french I stayed for 2 months. And now as Paris is bidding for the Olympics, I am bidding for my part in it. If Delanoe can dream, why can't I? Like him, I love this city, I want to walk her streets and celebrate her beauty. I want to promote her. I want to be a part of the people who lift her up. Is that too much to ask?

My three month stay here has already exceeded the boundries of decency. I know that. But I am asking for more. I tell people I have a new goal. I want to live in Paris by the time the Olympics arrive.

What? Will Paris win the Olympic bid? Yes, of course! I am willing to believe it. And you will live here? Yes, why not? Perhaps anywhere else I would appear to be a silly american with a pipe dream. But for the french, this attitude is perfect.

I met a parisien two weeks ago at a soiree. At some point in our discussion (just a few minutes in fact) she assessed me perfectly. "Have you visited l'Hotel de Ville?" she asked me. I babbled on about my nuit blanche experience. Then she explained that she worked for the city and could, if I wanted, take me on a private visit. You can guess my response.

The picture above tells a very interesting story. In a beautiful hallway lined with identical chairs, all are the same except for one. And that one chair in particular is reserved for the mayor. In fact, every mayor of Paris, has sat on it.

Can you see the difference? At the time,they seemed identical. I was encouraged to look closer. Still I saw no difference.

Then I was asked, "Would you like to sit there?" This was a moment for me. It reminded me of the time I tested the theory of stopping an elevator by jumping up and down in it. And now I know the theory is true, especially in the elevator in the capitol building in Honolulu!

"Yes!" I sat down. I am here at Hotel de Ville. I am on a private tour. I am sitting on the seat of the mayor of Paris. "Do you have camera?" I am asked. Yes, yes!!!!

So there you have it. The pictures above appear about the same, but there is a subtle difference in the chairs. Can you see it? I am an american, I am parisien, I am a visitor, I am a resident, I am council to the mayor, I am the mayor. The devil is in the details.

I wash my eyes and bathe my soul.

I hovered near the french people in line for the airplane. They chatted and joked. I listened in with delight enjoying their little quips. I had no desire to hear italian again. I was anxious to get back to Paris.

Arriving late that night, there is a crush to get on the bus; we are one hour outside of Paris, my luggage handle is broken, I cannot close it so its twice its length and tossed into the belly of the bus. I am given the last seat on the first bus and consider myself lucky. Our bus gets stuck in the toll line (a car is having problems) We are sitting there for 10-15 minutes. The second bus wizzes by us.

I have to take a train to my metro station. I wait 15 eternal minutes. I have to haul my heavy (cuz of my laptop) bag up and down stairs. I take the metro, more lugging up and down stair.

Finally I am on the last metro home. One more bit of hauling up the stairs. Its my street. I roll noisily along the road. Its my door, my code, my last flight of stairs. Finally I'm opening my door.

I roll in, open my valise, pull everything out. I want to be home so badly. My computer is open, clothes are in the washing machine and i take a long drink from the sweetest water I know (evian) and I plop down on the sofa.

I'm home and I'm smiling. :)

Rome Rome where art thou

And thou his son, O Belshazzar, hast not humbled thine heart, though thou knewest all this; But hast lifted up thyself against the Lord of heaven; and they have brought the vessels of his house before thee, and thou, and thy lords, thy wives, and thy concubines, have drunk wine in them; and thou hast praised the gods of silver, and gold, of brass, iron, wood, and stone, which see not, nor hear, nor know: and the God in whose hand thy breath is, and whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified: Then was the part of the hand sent from him; and this writing was written. And this is the writing that was written, MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. This is the interpretation of the thing: MENE; God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it. TEKEL; Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting. PERES; Thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and Persians. Then commanded Belshazzar, and they clothed Daniel with scarlet, and put a chain of gold about his neck, and made a proclamation concerning him, that he should be the third ruler in the kingdom. In that night was Belshazzar the king of the Chaldeans slain. And Darius the Median took the kingdom, being about threescore and two years old.

I have searched for words to express my feelings after having visited Rome. The pictures one sees of Rome tells one story. But walking the streets, breathing in the sense of the place there is another story and its most definitely a tragedy.

I couldn't wait to return to Paris, eat her food, see her beauty. If all roads lead to Rome, walk away.

Je me sens francaise.

What exactly is the definition of a real frenchman? Want to make a list? What is more curious is the list a frenchman would make; so much more revealing.

I was invited to a soiree this past weekend. My friend told me, "Leona, I want you to meet this friend of mine because he is a REAL frenchman." hmmm... That got me wondering.

It was 3 in the morning and I was driving, or at least behind the wheel, sitting in traffic with four others in the car. We are in an embouteillage. We are blocked in traffic, in Paris, at 3 am. and no one is surprised except for me. "What is going on??" I ask. "YOU'RE IN THE CAPTIOL!" was the instant answer!!

Ahh ok, I'm trying to drive in the 'nombril du monde'. I'm in Paris and it seems so is half the world. We inch along in traffic and on occasion I'm allowed to show how I could be a successful New York taxi driver. Yes, I can cut people off. I even went through a red light trying to pass a guy in the round-about and Laurent yells out, "Bien fait!! Le feu etait rouge,mais tu l'as fait comme un vrai parisien!" (Well done! The light was red and you did that like a real parisian!)

Its music to my ears. I am in a pinball game and I'm the ball. I am ...bing..bing, bing.....bing..adding up the points and I just hit the big 200 point bing!!! How many points do I need to be french?

We are at Pascal's house. I take a deep breath because I am about to enter the 'french' world. I spend a lot of my time in the outsider's world. Afterall I am not 'from' here. I don't speak the language well. (I'm american..chuut!) I walk the streets, cruise the stores, even order food or ask a question..silly superficial things. But sometimes I'm inside the french world, swimming in the language, floating on a culture thick with innuendo, often with unblinking eyes trying to take it all in. It's always a bit frightening to dive in.

Laurent and his wife are from Lyon but they are in Paris for the weekend. Laurent is a good friend of Stephan because they worked together on the world cup. In fact at this soiree, everyone is a bit connected through work. The world cup broadcast, in fact, is served up to the world by a handful of people. Imagine all the countries, the time zones, the long list of technical logistics to broadcast a worldwide event. This is how these people know each other. They all speak english very well but tonight is a time for them to reconnect and relax. They worked in a group of thousands in Korea for the world cup of 2002. The company then shrunk to 5-10 employees. Tonight le foot is played with words...french words. ouffff.

This is why I travel. I delight in these moments. Even in the car I am feeling the pressure of language. I wonder if I will pass the evening silent. Entering into the french speaking world is not easy for my brain. Mais, on y va!

The soiree is 25 minutes outside of Paris. Just 10 minutes into the drive,Laurent has asked if I would drive home. WHAT? Perhaps my french brain translator is on the fritz. Stephan confirms..yes he is wondering if you will drive home. Um, ME??? He has no idea who I am! or how well I drive! Yikes. It's then explained that the regulations are so strict for drinking and driving that more than one glass of wine and you risk exceeding the limit. In fact if there is a question of your sobriety after a breath test, they will take a blood sample right there on the street! lol Ok ok..I can drive! It's a new car (given to Laurent's mom who is an executive.) Its france..oouff now this is going to be interesting. I haven't gotten to the FRENCH world yet and I am already wondering if I am french enough to get us all home in one piece.

We arrive at the apt. The street is quiet and quaint. The apartment is very very spacious; its clear that we are not in Paris. And then I see that the gathering has already begun. Pascal and Michele's children are also there to greet us. There is a flurry of introductions and chair shuffling. I am holding on to Stephan like a life raft. White water ahead!!!

Champagne is poured, wine too, I fill my glass with water. The table is cluttered with snacks as everyone settles in. The music is american, the ambiance is french, I feel very welcome here.

Sometimes meat is so frozen you feel like it will refuse to thaw. But I feel myself thawing. Fear is giving way. Then Pascal's son comes in. He is 11 years old. He sees that he did not greet a few of us. He very sweetly goes to Stephan then myself and give us the traditional bise , bise, a light kiss on each cheek, then exits. I melt. Its too sweet, too gentle. There is no embarrassment on his part. That's it for me. Je suis amoureuse de la France, c'est claire.

The white waters were my own fears. I pass the rest of the night afloat; a meandering journey that allows me to explore leisurely. I steer myself to different venues. In the kitchen I offer to help. Ahh we will be eating indian style cuisine. I chat with the ladies in the kitchen and marinate in this intimacy. They are so kind and welcoming. I have a private celebration in my head. All those times of grinding through french exercises has given me the privilege of this moment.

When I return to the livingroom 20 minutes later, the same discussion is going on! I love french conversations. It always seems to begin with a minor comment that then grows like a wild vine. Everyone gets to add their view. It can even become very very controversial. But not to worry, a dangerous game in the USA is childs play in french conversation. Perhaps as children they played with sabers and learned the art of TOUCHE! No need to kill the opponent to enjoy reparte. Strong statements peppered with laughter and the conversation continues. I hope to one day be able to participate, but for now I just listen with my 70% comprehension and smile.

After dinner I wander down the hallway. The apartment is like a house. Space is so luxurious here. I see Juliette, 9 years old, is in her room working on a project. She makes beautiful things out of colorful clay. She has created a women like sleeping beauty, with a beautiful dress and miniature rose on a bed. I cannot believe that she has created this on her own. Its so tiny and perfect!!! This is no ordinary child. I enter.

I love hearing french children speak. However it is normally more difficult for me to understand them. But I am brave because I am curious. She is like a mini parisian. She is very articulate and we seem to have no problem chatting. But then she is explaining her favorite american movie and I am confused. She points to the poster on her wall. What??? KILL BILL is her favorite film! lol This pretty parisian package is cleary mulit-dimensional. She has her own collection of cd's and plays one for me. Its rap in english by a french singer. I love it. I try to translate but conclude that even if he is not speaking french, its certainly not english either.

The evening takes its time. A french meal will always be in courses with appropriate beverages at each stage. As the table become full of glasses you know you are nearing the conclusion. I have missed the cheeses but am back in time for dessert. Once coffee is served I know we are nearing the final curtain call. A last glass of champagne for everyone and I am handed the keys.

It's 4 in the morning and I am walking down my street. I have successfully navigated both the river and the roads, toujours toute doite, and am now almost home.

Je reve...je suis en France, et au moins pour ce soir, je suis francaise.

Donne-moi ta main.

Have you ever had something you have always wanted to say but it was so deep inside of you and you were so afraid of that person's response, that you kept it inside?

Last night I went to 'une piece' Une piece is a play held at a theatre. But this is where words are deceptive. Instead of theatre, imagine a room with black walls. Now imagine a room inside of it with no doors, just something you can climb on top of and look down at everyone (because the ceiling is very high). Imagine huge mirrors placed at each direction so the room appears to be four times larger than it really is. Imagine chairs situated against the walls so that each person has a completely different point of view but because of the mirrors can see almost every angle in that room. Now imagine 20 spectators and 4 actors in a room with the door closed.

Intimate, private, intense. It was a story of great emotion and turmoil. There are two couples in this story: one in their 20s and the other, a financially wealthy couple in their 40's. Each has something the other desires..and the struggle, the bargaining, the exchange begins. Youth , like a beautiful empty bowl, with only dreams to fill it, age, with its weathered exterior but so full of longing. La piece was title L'echange.

For two and a half laborious hours the couples took turns grinding out their lives, trying to make something of their raw material. I sat with my head swimming in french with the occasional moment of perfect understanding, drowning in the richness of the language and the emotion.

In the end, the final line. "Donne-moi ta main", the older man says to the younger woman. She hesitates, he waits.

I am sitting there watching this piece with everyone else. And as there are mirrors to see the hidden corners of the room, I have a mirror that sees into this actor's heart. He is my friend. And at times I have been his confident.

I take a deep breath after the final line. I know everything now. "Give me your hand", is what he has been longing to say. Each night as he acts out his love, he is acting out his love. Its almost too much for me. I know how he feels about this young woman and now I see how wonderfully special she is. I see now who is real girlfriend is. I have sat there and watched her taunt and tease and curse this young woman, the true object of his affection. If only she knew, and perhaps she does and that motivates her acting. The play is real. Only the ending is something to be imagined. When he says, "donne-moi ta main" she gives it to him. And every night he can imagine that its real.

I exited the theatre almost suffocating. The room was stuffy and humid and warm. But the emotions in it were even more confining. I will forever treasure this experience of being in someone's anguish and finding beauty in it.

On dessine...

La sanguine. Reaching deep inside. En francais, sang means blood. And perhaps it takes that color to produce something primal. Il faut apprendre une autre langue.

This time I went to Claud's by myself. I bought a huge sketch pad a few weeks ago. It felt a bit silly toting about all this big white paper.

The ultimate imposter. She lives in paris and has a huge sketch pad. She is neither french nor an artist but nothing seems to stop her. She says she is timid, she says that she is a beginner, but watch her do all the things she says she is afraid of doing.

When I was in Hawaii I painted a picture I titled THE IMPOSTER. I love that painting. It's just a bunch of dogs with sunglasses. But for those willing to look, there really is an imposter in the midst. And I see now that its me. A quick look and you can assume that I am like all the others. And I am....

So the lesson is to loosen. One would think its the hand, or the arm, or the method, but I am beginning to realize its more in the sang. Its just that integral. So art is a translation. No, not of what we see, but of what we feel. Can I turn what I see into emotion? Can I feel the heaviness of her breasts or the lightest of her arms or the liveliness of her stretch?

Yes I can..but its going to take a while. I looked around me last night. I am standing in the middle of my second art class at Claud's. I feel like a kid too short to reach the sink. CAN I GET A LIFT UP PLEASE??? Its just not possible! If you want to reach the sink you must GROW! Its that simple! So I didn't dare look to the right or left. Out of the nine people there last night, there is no doubt I am the imposter. When I dare to take a glance I make a silent gasp. oooh my gawd its sooo beautiful. I see a woman is sketching using flat strokes of charcol for shadows. It's cubic yet it has the sensuous lines and curves. I haven't seen art this good in stores!!! Oh and to the right of me..its sensitivity and touchability. This is horrible! I'm standing in the midst of genius and Claud begins us with 5 minutes a pose. A human needs to breath more often than every 5 minutes. ok, panting is allowed....5....4....3....2......1. There is a sound of pages flipping as we begin again.

This time I knew there would be a break. I sheepishly put the next clean page up and take the offered orange juice. People are mingling and chatting. We have a big class tonight and I am content to be invisible.

I notice that people are also walking around and looking at each other's work. Hey thats a good idea, I can learn this way. Some people sketch with la sanguine, others are doing water color or black charcol. yes..all in 5 minutes. Everyone's work is absolutely delicious, passionate, moving, expressive, exciting. I go from one medium to the next and my amazement is on a nice buzz.

An older woman and I begin to chat a bit. She is really unimpressed with me. "So where is your work:", she asks me. "Oh, non, je suis debutante, je ne veux pas les montre." I say this in my best 'i'm so fragile you don't want to force me to do anything' voice. "C'est RIDICULE!!!" she bellows out! " Montre moi!!! et pourquoi pas!" She not only demands to see my work, she calls me ridiculous for hiding it! She proceeds not only to look at my work but comments on everything. She asks me what am I afraid of..il faut commencer , c'est tout! She is ranting at me. She is listing all the reasons why my fear is absolutely to be ignorned!!! Ca te plait non??? She asks me..yes yes, I want to learn, I like it. She is flipping the pages of my pitiful imposter's pad and making comments, pointing, reflecting, suggesting. Even the MODEL is there looking on...I apologize..desole mais tu as grossie dans mes dessines! hahaha yes she looks a bit fatter in my sketches!!!

But as this women continues to rant, I feel the scales of inhibition giving way. Her words penentrate me, her confidence moves me, she is freeing something deep within me. Desire. Passion. Emotion. I feel something loosening. She is going deep with her accusations. She is battling the fear within me and she is winning. I feel my 'sang' moving within me and I can see my art come alive.