Postcards from Paris: {In America}

Time has passed along in the strangest way.
One day I am in Paris, France. Then the next day in Zurich, Switzerland. And now, the United States. Georgia, specifically. I have yet to find the tree that buds and blooms money, so I temporarily reside here to collect a new round of savings to live off of. Come May, I will be returning to the wonderful city of Paris where I will continue my exploration and inspiration. Until then, for the rest of March, and all of April, Billie Holiday's version of April in Paris will be on repeat, and I will fall asleep and wake up to my ceiling view of Paris.

Perhaps I will see you all again in May.
Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {serrures de l'amour/Locks of Love}

Along one of the pedestrian bridges crossing over the Seine, my new French friend took me across to show me the many love locks connected to the wire fabric of the bridge. Each little lock represents the love of two companions. Rumor has it that the couple takes the lock, finds a good view for the lock, and secures onto the metal fencing, then throws the key into the water. It seems like a nice little ritual. There were some locks that had been rusted into the bridge, securing the love even more so, and there were some unfortunate looking ones which were on the verge of breaking off and becoming lost forever in the Seine. I don't know the superstition behind the strength of the lock, how long it remains, or how rusted it becomes. I like to imagine that each developing characteristic to the specific lock has some sort of significance to the couple's enduring love. It can seem silly to dwell too much on the subject, but I openly admit to glancing through my horoscope if it happens to be in the latest fashion magazine. I don't walk under ladders. I make wishes whenever possible; blowing out candles, shooting stars, holding my breath through tunnels, tossing coins into fountains, and all that jazz. Yes it may be silly, but for the sake of that sort of romantic intrigue, I justify dwelling on a little superstition.
Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {Cab Rides, Celebrating Chopin}

My first cab ride in Paris:
I was helping a friend move from her apartment in the 5th to her new place near the 11th. We ate a healthy amount of protein sourced from some delicious sushi in order to prepare for a haul of six suitcases via the metro. It became completely clear after our struggle just from her flat to the ground floor, that it would be best and most logical to call a cab. The frenchman arrived promptly after the call was made, dressed in light-blue denim overalls over a thick, off-white wool sweater. He wore a little cap, which called out to be just what all cabdrivers should wear. The daylight had been long gone, and Paris was lit by it's infamous lights. I had seen Paris by foot and by metro, but this new vision offered an entirely new intrigue. Since 2010 marks the 200th anniversary of Frédéric Chopin, the radio was in rhythm to the celebration. The frenchman drove with ease and patience, a great contrast compared to my New York taxi ride experiences. The music played as he offered up some small talk en francais, it was an embellishment to the scene, never distracting from the beautiful sounds of Chopin. Most of the indescribable, beautiful experiences I have had here, can be summed up by saying, Chopin was playing in the background. From waking up to my first snowfall here in Paris while eating a fresh baguette with homemade banana jam to that very cab ride; it was the music of Chopin that made those moments sentimental.
Please, if anything, just listen:

Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {Les Enfants}

I cannot begin to number the many times I have been completely charmed by the French children. I cannot even count how many conversations I have had with my female American friends about how these little children with their French-spoken tongues are the number one cause for our expression of, "awww." Today's moments just added to that count.
I spotted my first shot while soaking up some sun in le jardin de tuileries. These children all in a row, heading towards Le Louvre.
With the sun out all day, and plenty of occasions to stay out and enjoy the sun, my friend Xuan and I walked through le Jardin de Luxembourg, where once again children out and about. Their joy and excitement was contagious as they circled the water-fount with long sticks in hand, yelling, "bateau, bateau."
These past couple of months I have been attempting to live a life similar to that of a stereotypical Parisian; one that is appreciative of the simple things in life, finding happiness in small experiences, and expressing that joy when one is happy.
More or less, it's a life similar to a child's.
And it feels so gratifying.



Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {A Sweet lil' Something}

After reading my friend Irene's story on her macaron quest, and already having my constant craving for macarons anyway, I went with a friend to rue Bonaparte to participate in a tastbud critique. Now I have had quite a lot of varying types of macarons to compare to, therefore I felt like a pretty fair judge.
As we waited in line, our mouths salivated in response to what our eyes were seeing. Beautiful, intricate pastries.
I woman in front of us, seemed just an enthusiatic about our first time there as we did. She offered her suggestion, to make certain we try the milk chocolate-passion fruit macaron. She was so convincing, that we decided to get two for us both to try. The other flavors, based on what our tastebuds could detect, seemed to be rose-cream, apricot, and dark chocolate with cassis. I have to admit, they were all so wonderful, nearly the best. LaDuree, however, has such a beautiful ambience where one could sit and pretend that they are wealthy, which really is a nice feeling to have while enjoying a sweet lil' something.


Do any of you have a favorite flavor? Please share!
For more on macarons, take a listen to this NPR story, pitched around Valentine's.

Postcards from Paris: {Sουs Ιes tοits de Ρaris}

My favorite thing about my bedroom, other than the location, is my little attached balcony. I can step out and know without a doubt that I am in Paris. My view doesn't look out at the Eiffel tower, the Notre Dame, or the Sacre Coeur, rather I see a sea of rooftops. I love the Parisian rooftops. I love their different shades of grays creating a pixelated skyline. And the little embellishments of terra cotta red from the chimneys that add a warm element to the cool-tones.

I was continuing with my french lessons, (watching french films) and with my decision already made to mention the rooftops I came across this clip completely at random.
Another exceptional attribute to these roofs, are the people and their stories, who live under them.
Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: { des fleurs pour les femmes.}

**All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.


It's true.
My feminine, girly instincts shown through as I stopped in front of a lovely little fleuriste a few blocks away from the Bastille. I just happened to have on a floral printed dress with a floral printed scarf around my neck as I peered over to sniff all of the flowers. Rotating positions of smelling and photographing, I may as well have been wearing a sign reading: "Je ne peux pas attendre le printemps!" but my wardrobe and actions scream this.
There was an older gentleman leaving the fleuriste with a bundle of pink tulips. He wore a tweed hat, carried a worned leather briefcase, and had a sharp looking pair of black-rimmed glasses. Dapper fellow he was. I conjured up a story in my mind that he was on his way home for lunch, where his wife was waiting for him with a homemade bowl of soupe a l'oignon. He wasn't planning on buying flowers that day, but he could not resist because the flowers smelled so wonderful and fresh on this particular day. She would be happily surprised. They would eat the soup. And have tarte tatin for dessert.
Yes, I am certain something similar occurred.



**(excerpt taken from The Flowers by Robert Louis Stevenson)
Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {A dose of Protein, Iron, & full of Tradition}

When walking through Le Marais during the day hours, I find myself people-watching more than window shopping. Being that this particular neighborhood, is the "fashion" scene for the well-dressed, it is an easy thing to be distracted by.
So, for the past two nights or so, I have gone out after the sun has set. It was a weeknight, not so many people out and about to watch. The boutiques closing up, with their windows still illuminated, and I get some window-shopping accomplished.
And then I came across this:
A window illuminated with Protein, Iron, and and overall sense of appreciation for Tradition.
My American friends and I have been having a continuing conversation regarding the French's great appreciation for tradition. They seem to like things with a story behind them. They like things done in specific ways. They drink their wines from a specific region with a specific meat. They eat seasonally, and seem to be content while waiting for things to come to pass. These traditions don't occur overnight, rather time is required for the best of all things.
I was so amused by the sense of old-world charm in this little boucherie; sausages of all types hanging on hooks overhead, gold-tinted cans of foie gras coming in different sizes, protein, iron, and full of tradition.
It made me wish I had a larger kitchen. or a cellar.


Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {My kind of Girl}

Referring to a couple of posts back, instead or wearing the same winter coats. I have been "practicing my French" with Jean-Luc Godard film clips, and becoming intrigued with his much used muse, Anna Karina. Her sweet little expressions, her quirky-toned singing pitch, her spectacular dances moves. Spending time every evening to sit in front of my computer to watch clip after clip seems completely justified because I am actually learning phrases like: "Je suis Loopy le Lup, le loup bien" and "Je n'ai jamais été en amour avec tu"
My favorite scene from Une Femme est Une Femme:
Angela: Would you rather have fish or meat for dinner?
[impatient]
Angela: Emile!
Émile Récamier: Fish.
Angela: What would you have preferred if you were having meat?
Émile Récamier: I don't know. Veal.
Angela: And if you were to have beef rather than veal, would you prefer a steak or a roast?
Émile Récamier: A steak.
Angela: And had you answered roast, would you prefer it rare or well-done?
Émile Récamier: Rare.
Angela: [jump-cut to Angela returning with the well-done roast] Well, honey, you're out of luck. My roast beef's a little overdone.
And here is proof to some of her swell dance moves........

Oh and how wonderful old, black&white images are.
It makes me wish I was at the store digging through it's new arrival; boxes of old photographs!
If one is in Savannah, be sure to take a look for yourself.

Bisous,
Reba

Postcards from Paris: {Hermione's Hangings}

My living situation has been one of mystery. I don't really know or understand Hermione. She only speaks French, and I only speak English. So we have this barrier that at times it seems impossible to get across. The other day, something clicked and we attempted a conversation that lasted more than 5 minutes. She showed me her drawings. She explained that these were her French grandparents, and they she had hardly known her other grandparents because they were Hungarian. From what I could gather, they never came to France. It was a broken conversation, but I was able to show her some of my work as well. There may even have been a few sentences that I understood as if it were spoken in my native tongue.
Other than the significance of these portraits to her, I myself was lured in by them. The expression on their faces are vague, but their postures seem to create a sense of character. During occasions like that I think to myself, now this is something to blog about.

Bisous,
Reba