And the “Most Friendly” awards go to… a Parisian and a New Yorker.

In an earlier post today, I mentioned the wonderful help bestowed upon me in the Paris metro system by an elderly Parisian. When I landed in JFK this afternoon I had a similar problem: two suitcases, a computer and the determination to avoid the steep cab fare. There is a new train link to Manhattan, but it’s not an obvious connection. As I leave the customs area, I encounter a scruffy guy with a sack and a backpack. We are clearly headed in the same direction. Within seconds, he is wheeling one of my suitcases, leading the way, explaining where you get on and off to catch the Long Island train, eventually helping me up Penn Station steps.

He is a writer – splitting his time between eating peanut butter sandwiches in Paris and living in a basement room in the East Village. He is working on his first novel (read his book when it comes out in a year or so -- the title is “Rode” and St. Martin’s Press is interested). But let me say this: he saved my skin at JFK and he told many a good story too. It was a nice transition from Europe to New York.

Return to the States: my time off from reading English language newspapers is up

Am I bound by my earlier promise of light posting today? That was made before I knew I would be sitting with a weather delay at CDG, and before my lengthy, complicated trip back to NY. So I'm posting again, with a quick look and a laugh at the International Herald Tribune (all stories from today’s edition):

Nannyish Britain indeed: if a key member of Blair’s cabinet resigned after acknowledging that his department sped up a visa application for his former lover’s nanny, does it mean that he is in trouble for the fact that it was a visa fast-track, or that he had a lover, or that his lover was in need of a nanny – perhaps maybe to care for his child?

Of course, in Italy, Berlusconi should be wishing that his friends only helped their lovers’ nannies. Berlusconi’s good pal and political ally has just been convicted to nine years in jail for colluding with the Mafia. It’s all politics, says Berlusconi: what else would motivate the 400 plus investigations launched against him since he first took office?

Oh, but wait: did I read this right? Do I take it Kerik’s withdrawal from the nominated position of homeland security secretary ostensibly also had nannyish overtones? You mean he hired an illegal immigrant for a nanny? And paid no taxes on her? Lovely. I’m thinking back to my college days in NY: I moved here from Poland as a nanny. I had no idea then that I occupied a position that would cause cabinet secretaries, judges and friends of prime ministers to fall.

One more: this is in the IHT via the NYTimes and so perhaps others will have blogged about it already, but I am reading here that men would rather marry their secretaries than their bosses (compared to women, who are willing to date men professionally above or below them). I should imagine nannies would be satisfactory candidates as well. Though perhaps nannies of one’s lovers would stretch the political imagination.

BTW, here’s a way to travel: a woman rushes to catch my Paris – NY flight. She is with a little toddler. I empathize. Oh, she is in business class! With a nanny to look after the child. Nanny gets an upgrade. How nice. I wonder if it’s okay to drink champagne if you’re nannying your way across the Atlantic.

As a post scriptum, I am amused to read (also in the IHT) that men may produce inferior sperm if they rest their computers too much on their laps. Sperm function well in a temperature setting that is lower than the rest of the body. I am wondering if this is another instance of studying men before we get around to contemplating women -- you know, the ones who are serving as secretaries and nannies (and therefore wives!). Are their eggs better off under the heat? In the sunny-side-up fashion, you’d think so. Best to get the studies going though. I’m past caring about such matters, but I want to ensure that society reproduces itself. A shortfall of a sperm or two wont change the composition of the next generation, but eggs are a more precious commodity.

Destination: France (Thursday morning)

Light posting today (meaning: this is it!) as I am traveling back across the ocean -- to New York for the week-end.

A few pommes et oranges:

- I’ve not read a single page of an American newspaper since I left the States. It is interesting how easy it is to become engrossed in the news of your immediate surroundings, even though absolutely nothing prevents you from reaching into more distant sources. Thus I track with more than my usual curiosity stories about Blair and Berlusconi and Paris mayor Delanoe, and give only a passing glance to the cabinet musical chairs and various other DC shenanigans. This is not necessarily a good thing, but it is worth thinking about what encourages parochialism in our canvassing of the presses.

- The challenge ahead: to manipulate two suitcases and a computer through the Paris metro system during morning rush hour, knowing as well that the metro stop I need to get through has stairs rather than an escalator (but very courteous and helpful French men) and those lovely turnstiles that jam even one hefty suitcase let alone two. What would travel be without challenges!

UPDATE from the airport: Chance enounters... Struggling at the metro station, I am aided by an older gentleman (older than me, so that tells you something). He not only helps lift my bags onto the train, but rides the distance, clinging to them so they don't fall. Who is he, this savior of mine? A professor of mathematics at the Paris University, it turns out. He tells me stories of his brother the writer, of Christmases at the family home in Brittany, of the beautiful cemetery right there by the village church, of his father who remarried when his wife was proclaimed dead during World War II, only she wasn't dead, she was hiding... my 29 minutes fly. And the travel story only gets better as the ticket agent looks at my chipper (hopeful?) smile and tells me, with the most pleasing French accent: "I ev deecided to geeve you an upgrade. Bon voyage en business!" (It's not really about me; judging by the crowds, I'm sure the flight is oversold.) Surely I'll pay the price: suitcases will get lost, we'll not get there today, but let me not forget this moment, when travel is rewarding and people are kind.

- One tends to forget that northern Europe has a late sunrise in the winter. I mean really late. I’m ending my European blogging with a few shots from a brisk walk. Don’t let it mislead you. It’s not a night walk, it took place this morning, between 7 and 8 a.m. No hint of sunrise at that time. Empty chairs and empty benches. And a final croissant and café crème.

It's morning already, but who can tell... 

The dark morning forces a slow shutter speed, giving an Impressionistic feel to the river view. 

Empty, inside and out 

The b&w camera setting makes it appear lighter than it was. Bookstalls shut tight, Notre Dame barely visible, sidewalks wet from a morning spray. 

One last pause at a round table. 

Destination: France (Wednesday evening)

Very late eating again…I must have walked for no fewer than ten hours without stopping today. It is always like that here.

When I was a senior in my Polish high school, the slow dance to savor was Adamo’s “Quand les roses” (“When the roses..”). Oh that memory!…my high school crush and I, moving to the “rose” song. Life didn’t get any better!

I saw my high school crush this Sunday. Every person who has ever fought the devilish battle in their younger years against a dwindling relationship, should have the pleasure of meeting their crush 30 years later, just to recognize how small, in the scheme of things, the impact of it is on the rest of your life.

At the table next to mine right now they are singing happy birthday in French. The waiter brings a cake and a small gift from the restaurant. He pauses a long time to talk with the group. His stories are clever and long and they cause great hilarity. Indeed, every last person at the table appears terribly jovial. I’ve never seen a group so completely engaged in a moment of pure fun.

Florists sell bunches of roses in Paris year-round. Even in the coldest months I see these displays outside flower shops (we’re talking Paris, not Wisconsin).

color, fragrance, joy. 

La vie on rose – to see everything in the best possible light, with sweetness and hilarity and a fragrance that is pure rose. A much needed skill, one that oftentimes I lack. Hey, that is why I am in Paris, because it is easier to see things through those tinted glasses here than practically anywhere else on earth.

Destination: France (Wednesday)

Paris has been photographed and described in words by every aspiring author/writer, every person who has ever set foot here. What more could I possibly add? I am merely passing through. I have read no papers today, thus I know nothing of world news. I thought I’d stay in this post with the pick-me-ups that I indulged in today to give a kick to my morose state of mind. Here are some things that always work for me, even in December:

- Having a same old croissant and a same old café crème at the same old bar, pretending thus that I actually have a neighborhood in Paris. Since I have never lived here, that’s a bit of a laugh, but the image itself jumpstarts the morning for me.

I caught her reflection in this mirror behind a table: Madame is having a morning café with her friends. 

- A trek to the Orangerie to check on the renovation. Like MoMA, it has been undergoing a complete facelift and so its paintings (which actually do resemble the collection at MoMA) are buried somewhere where no tourist can see them. Unlike MoMA, it is nowhere near completion. Today it looked worse than ever. Whereas last time I predicted it would reopen at the end of 2004, now I am giving it 2007. Maybe.

- A walk through a park is a high for me always. I’m right there, by the Orangerie and so the Tuileries is the obvious choice. It is empty.

Empty chairs, dripping wet from the fountain, uninviting at this time of the year.  

No, wait, there are women doing the Chinese movements in slow-mo. And the statues are imitating them.

Mesdames of the Tuileries

The poses were nearly identical. 

- The small Marmottan Museum is perfect for a day like this. When in the dumps, revel in a circular room full of canvases of Monet’s waterlilies -- more than a dozen of them. Shockingly beautiful.

A personal favorite, but there are so many to choose from (forgive the washed-out tones of the photo).