"You'll never be a vegetable; even artichokes have hearts..."

I am feigning typical French life in a rented-for-the-week apartment in Montmarte, Paris...the very district of the city where my beloved "Amelie" was filmed. The Two Windmills Cafe itself was hit up HARD by us ladies late this afternoon, after a physically-gruelling pilgrimage through the most gargantuan cemetary of my life. All our sweat, tears and whispered curses were worth it, however...as soon as I as standing at the grave edges of Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde, I was soaring. Well worth the screaming sensation in my legs, when all is said and done. To dip back to 'The Two Windmills' or, more appropriately-christened here in the land of the French, 'Cafe des 2 Moulins', the place is more humble and grunge than I had expected, and as a result, I love it far more fiercely. I sipped vin chaud (hot red wine with cinnamon and a scalded wedge of orange swimming within) for the first time, and revelled in the sacred quirkiness of my surroundings. Smoke clouded the air, The Velvet Underground snaked through the space, and a small dog wandered at our toes. Sheer brilliance, oui?! I, for one, was in my height of personal glory. I plan to slide back through those doors, solo, avec journal, pen and book sometime in the next few days, and drink it all in a little more deeply...

Fuuuck, it is good to be here; one thousand goods. I am counting my blessings more vividly every day, and they are a rich many. Us prairie nymphs have our moments of tears and trembling, but somehow, we continue to find ourselves dissolved in laughter at the end of any and every travesty we have encountered thus far. Take the other day, for example. After a hectic and disheartening half-day of dragging our thousand-pound backpacks from metro line to metro line in attempt to find our hostel for Paris: Part Deux, we were the most haggard editions of ourselves yet. Mon dieu...how does one quite sum up a complex sensation of disenchantenment, exhaustion, directionlessness, defeated spirits, trepidation and physical defeatedness all in one simplistic breath? Our entire bodies were sweat-streaked, our backs breaking, and our words clipped. (Sidenote--Damn that backpack directly to the gates of hell...eternally grateful as I am to its owner for the brilliant loan, it is currently the bane of my bodily existence. Excuse my rawness of language, but once I am home, I never want to lay eyes or touch on it again. HA.) Once behind the closed doors of our new abode, all three of us flocked towards various methods of solace. I swaddled myself in three pajmenas and collapsed on my trife bottom bunk in immediate sleep, Dangerfield healed her spirits tap-tapping away on our own (for now) personal computer, and Madge attacked the kitchen with a scouring pad, cleaning gloves and the savage energy of ten armies. So is illustrated our wildly varying methods of soothing broken spirits and licking personal wounds.
In other noteworthy happenings...
1. Sunday afternoon found us attending mass at Notre Dame Cathedral...shivers shivers shivers all around...I have never heard voices quite like I did that day, meshed with melancholy organ and bathed in the glow of five million flickering candles. There are no words...all I knew in those moments is that my entire sense of time and space slipped away, and all I was aware of was the pulsating energy in that amazing space. Needless to say, I have not felt that utterly worshipful in, perhaps, ever.
2. At the risk of coming across as a starry-eyed teen queen, here is a tiny sketch of an experience I had on the street just the other day...I was traipsing through the Latin Quarter, apple in hand, when the most absolutely stunning babe man caught my eye...so of course I snapped my head to get a fuller glimpse, and as I was gazing in worshipfulness (of an entirely different sort than the church service variety), I continued walking at breakneck pace, and proceeded to smash headlong into a very disapproving midde-aged Parisian woman. To say the least, she was unimpressed and glared me down in fiery fashion. In our throes of laughter after this encounter, I lost my imaginary-boyfriend in the crowd...Domage domage.

In closing...
To dispel any unspoken doubts from potentially skeptical (but dear, sweet) readers, IT IS ACTUALLY cheaper to drink wine than water here. I rest my case. The French know best.

We are having a quietly luxurious night in, full of journals, candles, Earl Gray and some soft Neil Young. Said indulgences are calling; I am going, going, gone.
Love etc.,
rlb