Final Parisian Events Part Deux: Church

So I wake up one morning and decide it's about time for me to find Jesus.

JUST KIDDING LOL!!!

Actually, I did wake up one Sunday morning and berate myself for waiting so friggin long to honor my grandmother's request get over to Saint Sulpice for the organ music.

It was a gray, rainy morning, and the bus chugged swiftly through the nearly-empty streets to drop me directly at a huge construction site that I finally realized was the sainted sulpice herself. The French equivalent of Girl Scouts, or whatever, was under a little tent selling cookies, and NOT the kind that come out of a package! They looked as if they had just come out of the oven point-two earlier. Sheesh.

Anyway, I went inside and took my seat in the peanut gallery, the roped off section in the back that is sequestered from the real congregation taking communion and all that other mass-y stuff.

I did not want to partake in the incredibly annoying stand-up-sit-down routines, hence my choice in seating. Some might argue that that's no way to respect the church, or the culture, but without getting into a heated philosophical/religious debate, I justified my decision by relegating myself to said Observation Deck to remove myself from the serious churchies. This seemed to be the purpose of this section as understood by design, and I will say that while the golden tablet (or cross or whatever it is they carry down the isles to signal the commencement of the mass) was not paraded past my little peanut gallery, the collection baskets most generously were.

I came for the music and to revel in the haunting beauty of the church. Churches supposedly pride themselves on welcoming everyone; even if you're not allowed to take communion, you come as you are. 

Well, here I am.

I wanted to enjoy the service Quaker style, sitting in quiet contemplation and listening to the music of the French words and the ginormous organ looming behind me.

Haaaaalelluja (Do you see The Light! I said, DO YOU SEE THE LIGHT!)

The music went directly to my head, directly into my very bloodstream--even now I can feel the tingly vibrations that sent waves of little cold thrills down to my fingertips and toes. The words and chants of the mass echoed and surrounded my like a little warm bubble and I sat pinned to my chair, head bowed and eyes closed, feeling heavy and light at the same time, like I was in my own universe. My breath and heartbeat slowed like I was asleep, but I felt so alive and awake...

As I sat in the chill of the stone cathedral protected by my bubble of musical warmth, I was visited by a childhood memory: My little self, trying very hard to be still and mature, ready to turn the sheet of music to the next page as my grandmother magic-fingered her way through another psalm as we sat together at the organ of our plain wooden meetinghouse. The grandeur of Saint Sulpice was worlds away from a tiny Midwest house of worship, but the music was the beautiful thread tying me to every memorable moment in my life. 

It still is.

Final Parisian Events Part Un: London

OK, more random events from the last weeks in gai Paris:

Trip to London:
Took a bus to London. That's right, I said BUS. heh heh
The trip started off a little shaky--I was going through my travel bag, making sure I had everything I needed and came across my passport. I took it out, looked at it, and decided I didn't want to take it with me because I wouldn't need it and I didn't want to get robbed and lose it. Yes, I took my passport out of my bag and PUT IT BACK IN MY DRAWER. (Borders, say wha...?) Needless to say, when I tried to check in and get my place on the bus I wasn't allowed because I DIDN'T HAVE MY PASSPORT.

Go on, say it. Le sigh.

Well, the bus left in 32 minutes. I was about to admit defeat and wait around for the next bus (which left 4 hours later...gah!) when my feet, of their own accord, started running back to the metro. SOMEHOW I made it back to my apartment after three train transfers, a seriously crowded market maze, through the rain, uphill both ways, and back to the bus station with passport in tow, where I breathlessly arrived 29 minutes later only to find that the bus driver himself was running about 6 minutes late. It's really fun being the Very. Last. Person To Board.

Settled in my window seat, I spent several pleasant hours staring out at plowed fields with powerlines planted massively through the middles, looking for all the world like another Indiana landscape until I caught occasional startling sight of giant metal windmills, red clay rooftops and road signs en français. We were making good time until we hit Calais border patrol, where after the third time getting off the bus for more security pass-throughs, les Frenchies grumbled loudly about the "stupid Brits, they are doing this to us because we are French!" (Imagine, if you will, a fabulously fake Kevin Kline French accent for that last part. It makes it way funnier.)

Anyway, skipping the rest of that butt-numbing ride (I'll just say that the bus-toting ferry going over was awesome, the windowless bus-sized dumpster bin loaded onto the very underground and rollicky TGV going back was NOT), I arrived in London just in time to meet English Rose and her friends for a much needed drink, at which point I was (willingly, natch) coerced into attending a concert at the (in)famous Roundhouse Theatre.

And who should be performing at this historic event?

That's right, DangerDoom.

OK, so I know this dude is a music producer (why I know this I have no idea. Bob Boilen?), and I vaguely recall that he does some sort of hiphop nonsense, but really, no clue, kids, no clue. HAR HAR!

Standing in the awesomeness that was the dimly lit roomful of funny-accented Brits and really loud incomprehensible music, I thought of precisely six people:

1. Willis, because I was drinking Strongbow out of a plastic cup (happiness-in-a-can-baby!).
2. Hoonie, McMolo, Simms and BBB, because I could see them grinning and shaking their heads in disbelief-yet-belief that OF COURSE kK had ended up at a DangerDoom show of all places.
3. Seth Green, speciffically his Italian Job character who finally gets speakers so loud they blow women's clothes off.

I was, in fact, surprised to walk out of that place with ribs and lungs still attached, much less my purple Parisian t-shirt. It kind of reminded me of the Metallica/Godsmack concert I went to a few years ago, less one very important pair of earplugs.

(Now you know what it looks and feels like to be surrounded by DangerDoom tunes.)

The rest of the lovely long weekend was blissfully restful and un-touristy...late night giggling attacks, late morning coffee and music breakfasts, afternoon visits to a couple of libraries, and one very important dinner:

WAGAMAMA! WOOHOO!

God save the world's best dumpings!

It's Wine O'clock Somewhere, or Commence Chapter 30

I think it's about time to tell the tale of how I rang out the twenties and brought in the thirties with a costume party, some live jazz, and a new song to be added to my Christmas Eve playlist of favorites.

First up: Masquerade, themed "famous pairs." Here's Pull The Prick Out and me, getting ready. I'm surprised this came out at all clear--we'd had a shit week and lots of wine by 7.00 Friday night. (Photo taken at 7.01 Friday night.)

We packed a (really large) backpack full of alcohol and trekked over to Squash's apartment, where every single stick of furniture had been removed to make way for what seemed like 800 people in about 400 square feet of space.

Joliet Jake and Elwood Blues: We Hate Illinois Nazis

My personal favorite (or second favorite, right after the Blues Brothers, of course): One person as both Sonny AND Cher!

SonnyAndCher

PTPO made amazing (also read: really f*ing strong) concoctions of tequila, lime and something else and quite possibly a fourth ingredient but buggered if I can remember anything about anything.

And that's all I really have to say about that, I think.

Anyhoo, six days later was the big Three-Oh, which started out nicely by me sleeping off staying awake until 5am the night before reading Diamond Age and listening to French news podcasts (omg who AM I!)

Then it was off to the Paris mosque for hammam, where I sat in the second-hottest room (I got one foot in the third room and thought it was going to melt off my jambe right on the spot) and sweated and warmed my way up from the inside for hour upon glorious hour. This was followed by a spot of thé à la menthe in the dimly lit welcome room surrounded by murmured conversations of the other ladies-in-repose and the white noise of water running through the fountain in the middle of the pillared, vaulted space.
Ahhhhh.

To fill in the hour or so before dinner, Pain Quotidien came to the rescue with a bowl of creamy coffee and a brioche aux raisins.
Ahhhhh.

Dinner was a DELICIOUS salad niçoise, bottle of wine (it's wine o'clock all day on birthdays, I'm just sayin'), and a chocolate yumminess for dessert at a cute little restaurant near Ile St Louis. Squash, PTPO and I segued to the next event by strolling up Blvd St Michel to a jazz club, where we cheered on a group of cute old Frenchmen playing New Orleans style tunes.

Le Petit Journal Saint Michel

And then, of course, no self-respecting birthday celebration is complete without crepes aux nutella!

Best. Crepes. EVAH.

And the next day, wrapped in one of my favorite expletives and a short story about a toothbrush by way of apology on being a day late, the one and only DT, known in some nefarious circles as the Ramblin' Mand'lin, emailed me a song he'd composed for my big day. (N.B.: I would never stoop so low as to beg ask him to do this for me. Nor would I follow up to give him a week's notice-reminder out of paranoia he'd forgotten.)

It is, ironically and yet undeniably aptly, titled "It Is What It Is." I push play, hear the first bare notes of mandolin and see ... 

... winter, the darkening skies, the chill wind with a spattering of cold rain, the hunched-shoulder half-run to your front door as you struggle with your errands-bags and finally manage to shut the door behind you and lean against it with trembling knees in relief of the warmth you can now feel seeping by degrees into deeper and deeper layers of your every cell. You might have just had a shit day, but right now it all falls away and you take a deep breath and unzip your coat and your sleepy lazy cats curled up with the sleepy lazy mastiff-named-Murdoch raise their heads (b/c they can't be bothered to move from their comfy spot on the doggy tummy and as much as the doggy loves you she's so excited that the cats are hanging out with her she doesn't want to move either) and see you beeline for the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. (Was that a half-smile you let slip when you decided on vanilla roobois with a spot of agave nectar?) 

Putting away groceries and other things you had to go out in the cold for before the blessed relief of warm chez toi, the snow that held off as rain all day finally starts to fall intermittently in small, goopy-wet flakes, nothing too serious. You are a bit melancholy, but not quite sure why, and yet it's not the melancholy that turns downward into depression, just the melancholy that, when it dissipates (which it's sure to do when Murdoch and the kitties finally rub against your legs after admitting they love you too much to leave you alone in the kitchen and you remember there's a Castle marathon on TV tonight), leaves you feeling even more acutely the happiness that was lurking just under the 'choly. You have miles to go before you sleep, but these next few miles will be friggin fantastic and lazy--miles of cozying up in your favorite big sweater cooking ratatouille and Trader Joe's cornbread.

There's even a perfect kK tangent at the end of the song. You think it's over, and then just as you're mentally prepared for the next song on the list to start, there's a little afterthought that pops up and catches you off guard in a "yar, nope, not finished yet, there's plenty more good stuff where that came from ... whatcha think, will I leave you hanging this time, too?" way, and then it's done, nothing left it wants to say. And leaves you to retreat inward to process your own thoughts for a while. Or screw the inner monologue and LET'S GO DANCING.

There's no denying it's a perfect addition to my Christmas Eve playlist. The imagery might change with another hearing; there are no words, so it's perfect for personal, depending-on-my-mood interpretation, which as you know is the ONLY WAY I ROLL.

Now I am going to pour a generous splash of cognac (happiness-in-a-can-baby!) into a glass that was once used to house the deliciousness we call nutella (happiness-in-a-can-baby!) but has been emptied (probably in one go, by me), rinsed out and recycled as part of a glasses set that, without the nutella labels, really does look like a stack of regular ol' water glasses. 

Before

After

Once that incredibly arduous task is done, I am going to sit back, relax, and watch the rest of Supernatural season one. Dubbed. In Chinese. OK, just kidding, in French.

Anyway, now that I'm 30 my life experiences and level of bizarreness have maybe quite possibly developed into something resembling inner wisdom. I don't really know what that means, but as les Blues would say:

It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.
Hit it.

kK

Ain't Nobody That Can Sing Like Me

Ah! All is not lost...I had a lovely day with students on Friday! The music went over much better with those classes. Greenday's "American Idiot" inspired lots of ooh-la-it-is-too-vite! laughter and The Monkees made Believers out of those who thought they couldn't understand American music. I'm pretty sure every boy of every age will always feel a strong connection to Pete Townsend's blue eyes; what IS it about that song that just screams male angst, lol! (Whatever, you know I heart it too!)

I even got to slip in one of my favorites, the "California Stars" collaboration of Wilco and Billy Bragg (hear it here, but for god's sake ignore the 'space theme'...this was the best sound quality I could find on youtube, so just hide the screen and listen to the music instead of watching those completely incongruous images of outerspace!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8bQX2lg70Y). I was afraid the students would make fun of the slight twang--I mean, wtf kind of music IS that, anyway, right!--but I caught several of the boys tapping their feet in time to the beat, and I was like YESSSSS I gotcha!

Seriously, no matter what kind of day I'm having, shitty, awesome or somewhere in between, that song makes me feel right again. If I was on a desert island I'd pick that song to play on repeat, along with Buffett's Tin Cup Chalice and Bob Seger singing Little Drummer Boy. And then, of course, if I feel like dancing on said desert island, I might have to bring along some ABBA and Beyonce. OK, and maybe some Bare Naked Ladies, b/c they're da shit. And Allison Kraus, but only singing happy songs. Oh wait, and I'll need my favorite band of all time, Devotchka. And I mean just that: I'm bringing Devotchka the musicians with me to the island. And not for cannabalistic purposes, we all have plenty to eat and drink and read and there's even a place to check your email just in case we feel like be social. Just sayin'.

kK