Somewhere Inbetween

Today I went to the American Library to return four books and to research yet another list of people, places and things. I quite enjoy the hunt: meandering around the isles of dusty pages and tattered bindings, clutching my pocket-sized notepad with Dewey's decimals acting as my compass. What exuberant pride I feel when I actually find the book, like decoding a secret message or discovering a priceless tableau by Titian in a forgotten church in Rome. Sure beats bothering some surly old librarian, approaching the front desk feeling sheepish and dumb, knowing her chances of finding it are no better than mine.

I reported a lost book on my way out: Ladies' Night at Finbar's Hotel, a reprise of the collaborative novel, Finbar's Hotel, where each chapter is written by a different Irish writer, including Dermot Bolger who also worked as editor on both. As I have regenerated an interest in my Irish roots, I thought I'd explore some contemporary Irish women's fiction. After searching high and low with a bubbly young Australian librarian, we came up empty handed. A grey-haired, sour-faced American librarian informed me on my way out that the book's been long overdue, and then she efficiently updated its status to LOST-BILLED / NON-CHECKOUT. Looks like someone's gonna get it, I feel like such a rat. Poor book, hope it didn't meet some unfortunate end. Perhaps it spent a lovely holiday at Deauville or St. Tropez and will be back no worse for the wear, its pages lightly dusted with sand.

Before making my selection I spent an hour in blissful reverie with a book entitled: James Joyce: Reflections of Ireland, with photographs by Alain Le Garsmeur and introduction, chronology and selections of Joyce's work by Bernard McCabe. I am quite taken by all things Irish at the moment and fancy a trip to the Emerald Isle when my budget allows, so it was with great pleasure that I read excerpts from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Dubliners, Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. Interspersed were stunning photographs of the places Joyce wrote about, helping the lay person like myself get a picture of the place and the people he so vividly described.

After wandering around to locate a novel here and a biography there, even braving a venture downstairs where books go to die slow, musty deaths, I made my choice of three books (no small feat for a bookworm armed with a new membership and a 12 loan limit!) and made my way back into the blinding sun of Paris, this last day of July. The new additions to my bedside table are The Rough Guide to Ireland 2006, Emigrants and Exiles: Ireland and the Irish Exodus to North America by Kerby Miller, and Hemingway's A Moveable Feast - this last one practically jumped off the shelf at me like a sad puppy. Having just finished reading Tender Is the Night by fellow expat and writer friend, Scott Fitzgerald, I thought it behooved me to finally get Hemingway's ode to Paris under my belt as well.

A few hours in the library and my head's in the clouds, but I did manage to get across the busy intersection at Place de la Resistance and over to the bus stop unscathed. There were two young French women sitting on the little bench under the awning, and feeling slightly oppressed by their intimate talk punctuated by "quoi" this and "quoi" that, I found a few minutes respite on a shady bench along the Quay d'Orsay. Just as I settled into the opening paragraph in my Ireland guide book, the loud, nasal chatter of two young American women made my ears pitch back. I was surrounded by female blather, accented by the noise of rush hour traffic along the Seine, wanting nothing more than to lose myself in the Cliffs of Mohr beckoning me from the cover of the Rough Guide.

The sight of the bus came as a relief, bounding up the road to rescue me from the bombardment of bicultural buzzing, but then the strangest thing happened. Making my way hastily towards the incoming bus, I nearly bumped into the louder of the two Americans, who was gesticulating a point and nearly slapped me as I blundered past. My instinct was to say "pardon" in proper French politesse, but realizing too late how silly this would seem between two Americans, I mumbled something between "pardon" and "pardon me" and quickly got on the bus. The Americans eyed me curiously, as did the French, both trying to figure out just what I was. Sinking into a cool seat by a window and adjusting the books on my lap, I thought to myself how strange the expatriate life can feel at times. I am no longer truly American, having shed many of my native ways of thinking and behaving, but nor am I now French either, despite France being my adoptive home. I am somewhere inbetween, between "pardon" and "pardon me," which at first left me a bit bruised by loneliness and a sense of loss.

But as I delve more and more into the Rough Guide on the bus ride home, delighting at the brightly-colored photographs of pastoral scenes depicting the lands of my Irish ancestors, I remember that all of us are many-sided things. In a given day a woman may be a mother, wife, employee, customer and friend, not to mention the myriad cultural origins her face, voice and manners will reflect. We dance around in life, our many selves undulating like the ruffles on a Can Can dress, and these layers of self are what make us ever marvelous, mysterious and alive.

Sea of Sand

If you want to make the most out of your Sundays in Paris, set your alarm for 7AM. If you really want to escape the noise and pollution, get in a car with friends with a bag packed for a day at the beach, and head to the Forest of Fontainebleau.

That's I did this Sunday, taking my fun quite seriously: packing up my bag the night before, going to bed early on a Saturday night and actually waking to an alarm at first light on Sunday. This is all necessary in order to get out of Paris for the day, otherwise it is easy to miss out on a chance to "se mettre en vert," quite literally to "put oneself in green" in the countryside of Ile-de-France.

I was delighted to break out of the city's confining concrete and breathe the country air. The drive lends itself to this romantic escapism, too, watching the urban sprawl diminish and give way to open fields, farmland, and forest. As we approached Milly La Foret the road was lined with wildflowers of the most exquisite purples, yellows and reds, and I felt the innocent joy of nature flood my system once more.

We drove into Milly La Foret, a small town hugging the border of the Forest of Fontainebleau in the Departement d'Essone. At this point in the vast expanse of wilderness, the forest floor is sandy, white and soft as a Carribean beach. The trees are pine and white birch, clustered among large boulders, making this a popular site for rock climbers from all over Europe. The sand is a result of prehistoric geology, a marine deposit laid down some 34 million years ago when the ocean tide extended that far inland. Today, these "Oligocene Fontainebleau sands" (thanks Wikipedia!) give you the sensation of being at the beach, only no water awaits you; it is merely a peaceful sea of sand.

But to the weary urban dweller, it is quite simply a day in paradise. We found a shady nook among birch and boulder, spread out our blankets and picnic and let the stress of city life seep slowly out of us. Three of our friends had brought Harry Potter 7 and took great pleasure in devouring chapters at a time, feeling finally free of the voracious grip of media who have tried so hard to ruin it for the rest of us.

Others went off to scale up boulders or to play badminton in the sandy plain at our feet. Two friends brought their infant daughter and set up a hammock between two birch trees, using the fresh air and gentle sway beneath a green and blue canopy to lull her into an afternoon nap.

I, meanwhile, tapped into my Zen reserves, worked on my Hiragana and read Tender Is the Night, feeling that same bliss and calm as with my brother in Humboldt County. These places are precious, sacred and essential. We must return to nature often and recharge; induce the photosynthesis of soul.

As I write this Monday morning, a cold, hard rain pours on Paris. My mind returns to that shady nook with its beach carpet decorated by the birches' leafy shadows, and suddenly Monday's rain sounds rejoiceful and far from lament.

Village Voice

The mission of the day was to go to the Village Voice bookshop to buy the book I couldn't find at the American Library in Paris. A book that came up in my research, complemented my muse of late and simply must be had. "Touched With Fire : Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament" by Kay Redfield Jamison. I had contacted all the English-language bookshops in Paris and although I had hoped to buy it used, was contented with finding it at all and thus dipped into my precious savings. I can always justify buying a book with the old adage "it's for a good cause".

Besides, it gave me an excuse to visit the Quartier Saint Germain, a vibrant part of the Paris literary scene and a great place to wander about on a moody summer day. I felt very urban-zen, packing my sack with the essentials of any good walk-about in the metropolis : bottled water, half-eaten croissant, a book, a scarf knotted around the sash of my bag, notebook and pen, Ipod fully-charged, lip balm, cell phone, my "Indispensable" map book of Paris, and a few crispy bills.

I took my time because I had plenty, letting the busy-bees rush past me at odd angles in the Metro. My mind was breezy and calm, my eyes serenely taking in colors and textures of people and things I passed; I felt nonchalant, unattached and ready for the kind of heady enlightenment only life in the big city can offer.

Meandering through the serpentine streets near Metro Saint-Germain-des-Pres, I savored every inch of my way almost hesitant to arrive at my destination. But I had a date with a book I've come to fancy and didn't want to keep the dear waiting. You see, as with all bibliophiles, finding that book you have been longing for is like a reunion with an old friend. You cannot wait to see them, give them a soothing caress and coo a bit over each other in a quiet corner.

Of course, a bookshop is also a place for flirtation, like the nightclub to singles, and my eye naturally wandered hither and thither before leaving with the one book I came to see. I had a coy kind of tour around the shop, it being my maiden voyage there, and the sensation is much like stepping inside the house of a new friend for the first time or, better yet, like entering a temple you stumble upon while trekking across Tibet. It is a controlled kind of excitement, where I feel reverent and affectedly shy, yet strangely at home the instant I cross the threshold.

After a lovely chat with the owner, some time spent tenderly holding books, hemming and hawing over them, knowing they couldn't come home with me that day (yes, just like that doggy in the window) I left with my intended parchment. I did a little investigating about the history of the bookshop and confirmed that the owner was indeed a kindred spirit. A woman obviously impassioned by her work, like a Buddhist monk you see on the grounds of that Tibetan temple, a perfect and intended part of the place.

There is no other place like Paris for the literary spirit. Perhaps London, Moscow, Dublin and New York would give a similar rush, though somehow I doubt it.

I took my time heading home, too. Perhaps a bit low on blood sugar, I took an unintentional turn that led me into Luxembourg Gardens, a serendipitous discovery whereupon I delighted in the shade of old trees and my new book : Two new lovers spending an affectionate hour in the park.

All the angles

After a long hiatus, I am back at the blogging table ready to recommit. I splurged and bought a year membership at the American Library of Paris and have started doing research again. It is time to delve into non-fiction, biography, history and literary criticism, taking breaks inbetween the pile of novels at my bedside. Time to take my ideas and my experiences seriously again; to study all the angles and commit them to paper and pixels.

So, please forgive my absence and indulge me while I work out the kinks of style and form. Not that I haven't been writing, in fact I was a busy little bee for nearly a year as pro bono features editor to an online bi-lingual magazine, Paris Link. I realized that journalism is tough for me in a way that creative writing has never been. And Paris Link is now defunct, the editor-in-chief having moved back to England. No matter. I find journalism fun but constraining to my hyper-imagination and melancholic tendancies. But it taught me discipline, the power of deadlines and immediacy in my writing by delving into what's happening here and now.

As Natalie Goldberg so poignantly states in her book on the craft, I'm getting back to "writing down the bones".

So, let's see, the knee bone's connected to the thigh bone . . .