Parisians are crazy about cows

If you're currently looking for something to do in Paris, the Salon d'Agriculture might be something you'd enjoy if:

1.) You hate yourself.
2.) You hate your family and/or want to punish them for something.

I kid, but just a little.  It's a fun family outing in theory, and truly, the first forty-five minutes of our visit were delightful. The animals were fun to manhandle and the cheese samples were tasty (once you got past the fact there were no toothpicks and everyone grabbed their own sample out of a bowl with their I-just-touched-farm-animal hands.)

 If you don't enjoy petting little bunnies, you are a cold, hard human being

We were enjoying ourselves at the Salon d'Agriculture when out of the blue, everyone else in France decided to join us.  When the mobs descended, the Salon was no longer fun.  Lucien, thankfully, has great self-preservation skills and wisely spent his time begging to be up on Al's shoulders, clinging to my legs, or searching the crowd for a satisfactory "Plan B" family should he never see us again.  Coco stared at butts and crotches all day long, some from extreme close-up as people climbed sideways over her stroller (no joke).  Soon after the hordes stormed the exhibition center, all the balloons handed out to kids started to pop, sounding a bit like gunshots every couple minutes or so.  The jumps of surprise at these sudden sounds occasionally sent cheese samples into the air.

We stuck it out for awhile but were eventually driven away by the maddening masses.  I'm now fairly certain French people don't understand two bodies can't occupy the same space at the same time.  They see you, they know you're there, but they still try to move into your exact same space.  When they are unable to occupy the space you are occupying, they back up to get some more speed, and try again.   

I was incredulous as I experienced "the merging Frenchman" time and again.  I wanted to say, "Look, le buddy, my body is in this space.  My body is a solid, physical mass.  Unless your body is a gas, or a liquid (or maybe some sort of gel?) your body is not going to fit in this space with mine.  So stop trying. Stop trying.  STOP TRYING. 

Merging Frenchman: (head down, butting my person) *bump, bump, bump, bump* "Sacre bleu!"

I have many harrowing tales to tell about the Salon d'Agriculture, but I don't have time to tell them -- we're going away for a long weekend and I am neglecting both the packing and the caring for my children to write this blog -- and if I don't mention the lady in the post office before I go, my head will explode. 

 ...but first look at this emo horse, with his hair in his eyes and his sadness.

I ordered some shoes online recently.  I selected the option to have them delivered directly to the post office because I've been out of the apartment a bunch recently.  On Monday, I got an email notifying me they were at the post office, and attached to the message was a handy little printable with my name and package number on it.  I just had to go pick them up, put them on my feet, and enjoy!  Sounds easy, non??

Lucien and I walked into the post office with the handy printable at the ready.  I told the lady behind the counter I was there to pick up a package.  She opened a book to look for my name, said my name wasn't there so the package wasn't there, and told me goodbye.  She did all this without looking at me.

I held out my handy printable and suggested she was probably looking in the wrong book.  I hadn't missed the package at home -- I'd chosen to have it sent directly to the post office.  (It's a different book.  I know these things.  I've spent two plus years in this joint.)

She didn't appreciate my help.  She glared at me and said something about a problem with the computer.  Without the computer, she couldn't locate my package in the system, so I needed to try again another day.  The expression on her face was a little something I like to call "unabashed hatred."

I extended my handy printable once again, this time with slightly shaking hand.  It stated clearly my package was in the building, in the back room just ten steps away.  My package did not need to be "located in the system."  All she needed to do was walk in the back room and it would appear.  Post office magic.

Her voice rose.  She gestured angrily, "computer computer somethin' somethin','"  then she looked past me and waved the next customer forward.  She'd moved on with her life, but I continued to stand there, and that made her very angry.  After a few words to her new customer, she broke off mid-sentence, turned to me with an incredulous look and said loudly, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'RE STILL HERE.  YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING."

Damn!  I got served and don't know why!  I lost most of my French at that moment, but recovered enough to say, "I understand the words, but I don't understand the problem, and I don't understand why you're so angry."  She slammed some papers on her desk and walked away, but not in the direction of my shoes.  She didn't come back.  Then everyone in line glared at me because I made the mean lady go away forever.

As we walked away from the counter, Lucien frowned and muttered, "We should probably go tell a policeman because that lady really yelled at us." 

I returned the next day, with Lucien and Coco.  I wanted to show them you must face your fears, even if your fears are dumb, like a fear of picking something up at the post office.  I looked up a few extra words in my French dictionary before we left, just in case.

Mean lady wasn't there.  The people working were people I've dealt with before and they have always been helpful and kind.  I showed them my handy printable, the lady opened the correct book, walked into the back room, and handed me my shoes five seconds later.  No computer necessary.

Then I took the kids to a nearby park to run around and celebrate, because I had new shoes and it was a beautiful day.

 This is Coco eating her very first handful of sand

This is the box that caused all the fuss

OK.  We're outta here, leaving the city for a bit, escaping the madness.  And seemingly just in time, because someone in the building is doing something with noxious chemicals, without bothering to tell anyone else who lives here.  We are slowly being engulfed by fumes, and are now living with the windows wide open in February.  

YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING. 
Huzzah, that's me,
MJ

Perhaps I've lost my grip on reality

The first few days of school break are always hard, but once you change your mindset and accept you're not going to do anything for yourself, at all, in the next two weeks, things actually get kind of fun.  You may look a little wild-eyed and unkempt, but this just adds pizazz to the magical memories you're creating.

Oh, and also, if you stop regarding them as "children" and start looking at them as "ridiculously-sized people," the hilarity makes any situation bearable.  If they start bugging you, point and laugh and say stuff like, "You're ridiculously small!  What a weird-sized person you are!"  They'll look at you strangely but that's OK -- someday they'll understand that having them made you crazy.

I took the kids to rue Montorgueil Wednesday.  As much as I love the village-like rue Montorgueil, I don't understand why it's called "pedestrian only." Cars come through regularly, and the drivers seem to delight in everyone's guard being down.  Happy little strolling pedestrians become panicked sidewalk-divers when cars appear behind them and lay on their horns.

It's like watching a bad horror film.  I want to yell, "He's behind you, you idiots!"

The objective of our rue Montorgueil outing was Stohrer, one of the most beloved patisseries in Paris.  I told Lucien it was a special day because we were going to have a very, very special treat.  I could barely contain my excitement when I told him Stohrer was voted "Best Chocolate Eclair in Paris" and we were going to eat one!  Like, right then!  I jumped up and down and finished the announcement with jazz hands.

Lucien wasn't impressed.  (I knew I should have added sparklers held between the teeth.)  He said he didn't want an eclair and instead pointed at a stupid blue lollipop in a jar on the counter.  He wanted a Chupa Chup in Stohrer.  That's horrifying.  It worked out for the best, though, because thanks to my poor impulse control issues, I shoved the entire eclair in my mouth before we left the counter.  Deee-lish.

Your average Parisian playground with your average Parisian church thing lurking in the background.  And a blue lollipop.

On the walk home, I heard the words a mama never likes to hear in the middle of a busy Parisian street -- "Mommy, I have to do pee-pee."  After it was confirmed the little boy couldn't hold it much longer, and a frantic scan of the street revealed no cafe options, I saw a public toilet, a sanisette if you will, not too far away. 

It will soon be evident I've never been in one of these things and have no idea how they work.  It will also be clear that I can turn absolutely anything into a terrifying experience.

We ran to the sanisette.  It was occupied.  Lucien hopped around and looked increasingly desperate until finally the door opened and a man walked out.  I rushed Lucien inside.

The door continued to stand open, but the kid couldn't wait another second, so I did my best to block the outside view of Lucien's tiny butt with my body and Coco's stroller.  Suddenly an automated voice told us to leave the sanisette immediately so the cleaning cycle could begin.  It was then I remembered -- with a horrified jolt -- my only automated public toilet experience -- watching an episode of CSI in which a woman drowned in a public toilet just like this one during the cleaning cycle.  The whole damn thing filled with water on CSI, and since everything that happens on CSI  happens in real life, I knew we were facing a life-or-death situation. 

You should have seen the Loosh jump when I suddenly started yelling behind him, "GO! GO! GO! GO!"  The automated voice again commanded us to leave immediately; the door of doom was about to close.  "Not on my watch, murderous toilet!" I vowed and jammed Coco's stroller into the open doorway.  "Lucien, let's go!  Pants up!" Lucien nodded, all dazed-like, but didn't move. I quickly yanked up his pants and dove out of the sanisette, my jackrabbit-like reflexes saving the lives of both my babies.

The door closed behind us.  I finished zipping up Lucien's pants, then straightened and smoothed his shirt and jacket and asked cheerfully, "OK!  All better?"  Lucien was breathing heavily and his palms were sweaty.  He held my hand the rest of the way home.  I think it's safe to say he'll risk bladder explosion before asking to use one of those things again.  It's also probably safe to say I watch too much television.


(I now know the sanisette cleaning cycle involves a small robotic arm scrubbing the toilet, and some water jets squirting a little water on the floor. The sanisette is not a demonic drowning machine.  Lucien and I also had a debriefing session.  He seems willing to brave the outside world again.)


There's a lot of stuff going on right now.  We went to see Dr. Michel and he said more funny things.  I have a new French teacher and so far she's not scary.  Alex met with the lunch ladies and a school psychologist.  There was another strike.  One of my flash fiction pieces is going to be published.  I was harassed by a man over our intercom and I WON. But I don't have time to write all those words, not when there's more needless child traumatization to be done.  

The TOILET will KILL YOU, mes choux,
MJ

No time for words

Coming up with "the words" is the super hard part of writing a blog.  It takes time and concentration (and usually some kind of miracle).  Lucien's on break from school for two weeks and Coco's still hanging around, too, so time and concentration are two things in short supply (along with patience, showers, and anything resembling a snackfood).

Thankfully, uploading a bunch of photos and slapping half-assed captions on them takes no thought, effort, or creativity whatsoever.

So here they come. 

We spent this past weekend with our children, which is out of character for us lately, I know.  We are apparently still vulnerable to their charms.  I announced Sunday morning we were going to walk to the Place des Vosges because there was a photography exhibit there I wanted to see.  The family eyed me warily and asked how much walking was involved, exactly, and I said DON'T ASK QUESTIONS PUNKS to distract them from the fact it's a lot, a lot of walking.  

After about five minutes of walking, Lucien and Alex complained it was too much walking, so I stuffed them into a small cage as punishment for not respecting my authority.

I joke.  I'm actually a kind and gentle leader. This was just Loosh and Al checking out a rooster as we passed through the bird market on Île de la Cité.  I've never seen anyone buy a rooster on Île de la Cité on a Sunday morning, but the gypsies still show up with their sad-looking animals every weekend.  They probably cook what's left at the end of the day.  I'm not sure whether or not what I just said is offensive, but I can definitely tell you it's probably not true. 

Wow, this is going to be a long two weeks. 

The photography exhibit at Place des Vosges is called "Paris, Avant-Après."  It compares fifty photos taken in Paris in 1860 with photos taken at the same spot today. (here's info about the book upon which the exhibit is based, courtesy of Invisible Paris) 

Guess what?  Stuff has changed.

Here's Notre Dame.  The top view is, of course, the view we know and love today.  The bottom view is Notre Dame behind a really ugly building.  Score one for the newbies!  2011, huzzah. 

 

Here's the rue de Rennes, right here in the 6th arrondissement.  The bottom photo is old picturesque rue de Rennes.  The top photo is rue de Rennes meets Stanley Kubrick.  Oh, le Tour Montparnasse, I appreciate the view from your tallness, but you are ugly.  This round goes to the old folks. 

I forget where this one is, but look, water turned into street!  It's a 2011 miracle. 

This one is Place d'Italie, where Alex and I went last weekend for the Chinese New Year's Parade.  The top one says, "Yeah, Chinese people!  Dragons!"  The bottom one says, "Chinese people?  Chinese people?" 

After the exhibit we went to a cafe.  It was actually Le Café-Théâtre de la Magie (The Cafe-Theatre of Magic!) which is a cafe/bar full of servers who are also magicians, and a theater that puts on regular magic shows.  Our server knew many tricks and dazzled Lucien with a few.  It was sweet and almost made up for the fact we paid 18 euros for a beer, a glass of wine, and an orange juice.  Almost.  Actually, not at all, give us our money back, magic man.

Then we learned something important.  If you stick Lucien on a Velib rental bike and tell him to ring the bell all the way home, people will get out of your way and you can sail through the crowds.  It's so beautiful.

We stopped to pay our respects at these blue doors on Ile St. Louis.  This is where Camille's namesake, Camille Claudel, lived and worked during her most prolific years.  The plaque outside says something beautiful about this being the building where her short career as an artist ended, and the "long night of her internment" began.  Usually when I walk past these doors, I touch them.  Once I tried hugging them but hugging doors is hard.  Passersby probably thought I was due for a long night of internment myself. 

 Sooo... let me get this straight.  You guys named me after a woman who spent thirty years in a mental institution?  Well that's just fantastic, guys, really.

We passed this guy doing bike tricks on the Pont Saint Louis.  That's what I love about wandering Paris on a Sunday afternoon.  You may not wake up and think, "I'd like to see some bike tricks today" but when you stumble across a guy doing just that, you think, "Yes. This is what I want and need."

Alex rode the bike next to Notre Dame while Lucien ran beside him.  It's easy to spot the Loosh in the crowd because we are still some of the few people in Paris wearing red.   

 We stopped to listen to some musicians who weren't very good but meh, we had nothing better to do.

I'm pretty sure I'll miss this when we leave.  There's nothing like wandering around a city where interesting people are doing semi-interesting things on every corner.  It won't be the same when we take Sunday strolls around our neighborhood in Seattle.  I envision those walks going something like this:  "Oh, for Christ's sake, it's just another guy mowing his lawn?  Hey, buddy, where are the bike tricks?  Oh, you say you don't know what I'm talking about? I SAID GET ON YOUR BIKE.  At least go get a guitar and sing me something, you worthless neighbor."

I took Lucien out for hot chocolate today.  He spilled it everywhere in spectacular fashion.  The mug didn't look very big, yet it somehow contained an ocean of hot chocolate.  When the waiter saw what happened, he made a face that clearly said we are horrible, miserable people.  I apologized when he came over with some towels and he muttered, "pas grave, Madame, pas grave..." but I could tell by his face he thought it was VERY, VERY grave.  You can't fool me, Frenchies.  I know you better than you know yourselves.

All right, all right.  Enough is enough.  Gotta go, the kids are about to turn on me.
MJ

Library of Terror

Lucien's class took a field trip to the library Tuesday morning.  I went to pick him up that afternoon and smiled at his little classmates as they skipped past with identical cloth bags carrying their chosen library book.  "Bonjour, maman de Lucien!" they sang when they saw me.  Parisian kids are so damn cute with their little designer clothes and their little French voices.

I walked into the classroom and the teacher gave me an apologetic look.  Then she said slowly, "Well, Madame... it was his choice."  I was pondering what that meant when I saw the Loosh coming towards me.  He was dragging one of the biggest damn library books I've ever seen.

He beamed and said in his adorable French, "I got the biggest book there!"  The teacher told me the library couldn't find a bag big enough to fit the book, but maybe she could find me a garbage bag.  I said that's OK, we'll manage, but I second-guessed myself when I took the book from Lucien and it weighed more than he does.

 The angle is deceiving.  It's bigger than it looks here, with thick pages made of lead.

Unfortunately, we weren't going straight home.  I had to stop at the pharmacy to pick up Coco's vaccine for an upcoming doctor's appointment.  (Have I mentioned we have to get those damn things ourselves?)  I tried to get the vaccine earlier in the day, but the pharmacy didn't have it (do they ever?)  They placed an order for it and I was told to come back at 4:30, after the drug man made his delivery.

It was 4:35 when we walked into the pharmacy.  It was packed.  A few innocent shoppers got knee-capped by a giant library book as we pushed through to prescription pick-up.  We stood in line next to the toothbrushes for a few minutes but then the pharmacist pointed at me and called out, "Excuse me, Madame?  Why are you here?  I told you to come back at 5:00!"  All heads swiveled towards me.  Lucien immediately tried to balance his book on his head because woo hoo -- an audience!  When it slipped off his head and landed on the floor, it sounded like a small bomb had detonated in dental care.

The pharmacist did not tell me 5:00.  He told me 4:30.  Now, a real French person would have started an argument then, accusing him of lying and protesting loudly until the pharmacist went in the back and whipped up the vaccine himself with a few household products and a Bunsen burner.  But after two years of living here, I still don't have that kind of fight in me.  I still can't get used to the idea of regular confrontation, the routine argument, the need to prove oneself worthy of service by being belligerent.

So I did what I've been doing in situations like this lately, a response that makes the Frenchies shake their heads sadly at my foreignness (and gutlessness).  I said OK ME WRONG BYE BYE NOW BYE BYE and left.  Lucien tried to follow but caught his book on the edge of the automatic door and fell flat on his face. Do we know how to exit or what?  Jazz hands!

That night at bedtime, I curled up next to Lucien to read him his library book.  It was a tale of three thieves.  We weren't too far into the story when my eyes bugged out of my head.  Holy hell!  This book was not just big, it was terrifying!  Within a few giant pages, we'd seen the thieves attack some people in a horse-drawn carriage, blow pepper into the horses' eyes, and hack the carriage to pieces with an axe.  There was also some holding up of people at gunpoint.

 The cheerful red axe of terror approaches

Lucien (nervously):  Mommy, what are they doing?

Mommy (cheerfully):  Suck it up, son!  It's never too early to learn the world is a terrifying place full of horrible people!

"....MOMMY???"

  

 

"Sweet dreams, kiddo!"

 In less scary Lucien news, he made this "airplane" recently:

He just kept throwing it and throwing it.  The skinny "wings" fluttered wildly as it plummeted to the ground time and again.  Lucien got more and more frustrated and -- because I'm a very good mother -- I laughed harder and harder.  He looked at me with pain and frustration on his face and said, "Why are you laughing at me?  Why are you laughing?  Stop laughing!  Help me, Mommy!"  But I couldn't stop.  I laughed so hard I fell on the floor.  Lucien started crying and ran to his bedroom.  Phew, *wipes tears from face* kids are great to have around for the entertainment value.

Coco is not yet walking but she seems to be considering the idea.  This is a huge improvement from a month ago, when, if we held our hands out to her and encouraged her to walk towards us, she would give what can only be described as a withering "Bitch, please..." look.  Other than that, Coco's very busy destroying anything she can get her hands on and throwing matchbox cars at her brother as he sits helplessly in the bathtub.

 punk

This post was all about mes choux (plus scary giant books).

night-night,

MJ

Lunch! Dragons! That's about it.

We love our children.  They are our hearts; they lay claim to large chunks of our souls.  We love looking at their tiny faces, squeezing their tiny hands. They are the most important and most beloved people in the world, our precious, precious babies.

That being said, here's what our front door looked like after we slammed it behind us, kind of right in their faces, this past weekend.  You've got a babysitter again, suckas! ha ha ha.

bye bye

We won't do this every weekend, of course, just absolutely as many as possible.  Alex and I thrive on the alone time.  Family time is good chaotic fun, but it's hard for us to relax and have a real conversation when we're out and about with the kids.  We're always too preoccupied with who's hungry and which cafe can handle kids and whose stroller is slowly rolling into traffic (that one's always Coco, poor dear).  We're the foundation upon which this family is built, kids -- if we crumble, the whole thing comes down.  It's therefore in your best interest to suck it up, eat your chicken nuggets, and play some more MarioKart with the babysitter.

Last weekend's precious babysitter time was spent in Belleville; this weekend it was the Butte aux Cailles neighborhood in southeast Paris.  Alex and I hilariously called it the BUTT aux Cailles all day.  I know, I know, aren't we a riot?  What do you mean, "You are losers"?  That's kinda harsh, guys.

We went to Chez Gladines for lunch, a highly recommended Basque restaurant in the middle of the adorableness of this neighborhood.  We were told to show up right when the restaurant opened or risk standing in line forever and ever.  We approached the restaurant as it was opening and saw a steady stream of people converging at the same spot.  We took off in an adrenaline-infused run, elbows out, ready to fight for our table Paris-style.  We got one, too.

(Good thing the kids weren't with us -- we probably would have left 'em in the dust.  It's every man for himself when a French wedge is fixin' to form.) 

The restaurant is now one of our favorites.  The traditional Basque food was great, but it was the atmosphere of the place that really sold us.  Chez Gladines is very Parisian; you sit so close to your neighbors (often at shared tables), you're practically in their laps  The restaurant is NOT Parisian in that everybody soon starts talking to everybody else.  There is serious friendliness happening in the lower 13th arrondissement and it will BLOW your MIND.  For instance, whenever the adorable young Frenchman sitting next to Alex picked up the water pitcher to refill his glass, he refilled ours, too.  Huh?  Where are we? Alex, I'm frightened.

This is how close Al sat to adorable Frenchman.  Cozy.  With unsolicited water refills.

The woman to my left had a strong accent when speaking French, an accent both Alex and I pegged as American.  In keeping with the chatty atmosphere, Alex asked her where she was from in the States.  She replied, "Err... I'm Dutch."  We then stammered some apologies and I said something like, "Oh, sorry, so sorry we thought your accent was American.  Really, sorry, I mean, American accents are just awful...." Then I realized that, thanks to transitive relation*, I'd just told her her accent was really, really bad.  There was a beat of silence, some crickets chirped and we all quickly returned to eating our meals with a sudden burst of intensity. 

 

This picture is weird

We wandered around the Butte aux Cailles neighborhood after lunch;  it's as cute as everyone says.  It feels like a little village swallowed whole by Paris, probably because it used to be a little village until it was swallowed whole by Paris.  It's right next to Paris's largest Chinatown district so we went up the street to watch the Chinese New Year's parade.

The parade was good fun.  I sure do love those dragon thingies. I liked the African drummers, too, but am pretty sure they were lost?  Anyway, my favorite part of any parade is watching the spectators try to get higher than other spectators.  They are like, "I am going to see many things!  I will see more things than you!" and start shimmying up whatever tree or pole or tall person is nearby.

 This guy did all right for himself.  Bus stop.  Well played, sir. 

 Phone booth.  Nice choice. 

But this guy wins.  Look at those butt cheeks perched on red man.  I bow down to you, being-up-high parade master.

In other news, I am battling Alex over cheese.  Ages ago, during a French lesson with my darling Madame Kickmyass, I complained that Alex's love of stinky cheese was creating an intense phobia of the refrigerator.  Every time I opened the refrigerator door, it smelled like a dead rodent was tucked in amongst the milk cartons. 

Madame Kickmyass sympathized, then told me she had a solution!  I needed a cheese box!  Stinky cheese goes inside and smells are contained and marriages are saved!  I left the lesson immediately to go buy a cheese box.  I came home and put all stinky cheese inside it.  I opened the refrigerator door a few hours later and -- dammit, it smelled like HALF a dead rodent was nestled in with the milk cartons.

It's been an ongoing battle.  Alex won't stop buying stinky cheese so I continue to hiss and snarl when I open the refrigerator door. Sometimes I flail my arms around in a defensive manner because it feels like I've been punched in the nose with odor.  My eyes usually water.  I can't take it anymore; this is destroying my intense love of cheese.  I need someone to convince Alex stinky cheese is only delicious at someone else's house.  Please help.

Your accent sucks, lady, but can I climb on your back so I can see the dragons?
MJ

*If your accent sounds American, and American accents suck, then your accent sucks.  I am very good at talking to the people and making of the friends. 

How MJ and Al got their groove back. With hipsters.

Alex and I have lost our Paris mojo in recent months. We've stopped going to new places on the weekends, instead going to the same old places over and over because they're easy and kid-friendly.  Sure, the Jardin du Luxembourg is beautiful, but 5000 visits later it gets a bit old.  Oh, the monotony of it with its perfect gardens and dramatic statues and so many people doing tai chi all over the place, you're constantly in danger of being hit by a very slowly-moving arm.

We knew we had to break out of our Paris rut, get excited about the city again, and preferably do it without our children.  When the sitter arrived Sunday, we headed for the coolest neighborhood in town -- Belleville.  Every Paris blogger ends up writing about Belleville.  I'm probably not bringing anything new to the blogging table regarding Belleville, and I'm sorry about that, but Camille woke up five times last night so we should all just be impressed there are words here.

Belleville is historically a working class neighborhood in eastern Paris.  In recent years, it has also become a haven for artists and hipsters.  I'm not a hipster myself, but am definitely a hipster enthusiast; I can't get enough of their patterned tweed pants and fedoras. (Remember the streetgolf championship?  Excellent hipsters.)

We exited the metro in the heart of Belleville but didn't feel the hipster vibe right away.  We felt more of a "Al, hold onto your wallet" vibe.  It seemed to us that all residents of Belleville had shifty eyes. There were no hipsters, just people who looked like they wanted to hurt us.  A distressing amount of garbage littered the sidewalks. There were many women standing around by themselves in doorways, which at first I didn't understand but then Alex looked at me like, "Are you serious, woman?" and I was like, "Ohhh..."

It wasn't a great first impression of Belleville but I wanted to see some goddamn hipsters so we pressed onward.  Once off the busy main street, things turned for the better.  It got quirky and there were signs of artists living among us...

We don't have buildings like this in the 6th.  The bourgeoisie would sh*t themselves.

This means, "Beware of words."  You should beware of my words, especially after Coco wakes me up five times.
By the way, those "guys" up there hanging the sign aren't real; they're art and a little bit creepy.

Giant buttocks on the side of a building.  Yes please.

The rue Dénoyez is well-known for its graffiti.  The city of Paris says it's OK to put graffiti here -- I have no idea why and am not interested in "researching" or "facts" -- so the street is covered in it.  There are graffiti artists at work all the time so the art changes daily, even hourly.  It's the most colorful street I've seen in Paris, a festive, chaotic, welcome sight in the city of beige.

Quick, Al, get me some spray paint.  Mama's gonna tag this b*tch.

We went to the popular hipster bar around the corner, Aux Folies, where we hipster-gazed and ordered espressos.  After we drank our espressos, we remembered somebody else was taking care of our children so we ordered beers.  It was a strange combination and made us feel both eager to take on the world and completely apathetic about it.
 

Look at these hipsters.  A beautiful woman with a shaved head and a fringed suede jacket.  A scrappy-looking man with a fedora.  I don't think he liked me taking his picture -- he looks like he's about to take me out back and give me a hipster whipping.  A girl can dream...

We went to a highly recommended restaurant for lunch and couldn't believe how we felt when we stepped inside -- the music, the relaxed atmosphere, the people wearing Gore-Tex jackets over ironic slogan t-shirts -- we'd just walked into Seattle.  It was incredible.  I half expected to see our Seattle friends seated at a table in the corner, waving us over.  But they weren't there, just a bunch of hipsters speaking French. 

Are you there, Seattle?  It's me, Alex.

The woman who waited on us wore baggy jeans and an oversized knit hat.  She was laid back, casual, friendly.  She said, "c'est cool" a lot.  As she walked away, Alex whispered with great excitement, "Oh my God, this is Seattle!  That woman is wearing jeans that make her butt disappear and she's not trying at all to be attractive to anybody!"  (That may sound offensive, but it was really affectionate.) 

Then the menu arrived and it wasn't Seattle anymore -- there wasn't any "tofu sprinkled with wheat germ and kissed by dolphins" on it.  It was very French, all "duck guts marinated in goose blood with a side of cow stomach stuffed with gizzards and a side of bones."

  mmmm....meaty

But the food was incredible.  I had a cassolette of scallops.  We also had the best soup of our lives -- a velouté of some root vegetable we'd never heard of with a lot of cream and something sweet we couldn't identify.  It was mystery soup but it was so, so good.  It was hipster-whipping good.

After lunch we walked over to where Edith Piaf was born.  Legend has it she was born on the steps of this building, right there on the pavement.
 

 looks cold

Man, I was worried about Coco almost being born in a taxi way back when, which really pales in comparison.  Birthing in front of our building would have been way worse, especially if boutique man was in a sour mood as he often is, or if the patisserie at the bottom of our stairs was open because they do a brisk business and there's often a line out the door.  Coco would  have been born amongst people antsy for baguettes.

OK there's more to say about Belleville but I don't really know what I'm writing anymore so I'm just gonna sign off now.

Thanks, Belleville.  You gave us a boost when we needed it most.  You're kind of scary and dirty, but you're also friendly and tasty.  Plus, prostitutes. 


I've really gotta go,
MJ