I arrived back at the Madison hotel in Berlin at two in the afternoon to find William, on his day off, tucked asleep under the duvet. I crawled in next to him and melted into the perfect bed. Ah yes, this is what money can buy. My six days in cheap Parisian hotels gave me an appreciation for luxurious linens, a bathroom brimming with hot water and a shimmering kitchen.
The next day was our two-year dating anniversary. William planned on being home by eight at night. I made omelets and salad for dinner. I bought small frosted German cakes, opened a good bottle of red and set them next to a lovey-dovey card. The KaDeWe gift bag with the leather wallet rested next to his dinner plate and I waited. And waited.
He forgot. He didn't call. This oversight was a throwback to our first few months of dating. He'd say, I'll be over at five-thirty. I'd say, Okay.
Back then, I believed him. I prepared. I was ready and I waited. Sometimes for two hours. Absolute stubborn martyrdom prevented me from phoning to ask, What the hell are you doing? Why aren't you here?
By the time he would arrive at my apartment, all chipper and nothing's wrong, I would be a chilly, tight-jawed, don't-touch-me mess.
This is not going to work if this seems normal to you.
What? What?
It feels like my time with you is unimportant.
That's not true….It's really important.
You say that but when you show up two hours later than you said….
He got it and showed up on time from then on. This is one of William's more winning attributes: he owns his stuff, wants to improve, then does. I own my mistakes, want to improve, and forget.
However, back in Berlin, he slipped. I thought we had worked this issue out two years earlier. It was well near eleven when he made his entrance into a clichéd scene out of a crummy B-movie: me asleep on the couch, a table set for two, candles burned to the quick and....
Look, the guy is working his ass off while I trip around Europe like a kept woman. I had no business griping — but that didn't stop me. I peeled open my groggy eyes and glared across the room. He opened the card and dropped his chin. I gloated. He unwrapped the gift and shook his head. I silently shrugged in an uppity way.
What can I do? How do I make this up to you?
Write. Something corny. Really sugary and you'll be forgiven.
William went to a desk and found a small pad of hotel stationery. He sat down with a pen and wrote. I kept quiet, curled up in a chair and marveled that he was writing anything. I thought back two years to when we worked on my movie and he virtually cupped me in his palm at the mix sessions. How he took care of me and my work. Of how that had never happened to me before, with anyone. I was acting witchy and whiny when he sat across from me on this October night in Berlin and handed me a note.
October 18, 2000
Dear Mel,
In the past two years of my life, I have made advances at work, settled into becoming a homeowner and taken care of a dog. But all these things wouldn't mean nearly as much as they do if I didn't have you to share them with. Thank you for not only making my life interesting but also for making me a better person as well.
Love (I may not say it often, but I do mean it),
William
Note to self: get over self.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 5)
I lay on my Parisian hotel bed and thought of William and his ambivalence toward travel. He's especially put off by my style of peregrination. I like to get lost and find my way home. I like non-chain hotels. I like trying new food and chatting to locals. William prefers luxury and secure surroundings. He wants to know exactly where he's going, how long it will take and what will happen when he gets there.
These differences do not make me right and him wrong. But they are differences nonetheless, and how can you join lives together when the rims of the canyon are so far apart? I wondered this as I lay on my bed in the "Irma la Douce" garret (I changed movies in my head).
I traveled by train to Versailles for a visit to the palace. So did everyone else. A mass of fellow tourists created a sardine-in-a-can experience and made it difficult to imagine what the day-to-day might have been like in the seventeenth century.
I'm a snob about these things, these people....I know I set myself apart and think I'm better — I do and I have no defense, none at all — and then I run. I got out of the palace rooms with their ornate wallpaper and brocade furniture, and went far away from the chattering crowd. I tripped lightly across the gardens in the backyard of the palace. I raced from the grandeur and found myself alone and wandering the town of Versailles.
I would guess most people take the train to this place, visit the main event, and then leave. A-ha, I discovered gold in my act of escape. I came upon a farmers' market where locals filled baskets and net bags with flowers and red apples. I ate an authentic Salade Niçoise in small restaurant. I read my book and listened to the beautiful language spoken by a group of women as they chatted and sipped white wine. I fantasized a life in a town like this. I would dress simply and my voice would ring musically in French.
I walked back to the train station, stopped at a pâtisserie and bought a raspberry tart. I unwrapped the tissue and bit into the sweet red berries floating in thick, pale yellow custard. William would like this aspect of my adventure. Maybe that was the answer: tempt him with tarts (or become one).
For my last two days in Paris, I planned trips to a flea market and a blues club. Because I now understood the late dining protocol, I left my hotel at six forty-five p.m., rode three metro trains and walked five blocks to the blues/soul food joint for a seven-thirty arrival. I was ready for some music and collard greens.
The tables, quaint with their in red-checked cloths, sat against stone walls decorated with photos of American blues and jazz masters. It made me proud to see the appreciation the French have of our music. It may be the only thing they admire about us, but it's a good choice.
I settled into a seat and looked around the candlelit room, dismayed that I was the only person in the place. This was after I killed time at the hotel and traveled slow to make a decent entrance. I crawled blocks, window-shopping to ensure this wouldn't happen. Dammit to hell, turns out I wasn't getting the Paris thing down at all.
I nursed my way through two beers and a fried chicken dinner until ten-thirty, when the musicians arrived to set up. I had the sad realization that Paris at night is not for the single woman who'd spent a long day sightseeing. I look forward to one day visiting Barcelona and Madrid, but I hear it's worse there...They don't eat dinner until midnight. That's a lot of gazing in windows and kicking pebbles over cobblestone.
At eleven I paid my bill and set off to locate my three trains back to the hotel. I hadn't heard a single note of jazz or blues, but I looked like someone living them.
My last day in Paris was spent at les Puces (the fleas), the largest location of antiques for sale in the world. Of course, I wouldn't be buying furniture, or anything, as it turned out; the plaisir is in the looking.
Because we are so young in North America, a European flea market is an overwhelming world of preserved history. Fine, polished carved wood expertly inlaid with ivory or tile could be an everyday bed for two. Marble side tables, gilt chandeliers, art-deco lamps, the paintings and the books....
I wandered awestruck for the entire morning. At one o'clock I was charmed by dealers setting up lunch in their stalls, for customers and themselves. Platters of fruit, cheeses and meats were presented on tea tables. Wine chilled in silver buckets sat next to etched glasses waiting to be filled. As a non-buyer it seemed inappropriate to partake, but I found a nearby restaurant to enjoy a salad, cheese platter and glass of wine. Civilization at its best.
My only regret on departing France was that I hadn't spent more time outside the city. Other than my trip to Versailles, I missed the gentle quiet of a small town and would have liked that. For now, au revoir, Paris, and merci beaucoup.
These differences do not make me right and him wrong. But they are differences nonetheless, and how can you join lives together when the rims of the canyon are so far apart? I wondered this as I lay on my bed in the "Irma la Douce" garret (I changed movies in my head).
I traveled by train to Versailles for a visit to the palace. So did everyone else. A mass of fellow tourists created a sardine-in-a-can experience and made it difficult to imagine what the day-to-day might have been like in the seventeenth century.
I'm a snob about these things, these people....I know I set myself apart and think I'm better — I do and I have no defense, none at all — and then I run. I got out of the palace rooms with their ornate wallpaper and brocade furniture, and went far away from the chattering crowd. I tripped lightly across the gardens in the backyard of the palace. I raced from the grandeur and found myself alone and wandering the town of Versailles.
I would guess most people take the train to this place, visit the main event, and then leave. A-ha, I discovered gold in my act of escape. I came upon a farmers' market where locals filled baskets and net bags with flowers and red apples. I ate an authentic Salade Niçoise in small restaurant. I read my book and listened to the beautiful language spoken by a group of women as they chatted and sipped white wine. I fantasized a life in a town like this. I would dress simply and my voice would ring musically in French.
I walked back to the train station, stopped at a pâtisserie and bought a raspberry tart. I unwrapped the tissue and bit into the sweet red berries floating in thick, pale yellow custard. William would like this aspect of my adventure. Maybe that was the answer: tempt him with tarts (or become one).
For my last two days in Paris, I planned trips to a flea market and a blues club. Because I now understood the late dining protocol, I left my hotel at six forty-five p.m., rode three metro trains and walked five blocks to the blues/soul food joint for a seven-thirty arrival. I was ready for some music and collard greens.
The tables, quaint with their in red-checked cloths, sat against stone walls decorated with photos of American blues and jazz masters. It made me proud to see the appreciation the French have of our music. It may be the only thing they admire about us, but it's a good choice.
I settled into a seat and looked around the candlelit room, dismayed that I was the only person in the place. This was after I killed time at the hotel and traveled slow to make a decent entrance. I crawled blocks, window-shopping to ensure this wouldn't happen. Dammit to hell, turns out I wasn't getting the Paris thing down at all.
I nursed my way through two beers and a fried chicken dinner until ten-thirty, when the musicians arrived to set up. I had the sad realization that Paris at night is not for the single woman who'd spent a long day sightseeing. I look forward to one day visiting Barcelona and Madrid, but I hear it's worse there...They don't eat dinner until midnight. That's a lot of gazing in windows and kicking pebbles over cobblestone.
At eleven I paid my bill and set off to locate my three trains back to the hotel. I hadn't heard a single note of jazz or blues, but I looked like someone living them.
My last day in Paris was spent at les Puces (the fleas), the largest location of antiques for sale in the world. Of course, I wouldn't be buying furniture, or anything, as it turned out; the plaisir is in the looking.
Because we are so young in North America, a European flea market is an overwhelming world of preserved history. Fine, polished carved wood expertly inlaid with ivory or tile could be an everyday bed for two. Marble side tables, gilt chandeliers, art-deco lamps, the paintings and the books....
I wandered awestruck for the entire morning. At one o'clock I was charmed by dealers setting up lunch in their stalls, for customers and themselves. Platters of fruit, cheeses and meats were presented on tea tables. Wine chilled in silver buckets sat next to etched glasses waiting to be filled. As a non-buyer it seemed inappropriate to partake, but I found a nearby restaurant to enjoy a salad, cheese platter and glass of wine. Civilization at its best.
My only regret on departing France was that I hadn't spent more time outside the city. Other than my trip to Versailles, I missed the gentle quiet of a small town and would have liked that. For now, au revoir, Paris, and merci beaucoup.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 4)
Warm October sunshine and freshly washed air sent me into a new day. The Metro in Paris is a cinch and I easily found my way to La Tour Eiffel. I elevatored up and oohed and aahed at the view. Since I'm not a fan of crowds, especially crowds of tourists, I duck and avoid them where I can. So I walked down, down, and more down to street level.
When I think of Paris, I think of its parks. Lovely, green, open spaces with inviting armchairs scattered under trees. Children riding on carousel horses or giggling at marionette shows. Old men flipping through newspapers and tossing baguette crusts to pigeons.
Or the small overgrown glen where I discovered benches and curvy walkways. I settled for a picnic lunch of camembert, bread and red grapes. Purchased, I might add, with the requisite angst of terrible language skills. I got everything wrong and suffered the disgust of various Parisian shopkeepers. They threw their hands in the air at this American stupey-dupe. Had I not been prepared for the snobbery, I might have taken it personally, but much has already been written about this and I was right at home playing my part. No...money goes here, not there....No, no, no...you pay for the fruit there, not here....No...that's not enough....
Lord, kill me now. I thrust my palm forward with a wad of cash. Take what you like, just give me some lunch.
I did not go to the Louvre. Crowds. I did go to the Musée d'Orsay and highly recommend it. Housed in a former train station, the museum is dedicated to the Impressionist period with a dazzling collection of furniture, sculpture and paintings. I was entranced for hours.
The Jardin des Tuileries provided a satisfying rest stop to people-watch and sip hot chocolate. I took a spin on La Grande Roue, the giant Ferris wheel, and marveled at the city from on high. The white stone buildings and lush green of tree-filled parks far below made me want to stay, study and converse in flawless French. This would, of course, not happen and as I examined Paris from that high-flying perspective I was reminded that observation was the task and assimilation a mere fantasy.
I was only able to book my hotel room for two nights, so I arranged other lodging for my final four nights. I moved into a hostelry for thirty-five dollars a night, including breakfast. I opened the door to an attic room perfect for one person. I smiled at the slanted walls and the single, tiny paned window. Not only was it cheaper, but it was also better and cleaner.
No two ways about it: I'd found my "American in Paris" garret. Off the bedroom, an itsy-bitsy bathroom with a sink and shower for, again, an ice-cold dousing. A water closet was situated down the hall, which wasn't a problem because no other guests were on the floor. The room, cozy with flower-patterned wallpaper, had a staying-at-Grandma's feel.
When I think of Paris, I think of its parks. Lovely, green, open spaces with inviting armchairs scattered under trees. Children riding on carousel horses or giggling at marionette shows. Old men flipping through newspapers and tossing baguette crusts to pigeons.
Or the small overgrown glen where I discovered benches and curvy walkways. I settled for a picnic lunch of camembert, bread and red grapes. Purchased, I might add, with the requisite angst of terrible language skills. I got everything wrong and suffered the disgust of various Parisian shopkeepers. They threw their hands in the air at this American stupey-dupe. Had I not been prepared for the snobbery, I might have taken it personally, but much has already been written about this and I was right at home playing my part. No...money goes here, not there....No, no, no...you pay for the fruit there, not here....No...that's not enough....
Lord, kill me now. I thrust my palm forward with a wad of cash. Take what you like, just give me some lunch.
I did not go to the Louvre. Crowds. I did go to the Musée d'Orsay and highly recommend it. Housed in a former train station, the museum is dedicated to the Impressionist period with a dazzling collection of furniture, sculpture and paintings. I was entranced for hours.
The Jardin des Tuileries provided a satisfying rest stop to people-watch and sip hot chocolate. I took a spin on La Grande Roue, the giant Ferris wheel, and marveled at the city from on high. The white stone buildings and lush green of tree-filled parks far below made me want to stay, study and converse in flawless French. This would, of course, not happen and as I examined Paris from that high-flying perspective I was reminded that observation was the task and assimilation a mere fantasy.
I was only able to book my hotel room for two nights, so I arranged other lodging for my final four nights. I moved into a hostelry for thirty-five dollars a night, including breakfast. I opened the door to an attic room perfect for one person. I smiled at the slanted walls and the single, tiny paned window. Not only was it cheaper, but it was also better and cleaner.
No two ways about it: I'd found my "American in Paris" garret. Off the bedroom, an itsy-bitsy bathroom with a sink and shower for, again, an ice-cold dousing. A water closet was situated down the hall, which wasn't a problem because no other guests were on the floor. The room, cozy with flower-patterned wallpaper, had a staying-at-Grandma's feel.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 3)
Heavy rain sprayed the windows of the airplane and bounced off the tarmac. We'd landed at Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle and I took note of the jackets the airport staff was wearing. Bright lime green...exactly the same shade as my own raincoat. Already a fashion misstep and I hadn't even deplaned.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #1: In the winter, Parisian women wear navy, black and brown. If they are feeling adventurous, burgundy. No one, unless they are directing traffic at Charles de Gaulle Airport, wears lime green. Ever. Pack accordingly.
It is possible to stay in Paris at little cost. You will pay the price in other ways, however. From my travel book I found a hotel in the Marais for forty-two dollars a night, including a breakfast of bread and café au lait or hot chocolate.
Draped in heavy, dusty curtains, my living space was dark and oddly romantic, in starving-artist fashion. I pulled the fabric aside then wiped grime from my hands. A small balcony overlooked the busy cobblestone street lit in neon and corner lamps. Traffic swished below in rainfall. A small bedside lamp gave the room a warm glow and hid muck stuck in corners.
I wanted out into the city. I grabbed an umbrella and my guidebook, and searched for dinner.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #2: Arriving at a Parisian eating establishment anytime before eight p.m. for dinner is foolish. Do that while wearing a lime green rain jacket, and you'll be delegated to Ringling Brothers status. I sat at a window table, the only customer in the restaurant. I proudly (one could say defiantly) ordered a prix fixe meal and a glass of red wine, and watched Parisians scramble on tiptoe through puddles outside.
The soundtrack to my dining experience was the drone of a vacuum cleaner as a waiter cleaned the floor in preparation for real guests, who would arrive well past my six-thirty seating. I ignored the vacuuming fellow as much as he ignored me.
The food, to be honest, was not great. An ordinary green salad, a bland imitation of beef Stroganoff, and pudding pretending to be mousse. The joint pissed me off and I felt like an idiot, which pissed me off some more. My first Parisian dining experience made me grouchy. I'd made my entrance as a rube.
Perhaps a hot bath and a good night's sleep would excise the disappointment and help me start the next day with a fresh attitude. Back at the hotel, I turned the bathtub spigot and watched a dribble of cold water splash against the tub enamel. I waited, touched my fingertips under the spill, and the penny dropped: forty-two dollars a night in Marais does not buy hot water.
I sponged off in the cold, whipped into pajamas and socks, climbed into bed, and fell asleep to the slurpy sound of tires on the street.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #1: In the winter, Parisian women wear navy, black and brown. If they are feeling adventurous, burgundy. No one, unless they are directing traffic at Charles de Gaulle Airport, wears lime green. Ever. Pack accordingly.
It is possible to stay in Paris at little cost. You will pay the price in other ways, however. From my travel book I found a hotel in the Marais for forty-two dollars a night, including a breakfast of bread and café au lait or hot chocolate.
Draped in heavy, dusty curtains, my living space was dark and oddly romantic, in starving-artist fashion. I pulled the fabric aside then wiped grime from my hands. A small balcony overlooked the busy cobblestone street lit in neon and corner lamps. Traffic swished below in rainfall. A small bedside lamp gave the room a warm glow and hid muck stuck in corners.
I wanted out into the city. I grabbed an umbrella and my guidebook, and searched for dinner.
Do as I Say and Not as I Do #2: Arriving at a Parisian eating establishment anytime before eight p.m. for dinner is foolish. Do that while wearing a lime green rain jacket, and you'll be delegated to Ringling Brothers status. I sat at a window table, the only customer in the restaurant. I proudly (one could say defiantly) ordered a prix fixe meal and a glass of red wine, and watched Parisians scramble on tiptoe through puddles outside.
The soundtrack to my dining experience was the drone of a vacuum cleaner as a waiter cleaned the floor in preparation for real guests, who would arrive well past my six-thirty seating. I ignored the vacuuming fellow as much as he ignored me.
The food, to be honest, was not great. An ordinary green salad, a bland imitation of beef Stroganoff, and pudding pretending to be mousse. The joint pissed me off and I felt like an idiot, which pissed me off some more. My first Parisian dining experience made me grouchy. I'd made my entrance as a rube.
Perhaps a hot bath and a good night's sleep would excise the disappointment and help me start the next day with a fresh attitude. Back at the hotel, I turned the bathtub spigot and watched a dribble of cold water splash against the tub enamel. I waited, touched my fingertips under the spill, and the penny dropped: forty-two dollars a night in Marais does not buy hot water.
I sponged off in the cold, whipped into pajamas and socks, climbed into bed, and fell asleep to the slurpy sound of tires on the street.
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