I got up at a decent time today and thought I would get some blogging done before Jessica woke up–as when that happens everything comes grinding to a halt. I opened up my laptop, and started working on a new entry when I realized I didn’t have my Moleskine journal with me to help me remember all the details I write down every day. Where could it be? I scrounged about, looked under the couch, though, why it would be there I had no logical explanation, and on my desk, in drawers, even in the cupboard. Then, a horrible sinking feeling came to me. I looked at the washing machine and then realized what had surely happened.
You see, Jessica didn’t actually kill herself yesterday in the Seine. First off, she didn’t jump, secondly, she can swim, and thirdly, it isn’t that deep. So, I didn’t spend the rest of my day in the city morgue (though that sounds fascinating) and trying to get her installed in Père Lachaise so that I could eventually be interred there as well. Instead, I thought that I would walk around the Tuileries after she had decided she had enough of the day. I love that park and I find that I am often at the peak of my creative abilities as I ponder things while watching the pigeons around Place de la Concorde. So, I did that for about an hour.
Then, suddenly, a sharp horrible pain filled me. I don’t know what it was or where it came from–all I knew is that the end was near. I hobbled back to the Concorde Métro station only to find it closed and surrounded by heavily armed police officers. Curious, I thought, and mumbled, “Shit, shit, shit, as I scurried forward, bent in half towards the Tuileries Métro. Along the way, I saw the tents for the G8 Summit, and could only assume the following: the Métros were closed for security and that I had just been shot by a terrorist sniper with a virus bullet. This was the end! Thankfully, the Tuileries Métro was open and it wasn’t long before I was back.
I was either dehydrated or starving or there was some merit to the chemical warfare theory–one way or the other, I threw my clothes off of me and into the washer and took a shower. So focused on my malady, I didn’t think about my journal or the pen that were rinsing about and baking in the washer and then the dryer.
Only at that moment did I realize fully what had happened and with dread in my heart I opened the washer. Dry heat blasted my face as I pulled out my pants. Little white flakes all over. It did not bode well. And there, in the pocket, like some terribly salvaged wreckage from the Titanic, was my journal. Swollen, torn, and utterly lost. I let out a choked sob as I sat it on the mantle, carefully trying to separate the damp pages. It was still legible, but only barely.
This was not the end of misery, because then I discovered the pen in my pocket had completely erupted covering the clothes with ink spots. A t-shirt was utterly ruined–like a blue Dalmatian coat, a pair of underwear (why is underwear a pair?), two towels. Unbelievably, I had washed my pants inside out and the ink stains managed to only be on the inside. I think that might be a miracle.
I spent the next hour scrubbing away at the barrel of the washer trying to get off the ink stains. It wasn’t coming off. In the end, I spritzed the whole thing with stain remover and put it through the hottest wash cycle. Thankfully, this worked perfectly and all the ink is gone, but it was still a really rather depressing turn of events.
With that taken care of, Jessica and I got dressed and ready to go to the Musée Fragonard, which is a veterinary school in the south of Paris that has a collection of genetic mutations and other curiosities. There are several things I need to see for research for my novel Terrible Miss Margo, (BESTSELLER! I SMELL IT!) and I like the freaks of the natural world.
I experimented with a belt and tucked-in shirt today. Not my usual style, so I felt conscientious. I wondered if I looked fashion or if I looked like a missionary? I didn’t think missionaries could possibly be so sexy (don’t google that by the way) so I was feeling more confident in my looks. When we were both ready we headed down to wait for the Métro. We waited and we waited and we waited, but that train was not coming thanks to that accursed G8 summit, well, it was the eG8 summit, but that is not important.
I was not amused and we left the station. We decided to go bakery bouncing–this is a term that I made up and am sure that it is going to be the new fad in Paris–you go to as many bakeries as you possibly can in a short amount of time. We didn’t do that well, only two.
First we headed to the bakery on Rue Saint-Sabin which I have never been fond of. There was a new woman working and she was delightful. I have never had such a pleasant transaction in the shop. Because she was so lovely, I decided to buy a lemon tart, something I’ve always been curious about, and away we went.
Because we were close enough, I thought we may as well give Blé Sucre another go. It was open this time and they had madeleines. They didn’t look outrageously delicious, like mine do with an eighth of an inch of lemon glaze on top, but they did look alright.
Eddie Izzard is coming and he is doing his show in French. What delightful madness is this? I simply must go. I have seen Eddie before, but never in an actual show, just at a kind of get together at an Apple Store in London. I will see if I can go next week some time.
We stopped in an interesting shop of trendy home decor on the way back to the apartment. It was a combination of one-of-a-kind pieces, retro antiques, and what appeared to be Japanese trinkets. I was charmed by a dining room table that was from the 40s and was five hundred euros. If I had my own apartment I would have bought it for my desk. It was absolutely gorgeous. I was also inspired by the way they created a four-poster bed out of a few pieces of wood and a curtain rod. Completely simple, cheap, gorgeous, and effective. I will have to try this sometime.
Jessica stopped in Picard for some french fries and we finally made it back to the apartment for nibbles.
The madeleines were good but I don’t think they were worth the walk. They were very “humpy” which is a desired trait, but I didn’t think they were lemony enough. The lemon glaze on top was like a fragile icing, not nearly enough. Good for a nibble though. And please don’t think me Proustian for taking this picture–I’ve never read Proust and this is espresso, not tea. Besides, who dunks madeleines into tea in this day and age?
I tried to engage Jessica into discussions about my fashion line that I want to start. I want her opinions on things she would like to wear, the styles she likes to see, but it was like talking to a fish on the same subject. She could not have cared less and so I will have to do all the hard work myself. I have so many ideas already. I will have to take a sewing class when I get back home. I have tried many times to make my own clothing, but the instructions that come along with patters are like ancient Greek–undecipherable.
We really were at a loss for what to do, so I decided that we should head to the Louvre to wander around since it was free (I was a little leery that my sniper would attack me again) and do some filming for my America’s Next Top Model audition tape–more on that later.
As we passed through the food court, I saw the saddest sign I have ever seen.
Picnics should never be banned nor denied!
There was a fantastic old woman in front of us in line to get into the museum. She had to be in her late 70s, crazy dyed hair, enormous glasses, too much jewelry, tucked in windbreaker, and oddly fitting jeans. I was obsessed with her. She was one of those people who could wear anything and still look chic–her ensemble was ridiculous, but it went together somehow in a way that it became effortless. I wanted a picture of her, but couldn’t find a subtle enough way to do it.
Here are some more pictures from the Louvre:
If my genitals started to tie themselves in knots, I’d be watching too. What myth is this?
I was having a good chat with this fellow before Jessica interrupted with her camera.
I am obsessed with this archway. My future home will have one or two…or ten.
Isn’t it amazing that people actually used to live here? I can’t imagine and my imagination is boundless.
Here’s my best amateur model pose. Shame on the girls who do this!
Mona Lisa is deeply unimpressive. I don’t understand the cult of people that look at her–yes I do, they are tourists looking at something famous. It’s the same as the swarms who gather at Edith’s grave and the people that only know a few Oscar Wilde quotes and kiss his tomb. I can’t stand those people. No appreciation for what something actually is, just the enigma surrounding it. Anyway, I much prefer Da Vinci’s painting of John the Baptist–not only is he smirking coyly, he’s pointing too!
I think I am going to start a trend with this one.
After the Louvre we wandered around for a while, shooting a few videos for my audition tape outside of the Chanel store.
I may or may not have banged on the windows and begged Karl to come out.
Back at the apartment, I started work on editing the video and piecing the pieces together the way I saw them in my head. So far, so good. I need a few more days of shooting and then lots more editing and then soon I will post it for you in all of its reality television worthy gloriousness.
And, while I worked on that, I ate this:
Really, really, really good.