I found this today and really loved it. It's a film and book by Andrew Zuckerman. You can find out all about it here. Below is the trailer and the making of video. Both are worth watching. (If you are reading this post from an email, click through to my blog to view the video.)
This morning I was sitting peacefully in my bed, where I work, and I heard an interesting sound out on my balcony. I started to ignore it, since there has been some remodeling going on in other apartments, so I thought it was just some more of that. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a black-gloved hand gripping the railing of my outside balcony, and then a helmeted head pushed its way, with a large male body attached, up over the railing. Clunk, went his boots as he landed on my balcony, and with climbing gear and ropes clattering and dragging behind him, he came my way.
Uh. Clothes on? Check. Teeth brushed? Not for days. Can he see me in here? Probably, but he has other things on his mind.
Tap, tap tap went his hammer...on the concrete sections of the railing, and on the outside wall above my head. I heard a mild smashing sound. He bent over the rail and yelled to someone below. Then, he was gone.
My cat, who had been sleeping inside her carrier that sits on top of the piano, must have gotten a full-on view of the intergalactic alien hammer wielder muscle man building climber guy as his hands, head, and then body popped up right in the French doors, in front of which she was, until that moment, snoozing. I was too wrapped up in checking my hygiene (and hair) to notice her, but a few minutes after the guy left, I saw her making her slooooooowwwww way over to the bed to eventually hide under my legs in her favorite place which I call "The Tent." It took her at least a half century, maybe two. One paw slowly pushed forward, her belly fat fur dusting the floor as the next paw moved, an inch every 3 minutes, and then her back paws followed. Her eyes were glued to my thighs as I moved my knees up to make way for Mao The Tent Girl. In she went, but by now I had sprouted three more thick gray hairs from that freaking mole on my chin, and I had had a few more birthdays.
Later, when the coast was clear, Mao and I both went out to investigate, and we smiled at each other that her plastic container of valuable cat grass had not been stolen by the big bad man. There was, however, a large chunk of the concrete railing that was gone. I sure hope one of the old ladies I was talking about in my last post didn't happen to be shuffling by at the wrong time. Of course, what a way to go, with a chunk of concrete flying down from the roof top, pummeling you into the sidewalk. Nice.
While outside, I took a peek over the railing at the church across the way. The same one I referenced in my post yesterday. And there, sitting in one of those brown oak chairs that you see in French cafes, in the middle of the sidewalk, was an artist making a drawing of the front of the church. Now, this church has got to be one of the ugliest post-modern, Dachau-red brick 60's industrial depressing architectural wonders of the neighborhood. And even though they must have put a new, dingy concrete facade on it in about 1973, it just made it even uglier. So, what in the heck was he drawing?
Inside, the church is actually pretty cool. And when the old priest is there, a tall friendly guy, he leaves the front doors open and you can gaze all the way inside to the altar. So maybe the artist was drawing the interior. I suppose I'll have to actually get out of bed, brush my teeth, and go down there and stoop down and see if I can look through the eyes of the artist, and try to find the beauty that held him there for many cold and damp moments this afternoon.
I will also look out for flying concrete objects, and men in ropes and chains.
In my neighborhood, I notice a lot of old people, alone or as couples, who walk very slowly, with canes or walkers, to buy their daily bread from the boulangerie. Or they roll a creaking chariot à provisions behind them on their way to and from the grocery store. Sometimes I see a younger daughter or son walking slowly with their parent, holding one arm and keeping them steady.
Maybe in big cities in America you also see this, but I never saw it in my experiences living in Arizona and California. Of course, those cities make it impossible to live without a car, and at a certain age, none of us should be driving. In Paris, where you can find everything you need within a few blocks of your home, an older person could very easily manage things for themselves.
I also have the impression that in America, we tend to stow our elderly parents away in homes, rather than have grandpa or grandma living with us until they die. I can't pass judgment on this, because I know there are instances where medical necessity or mental illness make it impossible to have your elderly parents living with you. But, if you have children, I think they miss a valuable lesson about the realities of age, about acts of patience and kindness towards a person whose physical and mental capacity is diminishing.
But here in Paris, these older people seem to be living primarily alone, and taking care of their own needs. Perhaps the state looks in on them, or perhaps not. But they are all over the place, and there's something I like about this aspect of living here. It forces me to slow down to let them pass, to nod and smile, to contemplate my own future. There's one woman in particular that I see all the time. She wears a full length fur coat on her stooped body, with a perfectly matching fur hat, no matter if it's winter or summer. Being a writer, I always look at her and wonder what her story is.
Recently, I was discussing with a friend the fact that there's one street, on the way from the Metro station back to my apartment, that I'm afraid of, and I avoid it when I'm walking alone. On the right side are buildings with dark inset entrances, and I imagine the boogie man jumping out at me at any moment. It's also a favorite place for stumbling drunks, and I've rounded that corner many a time to see a guy in the proverbial pissing position, as he anoints the tires of a parked car or the base of a building. The left side of the street borders a park, and just after the park is a long church building, so you might think this side of the street would be better. But for some reason, it's always heaped with dog shit. But distasteful is better than unsafe, so, unless I take a big detour along a different street, I tend towards the left side (as in other aspects of my life).
But even the left side of the street has its drawbacks. At the end, where it meets my own street, there's a set of steps leading up to a side entrance of the church. There, on most days and nights, a crowd of young men and occasionally a woman, sit or stand around and laugh and drink beer. I usually have to walk through their little crowd, and interrupt their banter. Sometimes they stop talking, other times not. Once or twice they have begged money from me. One of the women had been pretty aggressive with me last summer, asking for money in different languages, and following along right beside me as I walked, so it's not my favorite place to be.
I told all of this to my friend, who, as a guy, doesn't have the same worries. He doesn't dismiss my fears, but he doesn't have the same impression of the church gang. He greets them and smiles, and they smile back. And, I had to admit, the times when the woman wasn't hanging with them, and the men said, "Bonjour Madame!", I looked up at them, eye to eye, and smiled and said, "Bonjour!" They were very happy at my response, and smiled big, bowing and motioning me on with a polite, "Allez-y!" (Go ahead!)
And so, my guy friend told me a story. He was out walking one day, and he noticed way ahead of him, a tiny old lady, head bent down, as she walked with her cane, ever so slowly down our street. She was carrying a couple of grocery bags. As she came upon the group of guys on the church steps, they called out to her. She stopped, steadied herself, and looked up. Her smile was broad and her face happy. One of the young guys jumped up and ran over to her, and took her bags into his hands. Then, he gallantly offered his right arm to the lady, and he walked her the rest of the way back to her home.
Now I know a little bit more about one elderly Parisian lady's story. She is independent, and she stays active, even if she is a little slow. She's probably been in this neighborhood most of her life, and she knows and loves her neighbors. She even trusts the supposed tough guy on the street, with her groceries and her life. She stood taller as he escorted her, and they had a little chat.
And so then, shall I. Stand taller, that is. The next time I walk past the dog shit and the rest of my fears, I'll be tall with confidence, as I pleasantly greet my neighbors on the church steps.
Last night I decided to go out and buy some smokes and have a little dinner. As usual for me, it was 5:30 and nobody in their right mind in Paris even thinks about eating dinner until 8 or later. Most restaurants don't open until 7:30 and if you show up then, they will begrudgingly seat you. So I wandered about my little neighborhood, trying to kill some time. On Rue Poteau I saw the beautiful Italian actress who is my next-door neighbor. She was bundled up in a wool coat with a warm hat and was putting something delicious in her mouth as she walked back home. Probably some delectable pastry, by the looks of her face, eyes closed in pleasure. I watched her as I walked, and once she opened her eyes, with cheeks as full as a Philadelphia squirrel (they are the only ones I've ever seen up close), she smiled at me. I smiled back. It was all we needed to do to let each other know how much we like each other.
I sat down at the Maryland, a nice cafe with a large outside patio that has a great view of the five corners at its intersection. I lit a cigarette, hoping that my friendly waiter who wants to learn English would come out and take my order for un verre de blanc. But everyone stayed inside, and I didn't push it. It was one of those nights when I didn't really want to see anyone I knew. My mind was full of thoughts and I didn't feel like making small talk, especially in my bad French. So, I moved on. I wandered up another street where a new Italian restaurant had just opened. I imagined a crisp dry Prosecco and some warm ravioli stuffed with ricotta and pine nuts and drizzled with fragrant olive oil and fresh sage leaves. But unfortunately, they weren't open yet.
Finally, I found my way to the only restaurant in my neighborhood that is open 24/7, or actually, it's open 24/7 if the woman who owns it is in a good mood. She was, and it was, open. I sat outside and ordered un pichet de vin blanc vingt-cinq, and settled in to watch the Parisians making their way home from work. The restaurant specializes in steamed mussels, but I was in the mood for a pizza, so I waited until the pizza oven fired up at 6pm.
The pizza was lovely, oozing with cheese and topped with artichokes, ham and green and red bell peppers. The edges were a little burned, just like I like them. An Australian couple had a few beers and looked over their map. A French woman and her daughter sat down and started a dueling-cigarette rapid-fire discussion, and only glanced in my direction when the waiter came, so that they could order the same pizza that I had. A Parisian woman sat behind me, statuesque in black jeans, with her waist exposed, and a wool coat thrown carelessly and elegantly over her chair. Her cell phone was glued to her ear as she drank a thick café crème and argued as only French women can. Then she snapped her phone shut, tossed a few coins on the table, whisked her coat off the chair, and took off to destinations unknown.
I paid my bill and had the nerve to ask if I could take the other half of my pizza home. This is a definite no-no in these parts, but since they sell pizza to go and had boxes, I figured I'd give it a try. The owner was happy to bring me some foil, and I was grateful. By now, it was probably 7pm as I wandered back home.
It was when I started down rue Rambuteau that I noticed there were very large white trailers parked along the curb. Since they are always making films in my neighborhood, I figured that the little crowd up ahead on the corner would be a film crew. First I walked past four or five people who were speaking at low volume. Another sign of a film set in action. And then, I came to the corner and saw five or six paramedics, two of them setting down a gurney and the rest working on a man lying on his back on the ground. He was dressed in dark colors, with a black wool cap. His hands and face shone white like wax in the light of the street lamps. At first I thought he was a dummy.
Then I realized that there were no cameras. There were no complex lighting stands. No sound man. I stopped for a moment, and looked back over my shoulder. One of the paramedics stood up and said "Il ne respond pas." He doesn't respond. There was no urgency in the faces or bodies of the paramedics. They all looked at the man who spoke, and then down at the man on the ground. I turned away and walked a little farther down the street. A man sat sideways on his motorcycle that was parked on the sidewalk at the corner. One knee up on the seat, the foot of his other leg bracing him on the ground. He was pensive as he smoked a cigarette, and never took his eyes off the tableau across the way.
I stood behind him and watched as the paramedics placed the man, his feet dangling, onto the gurney. None of the onlookers came forward as if they knew the victim. There was no sobbing girlfriend or mother. The gurney was placed on a track and it rose at an angle up into the ambulance, jolting hard, twice. I winced, as if I was this man and each jolt made my injuries seer in pain, or my blood pump out of me faster than I would like. Four of the paramedics stood with their backs to the truck, and lit cigarettes. Two others climbed into the front of the truck.
There was no siren, no rushing.
Life itself is a movie. In my movie, I worry about things and walk the streets too early for dinner. I order more food than I can eat and drink more wine than I need. An Australian couple plans tomorrow's touring and a mother and daughter catch up on their lives. A restaurant owner has a good day for a change, and reflects her mood upon her customers. A gorgeous French woman spends too much money on cellular arguments and a gorgeous Italian woman gets pleasure from eating a small delicacy. A man stops his motorcycle to have a smoke and to watch someone else's life end. Tomorrow, we will all be busy making unimportant things important, once again.
Except for one unknown man, in a black wool cap.
This
work is licensed under a
Creative Commons, Attribution, Noncommercial, Share Alike 3.0 License.
