(This blog expands on my Talia Tells Tales November 2025 newsletter. )
I am squeezed on a banquet bench at a Parisian café. Among
the two dozen people scattered around bistro tables, conversations are flying
in both French and English. The aroma of brewing coffee is in the air inside,
while in the street outside the large windows, autumn’s leaves float, undecided
whether to land on the sidewalk, or to glide a bit further into the Seine.
The man on my left, visiting from a remote island off
Australia, tells how his father had arrived in that uninhabited place in the
1950s. On my right, a French journalist details her 1968 harrowing escape from
Czechoslovakia on the last train as the Russians were invading. Across from me,
a Frenchman explains why even at the end of World War II the German economy was
set out to become the strongest in Europe today.
This “conversation meeting” is one of
five weekly exchanges I attend, where Francophones mingle with Anglophones,
each seeking to improve their language skills of the other’s language. What
comes out of these international encounters, is a kaleidoscope of fascinating stories.
This evening, when the meeting ends,
my friend Sue organizes a small group to move to a nearby Irish pub. We eat,
drink, and laugh. I met Sue a few years ago at a recital on one of my frequent
trips to Paris. This past Yom Kippur, I attended services at her synagogue,
conducted in French by an American rabbi, with an Israeli cantor. Each of the
two evenings was beautiful. The rabbi’s talk about the Jews’ commitment to
Israel irrespective of politics but rather to the idea of Zion and the
existential threat to Israel was critical at this time. Most significant for me
was that, unlike in many streams of Judaism, I was permitted to say Kaddish for
Ron.
It’s been a long day. I have had three
planned activities before this late dinner. Sue and I take the Metro together
since we live near the same station. Yet at the exit, when she turns into the
side street, I head the other way, toward the bridge over the Seine. Within a
few steps I am treated to the majestical sight of the Eiffel Tower, my current
neighbor. It sparkles against the night sky, the reflections of its illuminations
break into a million smaller pinprick lights in the inky water.
Back in my apartment, I kick off my
walking shoes, one of three pairs I only wear in Paris, rotating them daily. I
would never dare show up anywhere in the US with such functional footwear. Unlike
the US, there is no mail to sort out, or packages to open. Earlier this
morning, I cleaned my rental apartment and took the bed linens to the laundry
service because the dryer, which is supposed to be built into the washing
machine, doesn’t work. Still, at this moment, when the world outside falls
away, calm sets on me. This is my queendom, where I will soon click open my
phone photo app and scroll through Ron’s photos and videos. It’s my time alone
with him. The acute pain of the loss has somewhat dulled these past two months
in Paris, but my emotions are still too raw for TV news. I only watch
documentaries in French to help improve my language skills.
I check my WhatsApp group messages. In my Museum Explorers’
group there’s a thread about a trip ten of us will take to a new exhibition. I comment
that I’d bought a ticket, and then post about the exclusive interior design show on
Saturday to which I have an extra ticket. I respond to a woman who asks who
would like to join her on a visit to the Cléopatra exhibit on Friday, then I inform
another member that I’ll meet her at the open-air art fair on Sunday. I’ve only
seen these two women at some get-togethers and know that once I spend some
time with each, I’ll make yet two new friends.
These art excursions are added to my visit last Friday
to Petit Palais (Jean-Baptiste Greuse) with a French acquaintance, and this
past Tuesday to Musée D’Orsay (John
Singer Sergent) with another, who turned out to be an art historian. Last week I participated in an exclusive
visit with the French Heritage Society at M19, a large modern center that
houses 700 craft artisans who embroider for all haute-couture, such as Yves
Saint Laurent, Chanel, and Dior as well as for major home décor outfits that
create the embellished curtains and hand-woven upholstery seen in chateaux.
In between, I’ve taken walks with
Barbara and Gloria, exploring markets near the Canal St. Martin; with Yael who
is an expert on the ancient history of the Fifth arrondissement starting with the
Middle Ages; with Anne (a Frenchwoman), who guided me through hidden spots in Le Marais. There
are days I clock between 12,000 to 18,000 steps a day. Even in days I take
public transportation, I clock over 7,000 steps.
In the very few open windows in my
calendar these past two weeks I’ve played Mah-Jongg, joined a dozen women to cook a lunch at one’s home,
and dropped in on three separate regular 10 AM socializing taking place at
specific cafés around the city.
In slightly more than this two-week
period, in the evenings I’ve been to the Opera Bastille to see La Bohème, was
invited to two local friends’ homes for dinner, and had girls’ dinners, and
outings with American visitors and a theater critique. I’ve been to a Toastmasters meeting and to an organ
concert at the St. Sulpice church (a place I particularly cherish since it’s
the location of some important action in my novel JERUSALEM MAIDEN). Twice I
joined a young friend for late bar outings (too noisy), where I had interesting
conversations with Italians, Portuguese, and Croatians, and I advised a French
diplomat in which of their US consulates he should be stationed (Miami).
In two social early evening
receptions that I attended (what the French call “Apéro”), I engaged in a
conversation with a retired Egyptian cardiologist and listened to a botanist
couple who’ve accepted a winter assignment in New Zealand to count the koala
population. (Hint: by sniffing the fresh poop; it smells like eucalyptus.) I
agree that sniffing koala poop is preferable to the brutally cold Parisian
winter.
Back in 2013 I wrote a blog about the
quirks of the French language, in which window shopping was called “Licking the
windows” to indicate the hunger that the sight of a Parisian window shopping
evoked. As I am licking my wounds over Ron’s stupendous loss, I am finding the
path of joy in being overly active in Paris.
It’s now the top of the hour, and the
Eiffel Tower erupts into a burst of sparkles, like the largest birthday candle,
telling me it’s time to turn off my lights and get ready for a busy day tomorrow
of packing to go home.
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Every Sunday 10 AM, at La Coupole, organized by Terrance (Link below) |
Links
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MeetUp French-English Conversationalists 50+
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