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In 2007 I reduced my law practice to a few hours a week, and after a lifetime in southern California, moved to Boston to experience life on the east coast. I loved Boston, its art, music and history, and not needing a car. But I had always yearned to experience living in another country. I considered Mexico and Italy, both of which I had thoroughly enjoyed when I visited briefly, but it was Paris that was calling me. I had visited twice, and Paris was so magical, so civilized, so foreign.

I had re-invented myself as a writer, having written more than a dozen short stories and several essays, and I had almost finished a memoir about my journey to understand my role in the destruction of my three marriages. If Boston is a writers’ town, Paris is the quintessential.

So, in spring of 2010 I completed my legal work, totally retired and prepared to move to Paris. I decided rather arbitrarily that two years would be the ideal amount of time to soak up French culture. After selling, giving away or storing all of my stuff that wouldn’t fit into a large backpack, a medium suitcase and a computer bag, I obtained my Long Stay Visa from the French Consulate and took off for Paris.

As a writer, it was second nature to keep a journal while I was in Paris. I also started two blogs, one on travel and another on divorce recovery.

As so often happens when one undertakes an adventure, I was in for a lot of surprises, and writing about them enhanced the joys and softened the challenges. I stayed for a about a year and spent the last month in northern Tuscany. In spring 2011 I returned to California.

The most popular posts on my travel blog were excerpts from my journal, so I decided to revise it to make it more readable and publish it. As I read and edited my journal, I relived many wonderful experiences, including the art, culture and history of the civilization that spawned America’s. But the themes that kept reoccurring seemed to be eating, walking and writing. I am thrilled to share my adventures.

Chapter One

Settling in Paris

The taxi pulled up at 4, Rue Tessier in the 15th Arrondissement, a student dormitory for, among others, those of us enrolled at Alliance Francais to study French. After the grueling plane ride from Los Angeles, excitement coursed through me. A smiling lady who spoke practically no English led me to my room, a small space not unlike dorm rooms throughout the world, but with a large double window that looked down on a lovely courtyard with a rose garden and tables and chairs. A single bed was against one wall, a desk and wooden chair against the opposite wall adjacent to a small, but adequate, bathroom with a shower. The dorm provided towels and bedding, and I found out later, maids to clean the room every two weeks. The lady probably explained that, but I wouldn’t have understood her. An armoire to hang my clothes stood on the wall next to the bed. I also had one odd wooden chair, despite the rule on the reception wall that prohibited guests in the rooms. The carpet was gray utility. I soon went down to inspect the large common kitchen with stoves, sinks and refrigerated lockers. Everything was clean and uncluttered. There were a dozen or so dining tables, but we were not provided with enough utensils to make cooking full meals practical. Besides, I wanted to experience French cooking, not my own. Next to the kitchen and dining room was a recreation room with a TV, tables and chairs, some books and a piano.

I unpacked–a quick job, considering what little I brought and not much room for it. I wandered around the neighborhood of apartment buildings, some non-descript, some ornate Nineteenth Century French with sculptures and decorated wrought iron and countless cafes, bistros and brassieres. A bright green park with children’s play equipment added some serenity to the neighborhood a few steps from our building.

I picked a cafe at random, and the owner said in English that his wife would be in to cook dinner shortly. At 6:30 it was early for a Paris evening meal. I drank water to re-hydrate from the long flight. When his wife arrived I ordered and was treated to a delicious filet of sole with a sauce I couldn’t identify, but which met the expected French standards of light, buttery and tasty. The owner conversed in English. I didn’t know then that he was one of only a few in the neighborhood who spoke English. I walked around some more after dinner, got lost briefly and went back to the dorm.

I didn’t feel sleepy, so a little later I went out again and had a glass of wine outdoors at an Italian cafe about 100 yards from our apartment. It was still warm enough without a jacket. I walked around again and this time got seriously lost. I stopped at three cafes and asked for directions, to no avail. We couldn’t understand each other. I realized several days later that one of the problems was that I was pronouncing “Tessier” phonetically, rather than “Tessieh”. They had no idea what street I was talking about. In my wanderings I looked to my left, and there it was–all lit up–the Eiffel Tower. I felt like I was in Paris then.

After about a half hour–it was close to midnight–I spotted a sign that said, “Hotel Police.” Could it be? Yes, a police station. I went in, found an officer who spoke English and like a little lost boy asked her to tell me where 4, Rue Tessier was. She told me. I was three blocks away, having been walking in circles for I don’t know how long. The dorm looked more welcoming than it had before.

I remembered from being a tourist in Paris that the city seems designed to get people lost, perhaps to make it difficult for invading armies to find their way around. Few streets go straight. Only a few main boulevards don’t change names after one to ten blocks. They slant toward each other at various angles, so it is difficult to know in what direction you’re headed, and even if you figure that out, the street will soon change directions. The city is like a labyrinth with no beginning and no ending.

I had traveled to many countries where I didn’t speak or barely spoke the language—Germany, Brazil, Italy, Hungary, the Czech Republic and Mexico, for example; I had been to Paris twice before, but I always went as a tourist, engaged in tourist activities and rarely ventured out to places where people did not speak some English. My need to understand or use their language was limited. Living in Paris was an experience of a different magnitude with different needs. I had to purchase a cell phone and minutes to use it, sign up for wireless Internet service, buy food in grocery stores, and eat in restaurants where nobody spoke English. I was on my own to understand the offerings on the menu. I had to open a bank account and pay rent. The nice lady had given me three keys, but I hadn’t understood her explanation for what the keys opened. By trial and error I learned which key opened the door to my room. It was a week before I understood that the other two keys opened compartments in the communal kitchen for storing food.

I don’t want my description of my trials and tribulations to sound like I’m complaining about living in Paris. I know my complaints are not going to engender any sympathy. But I’m going to write about them anyway, because they were a part of my Paris experience. First, though some of the joys of the first week seem a better way to begin—a cup of café au lait on my first morning in Paris in a café a block from the dorm and one of those croissants that are so soft and flaky you hardly need to chew them. I realized that if I wanted to escape a heart attack I couldn’t eat them every morning for two years—but once in a while. I rationed myself to one per week. The other rations were one café au lait a week (otherwise, those little, dark cups of espresso) and no pate, which was not much of a sacrifice. I don’t care for it, anyway.

That first morning I sat at a table in the tiny café sipping my café au lait, as people speaking French hustled in and out on their way to work. I took in the aroma of the espresso as it was ground and magically trickled out of those double spouts. I heard French all around me without a clue to what was said. For the first time, it struck me that living in Paris would be challenging.

I walked for 45 minutes to Alliance Francais late morning to pay the balance due and encountered my first obstacle to gaining a foothold on living in France—their credit card machine rejected my credit card. The nice lady, who spoke some English, said no worry, I could pay in cash in installments. I didn’t want to appear like a flake, so after a lunch of decent but not great pizza, I got 500 euro* from a nearby ATM and headed back to the school, a more direct route that took about a half hour. Listening to the unfamiliar French around me, not understanding anything, made me feel adventurous. That was what I was there for—adventure.

A different lady and a longer line at the payment counter made me impatient. Eventually, it was my turn, and I handed the lady the 500 euro. She said she couldn’t take it. Partial payments were not allowed. I could pay Monday, the first day of class. I walked home, thinking about the wasted hours. The next items on the getting situated agenda were paying the first month’s rent and getting a cell phone and Internet service. As a writer who had just finished a book, it was important for me to communicate with people in the U.S., as well as a desire to stay connected with family.

I went to the reception counter to pay my rent. I was able to make the lady understand what I wanted by shoving my debit card at her. She ran it through one of those handheld machines that every merchant in Paris seemed to have. The little paper came out of the machine; she ripped it off and showed it to me—“rejected”. She ran it through again and again—same result.

“No worry,”she said. You can get cash and pay tomorrow. What was wrong? I wondered. The card worked fine when I used it to pay for dinner last night. Had Bank of America blocked the account for some reason? I worried about how I could pay for both the school and the rent—about $2,300 euro if I couldn’t get more than 500 euro a day from the ATM. If Bank of America blocked my account, I couldn’t even get that.

I had no way to reach Bank of America, so I had to get Internet service. Ads were all over the dorm for wireless Internet service for $19.95 per month, the first 24 hours free. I pulled out my laptop and booted it up; on the screen was the home page of the local wireless service––in French. After nearly two hours of hit and miss, up came my Internet home page—my first victory over French obstructions. I went to the Live Chat service on the Bank of America website. My account was blocked by the Fraud Department, the chatter, Matthew, eventually reported. No, I couldn’t get my account unblocked online. I had to call. Finally, Matthew––probably from India––found and gave me a non-800 number for the Fraud Department; 800 numbers only work in the United States.

The only problem was I didn’t have a phone, and how long would it take me to figure out how to make a call on the payphone downstairs—all of the instructions being in French. It was eight o’clock, and I was exhausted. I went out to dinner, not as good as last night, had two glasses of wine and a cognac and when I got home fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up tense, remembering I had a debit card that didn’t work (I had cancelled all my credit cards, but one and reduced it to a $300 limit to force myself to stop living on credit); and still had no cell phone and hadn’t paid my rent or my school tuition. I Googled “cell phones paris” on the Internet and found a store close by. After going to the wrong store, I found the right one. The proprietor spoke a little English, and I somehow managed to buy a phone, using cash. I was running low on cash. The phone came with 10 free minutes, but I had no idea how to add minutes, except to go to a Tabac with the “Orange” logo in the window, according to the store proprietor. At least my phone seemed to be working, although all the instructions were in French.

I went back home and dialed the number Matthew had given me for the Bank of America Fraud Department. Much to my shock, after I answered a surprisingly few questions, including the amount of my last deposit, the lady told me she had removed the block, and I was free to use the card. Only 48 hours in Paris, and I had a cell phone that worked (with practically no time left on it) Internet service (that seemed to disconnect about every five minutes) and an ATM card that supposedly worked. My triumph was confirmed when I used it successfully to pay for dinner.

Over the weekend I got enough cash from an ATM to pay my rent on Monday and hoped that I could use the card to pay my tuition the first day of class.

I had to get more minutes on my phone. I walked around for miles looking for the Tabac with an Orange decal in the window. I found days later they were all over the place, but somehow I couldn’t see them.

I wandered down Rue de Vaugirard to a typical Paris neighborhood outside the tourist area. I reached Rue Convention (which I heard pronounced something like "Covason," with the French nasal sound on the”n”). A public market was in full bloom along the sidewalk. I walked by and looked at and smelled the yellows, greens, oranges and what seemed like every other color of every fresh vegetable on earth. There were tables of dozens of different cheeses, others of olives and breads and pastries and desserts made from the fruits and, of course, chocolate. There were snails and insides and brains of various animals and chicken, pork, beef, lamb, duck and birds I didn’t recognize and more different kinds of fish than I had ever seen–long and skinny, round, flat, filets, red, blue, orange, white and pink. The absence of odor indicated they were fresh. The food booths went on for several blocks, and it took a half hour to get through the crowds stopping to buy. On the other side of the street were the arts and crafts booths, including antiques and used stuff, the French version of a flea market: china, silver, tools and artwork that probably were hundreds of years old. People were selling family heirlooms, some of it mundane—old screwdrivers—some of it beautiful—hand painted dishes and hand sewn scarves. Many Parisians spent a large part of their Sundays selling, buying and just looking. The numerous cafes were brimming with happy people, and I witnessed for the first time the real café culture of the Paris I had read about, where people meet socially to eat, drink, gossip and debate.

On my way back toward the dorm I saw a Tabac with an Orange decal on the window. I handed over 25 euro–a number from a chart on the wall–and my phone to a woman behind a counter who kindly did whatever was necessary to add minutes to my phone. I had no idea how many minutes I had, and I didn’t understand that no matter how many I had, they would expire in a certain period of time, although she probably told me all that. I learned later from pushing buttons on the phone that for my 25 euro I had bought 60 minutes that expired in 60 days. With an acceptable debit card, wireless Internet and a working cell phone, I felt like I could breathe for the first time since I had landed in Paris.

The next day was my first day of class. I went early to pay, and my debit card worked. The lady, who spoke fairly good English, gave me my student I.D. Card and told me to go to Room F2. After finding out from a guard where Room F2 was–in another building around the corner–I sat down in a green plastic chair in front of a small school desk near the front so I could hear the teacher. After everyone had introduced themselves, the teacher, a tiny young woman with a big voice, began to speak in French. It didn’t matter that I could hear her. I couldn’t understand a word she said. After a while, she apparently asked us to pair off, because that is what everybody started to do. I paired off with the young woman sitting next to me, and we repeated after the teacher, “Bon jour. Comment allez-vous,” etc. Beyond the first few words, I had no idea what I was saying. For four hours I don’t think I understood more than a half dozen words the teacher said. I was the second worst student in the class, and this was going to be some challenge. The worst student dropped out after two days. I learned from another English speaking student that we were supposed to have two textbooks, and she told me where to buy them. Nobody had told me I needed to buy these books (at least not in English), despite my multiple trips to the school and prior email communications, an accurate predictor of what I was to learn later is the French lack of attention to detail.

The days that followed were mostly a blur. For four more days I listened intently to the teacher for four hours a day and understood almost nothing. It was especially disheartening not to understand what she was asking us to do during class, while most of the other students understood, and not to understand the homework assignment. The school insisted that the class was for beginners only, but it became apparent that most of the students already knew some French. By the end of the first week, one of the students was happily bantering in French with the teacher, when I couldn’t even utter a complete sentence. I was discouraged and disheartened. I was used to being one of the best in any class.

My solution was to study most of my waking hours. The class was from 9:00 to 1:00. It took me two hours to walk home, check and respond to email and eat lunch. At 3:00 I studied for an hour, and then met with another American student and studied with her for an hour. I broke for an hour, studied again from 6:00 to 8:00, then went out to dinner. I usually went to bed around 10:00 or 11:00. I got up between 5:00 and 6:00, showered and ate some fruit, did my homework, then at 8:00 walked to my favorite café and had coffee, sometimes taking vocabulary along to try to memorize. I met a friend for dinner one night, but I didn’t study much less, just slept less. I was never so happy to see Friday come. I knew I would burn myself out if I kept up that schedule. I told myself that I was learning every day, just not as fast as the rest of the class. Friday night I had dinner with another friend who was in Paris working for a few months. I planned to study Saturday and take Sunday off to visit the Musee d’Orsay.

The line to get in the Musee d’Orsay was long, but as I remembered from my two previous trips to Paris in 1999 and 2007, the impressionist art stirred me deep inside. There is nothing I can say about Monet, Sisley, Degas, Renoir, Casset and the others that hasn’t been said better than I can say it. My visit that day showed me why I came to Paris.

I didn’t change my study habits much the second week. I embarrassed myself several times in class, not understanding what the teacher was asking us to do. I was so tired I didn’t go to class Friday. For the first time I thought about quitting and studying French from the CD’s and book I had from the U.S. Foreign Service Institute.

I had a marvelous meal at Bistro Kenz that second week—veal in a sauce that made my tummy smile. I also had some marvelous mussels—as good as Boston’s–in central Paris near the Bastille with Justine, my friend from Natalie Goldberg’s writing workshops, her father, her son Max, a friend of hers and another student of Natalie Goldberg, Dorotea. Justine invited me to visit her family’s farmhouse in rural, southwest France the next weekend. I happily accepted. The hell with staying home and studying French!

I successfully opened a bank account at a bank near the dorm, but failed to get Bank of America to transfer my money there. I don’t think the Bank people I exchanged emails with knew how it is done, guessed and gave a procedure that doesn’t work—an international wire by Western Union. That couldn’t be right. There had to be a procedure for Bank of America to wire the money to my bank in Paris, HSBC. Everything is difficult in France. I never got my money transferred. I simply used my debit card to withdraw money from Bank of America and deposited it in my HSBC account.

Chapter Two

A Weekend In Rural Southwest France

I took the train to a small hamlet south of Poitier in the southwest corner of France to Justine’s family farmhouse. The same friends were there, as well as her son, Max. As with most things in France, the trip was difficult. I missed the connecting train in Poitier because our train from Paris was late. Before another connecting train arrived, the loudspeaker near the track blared, telling us that a tree had fallen on the track somewhere between there and our destination, Bellac, and we would be bussed to Bellac. I knew that only because one of the other passengers (from Germany) spoke English and told me. I finally arrived around 11:40 pm, and Justine was there to meet me. The drive to her family’s farmhouse in the tiny hamlet of Ville Favard was only 10 minutes. I soon went to bed.

During that three-hour train ride it finally hit me that I was studying too much, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere. I was learning some French every day, but I was missing out on a big part of why I moved to Paris, to immerse myself, not just in its language, but in its art, music, culture, and the beauty of its country side. If I kept spending all my discretionary time studying French, I would soon burn out and want to go home. I realized that learning French was going to be a long-term project, probably during the entire time I lived in Paris. I planned a new schedule: four hours in class, of course; homework, which took no more than an hour; an hour with my study partner; and one more hour of study. That was 6 to 7 hours a day. I planned to go out in the evening, write in my journal, visit friends and soak up Paris. I decided that when the four-week intensive course was finished, I would accept whatever French I had learned and either hire a tutor or return to Alliance Francais for a much less rigorous course—no more than six hours a week.

I awoke in the farmhouse in Ville Favard to the splendor of rural France. Out my window were multiple shades of green––pines, maples, trees that weren’t familiar, and an expanse of lime green grass. A pond lay still across from the grass reflecting its darkness and the morning sun. After I made coffee in the country kitchen with its heavy old wood table, stone floor and modern appliances, including a Krupp’s coffee maker, I couldn’t wait to go outside. I slow walked down a path to a grassy area surrounded by roses in pinks and reds, the kind you can smell walking next to them.

A herd of golden brown cattle grazed across the pond and drank from it. They are meat cows, Justine said later. She told me they were the cows of this region of France. In the south the cows are white and in the north they are black and white. It is against the law in France to feed meat cattle hormones, antibiotics or other chemicals. I walked around the property gazing at the ponds, trees and red and yellow flowers in front of the house. Justine told me her great-great grandfather bought the farm in the late Nineteenth Century. It was a working farm then. Her family had lived in it all or part of each year since. She showed me albums she had organized that showed in photos and text some of the history of the house and the hamlet. Her family lived there during the German occupation, she said. She showed me a cover of Time Magazine picturing her great grandfather, who was the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra for many years.

I went back in the house for breakfast, leaving the birdsong and the green aroma. The house smelled of wood and in places something like sweet pipe tobacco. The morning was cool, but the afternoon would be hot, Justine said. The house is three stories. I didn’t count the rooms. There must be more than a dozen, including six or seven bedrooms, all furnished in heavy, old wood with floors of stone, partly covered in some rooms with rugs of red and blue. The doors are heavy and some don’t shut easily. Everything about the house, except the modern appliances, is big, heavy and old. There are old books and art everywhere. I felt a sense of permanence in this old house, even though I know that it, like everything, is temporary, and my enjoyment of it even more so. A bell in the hamlet church across the road chimed, as it did every hour and half hour. It was real French country. People, as well as time, moved slowly. The ambiance was part of what I came to France to enjoy. I hoped that when I went back to French school I would take some of it with me.

We had a lunch of green salad, cold beet soup, three local cheeses, strawberries, French bread and afterwards tea and chocolates. I sat on the lawn in the shade of huge old trees, pine and I don’t know what with my tea and chocolate and watched the cows chew and drink. It soothed my mind and body to sit on the grass and watch the cows. I didn’t study French at Ville Favard.

After lunch I went for an hour’s walk, heading down the road away from Ville Favord, past the church with the bells that rang every half hour. I came to a grassy, but well traveled path to the left adjacent to a lake, bigger than the one in front of Justine’s house. I took the path. The trees by the path, emerald and lime green, were thick, but the dark green lake showed through. I wondered if people fished in it. In about a half mile I heard a diesel engine and soon saw a tractor with a farmer perched on it, smiling. I kept on the path, but when I got closer, the farmer yelled at me. I don’t think he was angry. He just had to yell for me to hear him above the roar of the tractor engine. But it didn’t matter, because I couldn’t understand a word of his French. I don’t know if he was being friendly or telling me to go away, so I waived and smiled at him and turned around and went back.

I continued walking on the road and came to a carrifour (crossroads, according to my electronic French-English dictionary) with a monument dedicated to the end of France’s war with Algeria. The undulating fields beyond were as green as I had seen in Ireland and the south island of New Zealand, light where the cattle had eaten, dark where they hadn’t. The trees shaded a portion of the fields, turning them a deep, dark green. They stretched to the horizon. I passed the lake and the church again. Justine had told me there used to be a Catholic church on her family’s property, but the people in the hamlet tore it down in the Nineteenth Century and built the Protestant church across the road. I passed through the hamlet—stone house after stone house decorated with some red brick. The sun was warm and the air humid. The sweat dripped down my face, and I felt thirsty, so I turned around, returned to Justine’s and swilled water from the tap.

I rested from the heat in the hammock in the yard, looking out at the pond and the cows, thinking what a great writing retreat we could have here. After a while I got up and wrote in my journal for a couple of hours. We had a late dinner of baked chicken, couscous and cabbage salad. I read some and went to bed.

The next day Justine’s aunts and uncles were expected for brunch. Justine and her friend, Heather, cooked a lamb stew, gazpacho and prepared more cabbage salad. Before the relatives came I took another walk and meditated for a half hour on the sun porch. I focused on the sounds of someone playing the piano in the parlor.

Justine’s relatives spoke some English, so at brunch I could speak with them some and listen to their French. I even managed to tell them at least partly in French that I was studying French at Alliance Francais for an eight-week course. What was more surprising—I think they understood me.

After an uneventful train ride back to Paris, I enjoyed a chicken dinner in Saint Germain, returned to the dorm, responded to my email, and for an hour studied a little French.

Chapter Three

Enough of Alliance Francais

I continued suffering through the agony of French class for another week. I had the French Basic Course from the Foreign Service Institute, Department of State, recommended by my friend Walt. It consists of 20 CDs and a 470-page book of exercises, drills, conversations and grammar. The grammar is explained in English. That was part of the problem in class. The teacher taught only in French, so she explained the grammar in French. I couldn’t understand it. I had to come home and look it up in the book. When I played the CDs and listened to the conversation in French, what I didn’t understand I could play as many times as I needed. I couldn’t do that in class. I also couldn’t ask the teacher questions, because she did not allow any English. What is missing in the Foreign Service Institute program is live conversation—you just repeat to yourself the conversation that is on the CD and do written exercises.

When I got home from class at the end of the third week, I looked at the Foreign Service Institute book and listened to part of the first CD. I decided to quit Alliance Francais, study from the Foreign Service book and CD’s and hire a tutor. My muscles were tense, and I felt bad, like a quitter. I usually don’t quit what I’m trying to accomplish. But if this class was not going to accomplish what I wanted, it made sense to quit. I prepared a schedule for six days a week: two hours with the book and CD in the morning, 2 hours in the afternoon, five days a week and two hours with a tutor the sixth. Sundays I would take off. The book states that it is designed for six hours a day. There is a second book and set of CD’s. At six hours a day, the entire course—both sets—should be completed in six months, and, according to the book, I should be able to participate effectively in most formal and informal conversations in French. I’d give myself a year, since I was only going to study four hours a day—so there would be time to have a life–and I seem to be slower than average. I can study when I travel. I Googled French tutors in Paris on the Internet and found several that seemed appropriate in a wide range of rates—15 to 50 euro an hour.

After a couple of hours my nerves and sadness turned to relief. I listened to the CD for an hour and went to my favorite bistro, Bistro Kenz, for a dinner of rare, thin sliced, cold roast beef, lean; green salad and a potato salad like I’ve never tasted before. I don’t like American potato salad, but this was fabulous—firm chunks of potato, a creamy sauce with onion, vinegar, lemon, basil and I couldn’t identify the other spices, but no mayonnaise, at least, not the kind we have in America. Maybe it was French mayonnaise, a la Julia Child. A glass of vin rouge topped it off. The total cost was 15 euro, a little less than twenty dollars.

The next day I woke up feeling so good not to have to go to class and be humiliated. After my morning coffee at my favorite café, Les Voluntaires, and a croissant I treated myself to, I hunkered down at my desk and listened to the CD’s with the textbook in front of me, two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon, as I had scheduled. I got through the part of the first unit I had planned and was able to repeat the entire conversation and memorized the new vocabulary words. I felt the lightness of satisfaction with a job well done.

Between study sessions I walked down a street I had never been on before, sat outside at a brassiere and had a tasty vegetable salad with smoked salmon for lunch. Then I went shopping for breakfast stuff—a baguette and fruit. I ate breakfast at home––avocado spread on a hunk of baguette, and fruit—always a banana, and an apple or raspberries, strawberries, kiwi or peach. I hadn’t been able to find blueberries, my customary breakfast fruit back home. I looked for peanut butter, but couldn’t find any. Other things I was used to were hard to find, such as, Chap Stick, dental floss and Kleenex. Pharmacies in Paris are like ours used to be–mostly prescription drugs and over-the-counter medications. They don’t carry the wide variety of stuff that CVS and Rite Aid carry. Super markets are not as super. Eventually I found Chap Stick, dental floss and tissues, but not peanut butter—all part of the adventure.

After my afternoon study session, I went to Café Voluntaires and sipped on a glass of wine at an outdoor table on the corner of Vaugirard and Voluntaires, a major intersection in the 15th Arrondissement. The people-watching was superb. A man rode by on his bicycle and barked like a dog at a pedestrian. Everybody laughed, even the pedestrian. Another man set up a professional looking video camera on a tripod and took video of the intersection. I don’t know why, and my French was not good enough to ask him. Pretty women and handsome men walked by, together and separately. Children rode scooters and skateboards. Little girls with their mothers strode by in fancy dresses going to some function. A group of teenage boys appeared across the street wearing Brazilian soccer paraphernalia shouting in Portuguese, I assumed.

I finished my wine and walked down Rue du Voluntaries toward the Eiffel Tower looming in the background, reflecting the 8:00 pm sun. I walked for a mile or so, almost to the Tower and spotted a Spanish restaurant, went in and sat down. The World Cup Quarter Final between Spain and Portugal was about to start on the big screen TV. The small restaurant mirrored in tiny image what was going on in the football stadium. Men were standing in front of tables, facing the TV and waiving flags. Women in shirts of the Spanish team cheered. The game hadn’t even started yet. I sat there watching the game, but mostly the people coming and going, and ate tapas. At halftime I walked home, feeling good.

Chapter Four

The Adventures of Everyday Life In Paris

I listened to the rain pound the gravel and nourish the flowers in the courtyard below. After a day of 92 degrees with humidity, the welcome cool air wafted through my double windows and cooled me while I sat at my computer. The exploding thunder shook the building as if bombs were falling, and the lightening lit up my world like giant camera flashes. I got up and lay on my bed listening and watching. I felt down emotionally.

I had maintained my French study schedule, around four hours a day. But I hated studying French. I probably wouldn’t have hated it if I’d had any confidence that at the end of the road I could converse in French, but I feared I would never understand or be understood. The subtle nuances of the pronunciation were difficult to learn and hard for me to hear. But I decided to keep at it because four weeks wasn’t giving it a fair chance. At least, the Foreign Service CD’s and book were working better for me than the Alliance Francais class, and I’d had my first appointment with a tutor. He explained grammar rules in English when I didn’t understand his French, and he answered my questions in English. He asked me questions in French and explained in English what I didn’t understand, which was a lot. When I responded in French, he corrected my many mistakes. He was patient, and I liked that he wrote down what was correct when I made a mistake so I could study it at home. He also wrote down grammar rules.

Even with the improvement in learning French, I was feeling so down that I had thought of leaving France and going to Italy, but that thought passed.

Eventually, my spirits improved. I went to my favorite café around 6:00, sat outside and people-watched for a couple of hours, and sipped on a glass of Rhone. I also treated myself to a meal at Bistro Kenz—filet of beef in a foie gras sauce and yummy fried herb potatoes with a glass of a 1997 Bordeaux that the proprietor gave me for the same price as their house wine. I was beginning to appreciate the subtleties of French wine. The Bordeaux was complex, yet smooth, with the cabernet nose and flavor coming through and a long, long finish. The meal was only 20 euro ($25). It isn’t true that you can’t get a bad meal in Paris, but there were so many that were amazing.

One evening I took a long walk to the Eiffel Tower, but the wait was more than two hours, so I didn’t go up. A friend had told me that you could get a good meal in the restaurant and a great view of Paris. Walking back I stopped at a seafood brassiere and had a plate of oysters on the half shell with two Jumbo shrimp and a green salad. The oysters were superb, as good as the many wonderful oysters I devoured in Boston. I had no idea where they came from. I was surprised when I was served 10 and then realized—duh—the metric system. They wouldn’t serve a half dozen or a dozen. Those numbers are not in their mindset.

I was spending a great deal of time in my room—too much. It rained a lot, and I kept waiting for it to stop until I realized I didn’t need to do that. The forecasters seemed to always predict a 30% chance of rain. That way they couldn’t be wrong. I wanted to get out and meet people. Finally, I did something to make that happen. I called my friend, Dorotea, who stayed at Justine’s family farmhouse. She and her boyfriend were in town for a few days before they returned to Brooklyn. I also called a friend of Walt’s and Janet’s, Geoff, who had been Corporate Counsel for eBay Europe. He was living in Paris and speaks French and English. In Paris people don’t respond to phone calls and emails as promptly as they do in the United States, Etats Unis, as they say in French––the second “t” silent. All the silent letters in French are frustrating to an English speaker, and the worst part is that a letter in a word that is normally silent is not silent if it is at the end of the word, and the first letter of the next word is a vowel. Then the silent letter is spoken as if it were the first letter of the next word. I could go on and on, but I won’t.

After I met with my tutor I strolled through the Tuileries, which made me feel better. I walked to the public market and bought food for breakfasts and lunches and treated myself to a late ham and cheese omelet at a café by the market. I found it curious that although omelets are very popular in French eating establishments, even for dinner, they invariably offer only ham and/or cheese—no other ingredients. Innovation and flexibility are not common French traits.

I awoke one morning in late July with a sore throat, that achy feeling, and I felt awful. I kept studying French in bed, and after three days, I felt much better. I was doubtful of how proficient I would become in French, but I would accept whatever the results were. My purpose was to enjoy and develop an understanding of French culture and art. I was determined not to let my frustration with the language get in the way. I vowed to get out more. I did a few routine errands: bought more minutes on my phone; picked up my debit card at HSBC, so that I had one American card and one French card in case one did not work; and bought fruit and bread for breakfasts. As I did these errands, I realized that Paris was beginning to feel a little more like home.

I reached Dorotea, and she invited me to meet her and her partner, Matthew, at a British Pub in the Bastille neighborhood. She said they were drinking beer and watching the World Cup match between Uruguay and the Netherlands. I got lost trying to find the pub and saw more of the Bastille neighborhood than I had planned. I saw many more tourists in this neighborhood than in mine, and it was livelier, even at midnight on a Tuesday.

After a short, but lovely visit with my daughter Marsha, son-in-law Tony and their baby, Tate, almost four months old, in Virginia, I returned to Paris. I had survived Virginia mosquitoes, my daughter’s three dogs and the moodiness of a four month old, all in good spirits. I was relieved to see Marsha so happy as a new mother, after her struggles with the birth and the first couple of months with a premature baby. I always knew she was a nurturer, which she shows by the way she looks at that baby—the pure, unconditional love of a woman that should be a mother––mixed with wonder and disbelief.

I landed at Charles de Gaul at 6:30 in the morning and flew through customs and immigration. The train ride home was equally uneventful. I felt joyful walking down Rue Vaugirard from the Metro Station toward the dorm. It really felt like going home. I was surprised.

I had to move out of the dorm in three weeks, so I looked for and found with surprising ease an apartment not far away in an even better part of the Fifteenth Arrondissement around the corner from the public market. I still had to submit my financial documentation, but if that was approved, I would have a studio apartment with a kitchen. I was thrilled at the thought of buying fresh, French grown vegetables, chicken, fish, lamb, rabbit and beef at the public market and cooking it. Going out would then be a special treat.

I noticed the water running down the gutter of my street, which I’d seen on many Paris streets. I followed it to its source, which was a whole in the gutter, water rushing out. Where it originally came from, I didn’t know, nor did I know its purpose, unless it was to keep the gutters clean. If so, it worked. Paris, with water rushing down its gutters like an Alaskan stream, trash pick-up multiple times per week and street sweepers every night (actually very early morning) kept Paris the cleanest city I had ever seen. I knew that the tourist area of Central Paris was clean. I was surprised that they also kept the outlying arrondissements clean.

After a meeting with my tutor, I walked around the neighborhood. It was a glorious Paris neighborhood of art galleries, cafes and music venues. I vowed to go back at night and take in some music. That night I was greeted by Gabrielle at Bistro Kenz with a glass of Champagne and the traditional kisses on both cheeks. I had a delicious rum steak and salad. I couldn’t resist a bowl of local strawberries for dessert. They reminded me of California strawberries, so sweet, floating in their own juice.

One Saturday about 8:00 I got on the Metro and headed for Montmartre. I had been there in 2007 and remembered it for its music. When I looked around after getting off the Metro and climbing what seemed like a thousand steps, people swarmed the streets that looked like a hip Disney World. Unlike my neighborhood in the Fifteenth, where people always seemed to be going somewhere—to work, home, to visit a friend, out to eat, to the grocery store, the boulangerie or somewhere––in Montmartre, whether walking briskly or strolling, they just looked around, like they were trying to find something or somebody.

The first two cafes I spotted had no empty outdoor tables. Within a few yards I heard a dozen languages spoken. I found a café with an empty table, ordered a small pichet of white wine and began people watching.

The first thing I noticed was that there seemed to be few American tourists. Most were European. I wondered if it was the effect of the American recession. A young couple sat on the ground a few feet away, resting, speaking Spanish. Two bottles of wine sat between them. Couples walked by, wives or girl friends pointing at things. I don’t know what. There seemed to be nothing around except cafes and across the way a park with huge trees that covered the entire park, the type of park you see in European cities and on the east coast of the United States, but not in southern California. I remembered walking on this street, Rue des Abbesses in 2007. It felt different not being a tourist—more relaxing—no need to be in a hurry to see anything. I have two years to see whatever I want, I thought. It was a relief to not be studying French in my apartment, though I had my notebook out and glanced at my French vocabulary from time to time.

A man walked by in light brown leather pants, a darker brown leather vest, a beige hat with a brim not quite as wide as a cowboy hat, a dress shirt and a red bow tie. He walked by several times, the last time carrying a baguette. He must live here, I thought. I wondered what it’s like in winter when there aren’t as many tourists. I would find out. The tables were pushed together as close as possible, touching. Had I understood more than English, I could have heard everything the couples around me were saying. Most of the people were couples. I saw few people alone. I guess Paris is a couples sort of place—the city of love, or is it light? It’s a good thing cigarette smoke doesn’t bother me. A dozen people within 20 feet were smoking. A lot of Africans walked by, some in native costume. I didn’t know if they lived in Paris or were tourists. It’s sad that the French don’t treat their African residents any better than we do, maybe worse.

I saw a lot of people pointing to some steps nearby that descended to another street. When I finished and paid for my wine, I walked down the steps and followed a street to the right. There was Pigalle. I had heard Pigalle in recent years—maybe not so recent—had turned into a place to watch and perhaps get sex, and I noticed pictures and ads for lap dancers and nude shows and the like. I walked a couple of blocks. It all looked the same. As I waited for a signal light, a young man approached me and, in English, asked me to come to his bar down the way and have a drink. He said there were pretty girls there. Why not, I thought, so I followed him.

He took me inside, standing close to me, but not quite touching me. He pointed to a booth with black curtains that could be closed. I sat down. He said the drink would be ten euro. Just then an attractive brunette, nicely dressed in black, about 35, I guessed, sat down next to me and started talking in English. I don’t remember what she said. I do remember her putting her hand on my thigh. That finally jarred me to the realization that the place was a brothel. I thanked her and got up. The man who had escorted me came rushing over along with another woman, with a very short skirt and low cut blouse. They both urged me to stay, saying they would provide me with another woman. I told them no, that I had decided to leave and rushed out, clutching my bag to my body. They followed me to the door, urging me to stay, but didn’t physically restrain me. I sighed when I got out the door.

I walked back to Montmartre and heard music coming from a bar. I went in and sat down. It looked like a hip American bar from the ‘90’s. Looking around at the male couples, I concluded it was a gay bar, but nobody was paying any attention to me, except the female bartender, who asked me in English what I wanted to drink. I ordered a Margarita. Soon after, a young man sitting at a table with an older woman announced in French that it was his mother’s birthday and in her honor he was going to buy everybody—about 8 people––a drink. The bartender told me in English, but I had understood what he said. I didn’t want another drink, but didn’t feel like I could refuse. I sat at the bar, nursing my drinks and listening to the band playing a little French music, but mostly American music from the ‘70’s.

At 10:00 I was hungry and asked the bartender to recommend a good seafood restaurant. The place she recommended was crowded, but they accommodated one person. It was noisy and smoke filled—I had an outside table. I ordered a salad, escargot and mussels, and they were delicious, but expensive. I couldn’t afford it often, but I felt like I had been out to the part of Paris where the artists used to hang out, even if it was now mostly a tourist destination. I appreciated the history.

Chapter Five

Joy And Frustration

I took the Metro to the Tuileries Gardens, a vast plot of land between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. The Louvre was the Royal Palace before one of the Louie’s couldn’t stand it and built the new palace in Versailles. What is now the Tuileries were the royal gardens. They served as a camp for German soldiers during the occupation. Now, like Central Park in New York, they provide a place of serenity, more or less, in the middle of central Paris. I say, “more or less” because, like Central Park, it is jammed with tourists during the summer. Unlike Central Park, it is full of art—not only the Louvre, but the Musee L’Orangerie, and I didn’t count them, but I would guess dozens of sculptures. There are two huge fountains, both surrounded by ponds. On Sunday people hung out sunning themselves, sitting on the chairs that encircle the fountains. Others sat in the shade on benches under the trees. Flowers of every color bloomed at intervals along the paths around the sculptures. On one side was a carnival that boasts the largest Ferris wheel in France. It was the biggest one I had seen until I saw The Eye in London.

I strolled among the trees and flowers for a while. The weather was perfect—sun and clear skies. Temperatures were in the low 80’s around noon. I walked through the gardens to the Musee L’Orangerie. I had read about a special Paul Klee exhibition that I thought was almost over. When I got there I was disappointed. There was a line that didn’t seem to move, and I guessed it was two hours to get in. I spotted a sign—the Klee exhibition ended the next day, a Monday. I decided to get out of line and go when it first opened Monday.

I walked slowly the length of the gardens up to the Louvre. There was an even longer line there. I decided to make my visits to the Louvre in the winter when there wouldn’t be as many tourists. I eyed the Ferris wheel. It was a perfect day for a ride––clear and sunny. The view would be magnificent. I walked over to the carnival, and the line at the Ferris wheel was short. They gave me a seat by myself and up we went. The Eiffel Tower appeared behind me, the Musee d’Orsay to my left, the Pompidou Center, the City Hall, the National Assembly—all the famous buildings of Paris. And to my right the only hill in Paris—Montmartre, which looks much better from a distance than it does when you’re there. Yet, you don’t get the feeling of being where the great artists hung out when you see it from a hundred feet up, several miles away. I went around three times before it stopped.

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