Simple Pleasures.....

Bonjour Tout le Monde,

So one of the things that I've been thinking of today is that, even here in Paris, being surrounded by some of the greatest buildings and monuments in the world, I find some of the greatest joys in the simple things of life.
Now, here I must warn you, if you continue to read on you may be surprised by my sentimentality. On the outside I may appear to be a fairly rational, level-headed girl, but I am actually a hopeless romantic...an aspect of my personality that is hard to stifle in a city such as this. For those of you who are rolling your eyes now, you may want to turn back, I wax a bit poetic (some have said melodramatic, but I dont approve of that word) at times... (;



So today I discovered what I believe will become one of my haunts here, if the owners allow it. It is one of the countless little bookstores around the city, and one which, I believe, has actually won some renown--apparently it was a favorite refuge of such literary geniuses as Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Stein. It is called Shakespeare and Company (some of you, doubtless, have heard of it), and I am absolutely in love with it. As many of you know, you could count on my approval of such a nooke simply on its function of safegaurding the treasures that I love (many of you have seen how hopelessly lost I become in the smallest of bookstores); however, this one already seems to have a higher claim on my affections. Its a well-stocked store, of course...but its true merit lies above the heads of many of its patrons.

The second story of the bookstore (in my eyes) is nothing short of magical. All of the books found here are not for sale, which perhaps is a blessing, for then you would be required to choose one from the overwhelming mass. The smell of time-worn pages greets you like an old friend as you ascend the steps; there are three or four rooms, each containing wall-to wall shelves piled high and overflowing to neat stacks on the floor and tables. There are countless volumes of Dickens, Tolstoy, Balzac, Browning, Moliere....each one stamped with a distinct personality and appearance: the once-periwinkle blue cover of Kidnapped or the dilapidated face of a stained Ben Hur. And then the rows of philosophy works which tower over the rooms, perched on the very top of the rows of shelves. If books had faces, I believe these would be the wizened old men of the group; perhaps smoking a cigar and hemming and hawwing as they rebuke me on my ignorance of their contents with a disapproving glare. Each one of them has an effect on me--some are unknown, many are faded memories of forgotten friends, others are stories forever etched onto my heart; yet each seems to be a citadel to another existence entirely.



To add to all this book-infused reverie, in the corner there sits a student in a sort of mini-cubicle built into the wall. His surrounding walls are plastered with scraps of poetry and prose; he is writing. The whirring hum of the old-fashioned typewriter follows me about the room as I wander, snapping away insistently. Soon it stops, giving way to a different lullaby as the faceless poet begins to recite his recent lines back to himself. In the next room, to my right, I see an ill-made bed abutting one of the wall-to-wall bookshelves. Here abides one of the starving artists of Paris. (:
I admit I almost envy him his abode--to sleep amongst such a collection is a privilege it seems, and then to click away all day long in such a place! But perhaps here, I may even admit, I'm getting a bit carried away...

A posted sign says that others are welcome to browse and read here, since the books are not available to purchase ( I wouldn't sell a collection like that either!!) and so I'm hoping I can return often and read and study here, providing the owners dont get tired of my visits. I admit I didn't want to ever leave. Haha. It's so wonderful.

This city can be intoxicating. Living in the residential part of the city, it's easy to get caught up in my schedule, what I'm doing, etc...or to become just the tourist, snapping pictures of each famous monument. But occasionally, walking around, I catch a glimpse of the Paris I love so well...the haunt of poets, artists, romantics (:
The history comes to life. The stones I'm walking on are suddenly the same that Hemingway used to tread upon. The Notre Dame is the same which Hugo looked upon as he dreamt up Quasimodo. The street vendors sell works of art just as Picasso did in his youth. The timeless city which has nurtured such young hearts and dreams as mine since its creation lies at my feet and life seems to freeze for that one moment. These moments are priceless.

Okay, I feel I have gotten all my romantacism out of my for the day. I am now eating a fresh fruit tart and drinking a coffee as I listen to Norah Jones...more simple pleasures that you just can't buy.

Miss you all. Forgive my poet's eye if its a bit more than you're used to. Haha. Good night to all! (: