Light-skinned-ed Girl

Finding Miss Lala: A New Face

Yesterday, I was ecstatic to hold in my hands images of Miss Lala that (I think) have never been published before.  (Here is a fuzzy snapshot of one of them.)  The day got even better when I actually located her for several months in 1883!  I was getting mad at Miss Lala before those discoveries.  Why would she erase her life so thoroughly and make me spend unfruitful days in a library basement when I could be soaking up the sun in a Parisian cafe?  Maybe she wants her story told afterall.

Small Pleasure #5: Sitting at the Desk

. . . writing and looking out the window at the sky above and the people below . 

Finding Miss Lala

Eureka!  I found an image of Miss Lala that hasn't been published before.  Hooray.  Hooray.  The catalogue does not list her name in the title so it was only by chance that I discovered the image!  Tomorrow another big day at the library.  It's a scary place, akin to a giant underground spaceship.  More on the experience in the coming posts.  But I think I'm getting a hang of the place--even with my VERY rusty French.

Small Pleasure #4: A French Library Card

It is my goal to have the most library cards of anyone EVER.  I love the library.

Yesterday, I received my library card for the Bibliotheque Nationale, France's national library, "the library of last resort," as the library's website states.  Yeah!

Some Paris Without Words

Ethnic Lego Girls Carry Spears

Please read my first published piece of flash fiction.  (Flash fiction is an extremely short story: 200-1000 words generally.)  It won't take you long to read.  My story, Ethnic Lego Girls Carry Spears, is about 350 words long and appears in the distinguished journal, Smokelong Quarterly.  You can also read the accompanying interview.

Paris: the work, the play, the break

Here's how I've spent the last few days:

Friday: I met with a talented trapeze artist, Jane Allen, who gave me a tour of the French circus school, Academie Fratellini.  She helped me understand more about the peripatetic life of a circus performer and the experience of trapeze performance.  And she was just fun to talk to--a transplanted Brit who is also a Pilates instructor and who speaks (at least) five languages.  She introduced me to the Paris canals where we ate a little Mexican joint.  The canal area is a charming, up-and-coming neighborhood akin to New York's Lower East Side now.

Saturday: A break from Paris.  (Yes, go ahead and chuckle, I didn't need a break from Paris just needed to go home for a couple of days.)  I flew to New York City.  Ah, the weather couldn't have been better.  Saw an afternoon matinee at Signature Theatre.  Go see Iphigenia 2.0 if you are in New York.  Tickets are only $20 and it's an amazing show starring Star Trek's Capt. Janeway.  But the young cast is incredible too.  If you want to think and you want to see art that is relevant to our time, and find new ways to talk about this unending war we're in -- go see the show.

Sunday: Again, a beautiful New York Day.  A wonderful workout at the gym.  A trip to Strand Books where I picked up, among other things, a great book so far called The Ordeal of Elizabeth Marsh, about a biracial travel writer and adventurer of the 18th century.  And then a movie, that new western that's out.  If you like that kind of movie, you might like it.  No need for me to give it more publicity.

Monday: Time for sushi!  And then the long flight back to Paris--where I am again!  Bonjour!  I continue my adventures in Paris -- please stay tuned.

En Bonne Forme: A Petit Jog Along the Seine

And now back to Paris:

In my normal life I am an exercise fiend.  When I had a serious bout of writer's block, it was training for and then running marathons that helped me out of my rut.  I was not a runner (still am not) but I learned that if I just kept running--yes, a simple lesson, but profound for me--I really could complete the mileage, the race, the book.  It was also my exercise fanaticism that led me to discover Miss Lala when I was interested in body sculpting.  I first learned of her at an art exhibition of female bodybuilder images.

For the last week, my exercise has been walking, and climbing the stairs of the Metro, Montmartre, and the Arc de Triomphe.  Not bad exercise, but there's nothing like a good sweat.

So, this morning I took un petit jog along the Seine.  I ran by the Hotel de Ville across the Pont Notre Dame and continued west.  There were a few other joggers out--most likely Americans.  They were men with office-job bodies: bellies that shook slightly, and pectoral muscles that were turning to squishy man boobs.  They had office tshirts on: Accenture and Goldman Sachs.  There were tourists in packs--Italian and Japanese.  And there was the steady hum of the quickening morning traffic.  I ran along the Left Bank and then the pay off:

As I crossed the Pont des Arts: a stunning view of the Louvre and to my right the sun was just rising over the Notre Dame, illuminating the cathedral with a gorgeous yellow-orange light.

I must try that again.  But the final question is: Does this mean that I've exercised off of my thighs one of the croissants that I've gobbled daily or does this mean today I can have one more?

An Update on My Brother

My brother has ended his protest in front of the Alibi karaoke bar.  Although the bar's management did not extend an apology to him, my brother felt that he had drawn enough attention to his unjust treatment.  The long hours he spent demonstrating with his sign also were beginning to take a toll on his health.   Ultimately, he was buoyed by the encouraging comments from others as a result of the press coverage.   He's happily found a new spot, Chopsticks II Express, that is far more welcoming!

Paris and Rugby Don't Mix!

Dear Paris,

Yes, it is quite charming to see the giant screen in front of the Hotel de Ville and the people picnicking on the grass as they watch the rugby games in this glorious September weather.  Yes, those roosters--painted in the vein of the cows that made their debut in New York City--make a great display in the plaza.  And yes, it must be nice to have so much tourist money flowing in.  But really, the rugby player infusion in Paris has the same seedy feeling that NBA All-Star games often have.  Yes, that bad! 

For the past several days, men--with and without kilts--have taken over the city.  And I'm afraid they are giving the rugby crowd (and kilt-wearers) a bad name.  They carry open bottles and cups of beer on the streets and metros--and that's at 2pm.  The last few days as the day progressed there would be loud outbursts--from the street two blocks over where the police had cordoned off a block where there seemed to be a couple of sports bars showing the games and the fans had spilled into the street.  The worst of it has been the last few nights when a drunken group has sung loudly and badly at the open-air restaurant across the square well into the night.  My mom woke yesterday and said: "Was I dreaming or did I hear bagpipes last night around 4am?"  Nope she wasn't dreaming.  A spontaneous bagpipe parade seemed to start and end somewhere around this square.  Paris, what I am saying is: this kind of event isn't your kind of event.  It's kind of like Hooters hosting kid parties.  Not good form.  "What is it that you love so much about Paris," my mother asked me the other day.  "It's beautiful.  It's cosmopolitan.  It's civilized."  Oops.  Not so civilized the last couple of days.

I'm glad to report that the drunken singers and bagpipers did not show up last night.  Oh, I do hope they're gone, Paris.  I'd like to enjoy this love affair with you without further rude interruption.  Yours, truly, heidi