Paris: City of Naked

Dear friends,

Please excuse me for being late last night for margaritas at La Perla. Something happened while I was riding my bike along the canal.

I was watching him lift his penis so that friends could remove the bits of floating trash that had adhered to his testicles and I got a little dizzy - had a mild stroke, perhaps - and after that had to ride my bike slowly.

In any case, sorry.

Your pal,
Meg

F the Pig

On December 31st, while ambling up the rue des Martyrs, I came across this little wagonful of pig.

Some children were gathered 'round, flanked of course by watchful parents.

I dove right in to feel the pig's short black bristles and smooth pink nose. This, to the dismay of those waiting for permission to touch.

Imagined conversation:

"Maman! Why does the giant lady get to do it?"

"Just look at her, Ludivine. She's wearing sweatpants. I think that answers your question."

(I was coming home from the gym...)

My pig-stroking made a challenge of the lebanese flatbread I later bought. It would have been terribly inconvenient, so few hours before New Year's Eve, to contract some sort of mouth disease. But I managed, while nudging through the frenzied fish shop spillover, to keep a napkin over my fingers at all times.

This neighborhood is perfect, I thought to myself, as I crested the butte near my home. Not only do I get to look at this during my morning walk, but there's a pig in the street for no reason.

It only dawned on me today that it might have something to do with astrology. 2006, remember, was the Year of the Dog.

(You didn't know?)

And 2007, which technically doesn't begin until February 18, is the Year of the Pig.

Because my knowledge of Chinese Astrology is limited to whatever was printed on the placemat of my hometown "oriental" restaurant, I turned to Google this morning to find out what it all means.

And what it means, according to this site, is that I'm screwed.

Some remarks about my coming year:

"It is actually a year of transition for the Rabbits"
...Hey - they're right on!

"They have chances to handle major issues or tasks"
...That's right. Watch me go.

"But Rabbits should not expect to have any achievement this year."
...Um, what?

"Otherwise, you are just going to be hugely disappointed at last."
...

"Because of your energy this year, you would fail to find support and assistance from others."
...This is a joke?

and finally...

"You would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards."
_________________________

After a full minute of staring with my jaw dropped, I went back to the search screen. And I Googled and Googled until I came up with something more to my liking:

"This is a good year for those who are born in the year of the Rabbit."
...Damn straight.

"There are signs of promotion and you will be given the power to be a leader in your career."
...I knew it!

"Do not push your luck by trying to reap profits through illegal means."
...But you just said...

"Put a scepter to your right on your office table. Place a lepidolite near you."
...
_________________________

To round things out and add a little occident to the mix, I paid a visit to the only horoscope that really matters.

And here is The Onion's prediction for Pisces in 2007:

"The New Year will start out with a bang for you. Unfortunately, it will also end with a bang for you."

I think I'm finished with astrology.

Le trajet de Fifi

I recently spotted this charming couple along the Boulevard Saint Marcel in the 5th.

Is it just me, or does the dog actually look bored?

Hairy Paree

I must have been asked this question two dozen times: How does the dog like Paris?

"Her french is coming along," I usually respond. But in truth, the hound seems quite happy here in the city of light sidewalk droppings.

Mirth, a name that rolls uncomfortably off the french tongue as Murt, is our ten year-old dog. Securing her entry into the country was no easy matter. France is not as strict as the Commonwealth countries that require quarantine, but she (and I) did have to jump through a number of hoops before getting on the plane.

The first requirement was identification through either a tattoo or a microchip under the skin. Mirth has the microchip, an electronic ID that’s read by passing a hand-held scanner over her back. As a precaution in case it’s also a listening device, we hold a pillow over her back whenever talking politics.

The chip was done by a Boston vet who also completed her rabies vaccination certificate. All together, this cost around $200. In addition, this paperwork required the stamp of a Government-approved veterinarian. There was one such vet in Massachusetts. Having already sold my car in preparation for the move, I persuaded a friend to drive me across the state to spend the day in a puke-colored waiting room. Uncle Sam’s Vet charged $100 for the privilege.

After all this, Mirth was ready to be crammed into her $100 plastic cage. Her $200 flight from Boston was relatively short, six hours, but she emerged from the plane’s hold with some serious psychological trauma. I know, I know - it sounds ridiculous. But she was shaking and yelping continuously during our first two weeks here. A French vet gave her tranquilizers, and over time she was able to forget the plane and to focus on baguette.

Which, it turns out, is her raison d’être. Unable to work in France, Mirth spends her days lying around the apartment and dreaming up new ways to steal baguette. She will climb the kitchen counters. She will lunge at dangling loaves on the sidewalk. She once circled the stash of a homeless man before being dragged away by her apologetic owner.

The french aversion to scooping poop is Mirth’s second favorite reason for living here. Markings everywhere! The sidewalks provide enough canine gossip to keep her mind busy for the rest of the day.

“No she didn’t! That bitch peed on top of my mark!”

“Mmm, that sexy German Shepard has been sniffing around again. Do I detect a faint whiff of baguette in his urine?”

I, too, enjoy her walks. It brings me into contact with neighbors who coo over her, ask questions about her race and sometimes offer a corner of their baguette. Shop owners will sometimes allow her inside and offer a little something to eat.

The only real drawback about Mirth in France is the dog hair. Her endowment wasn’t such a problem in the Midwest, but the french seem less comfortable with hair as a fashion accessory. As a result, we spend an awful lot of time vacuuming and rolling our clothes. And still nine times out of ten my black jacket is covered with a hundred tiny white hairs.

I wonder sometimes if, like other children of immigrants, Mirth is ashamed of me. I try to see myself through her eyes when we meet her friends on the sidewalk. What must she think of her American mother - covered in hair, clutching a plastic bag, and speaking with that accent?

“MOM!! Do you see any of the other moms picking up poop?! You’re so embarrassing!

Chaud 'nuff

It's not for my own sake that I complain about the heat. It's out of concern for poor Mirth, here. I came home from work last night and found her exactly as I left her, panting before the fan in our 6th floor apartment.

I protested much while in the US about the constant air conditioning, especially while watching An Inconvenient Truth. But the absence of climatisation in Paris really does have a way or reorganizing one's life.

La Page Francaise has a nice little list of beat-the-heat strategies to check out. Readers over 18 may also want to check out this vintage nugget from Gone Feral. Here are my own adaptations to the canicule:

1) No eating! Or at least noting sauced or sautéed. For days the only things that have passed my lips include fruit, cheese, bread and salad. Oh, and chocolate. From the fridge. With ice cream.

2) No drinking! Alcohol dehydrates, and I already feel pleasantly lightheaded from the heat.

3) No touching! Or at least not after 7 am.

4) No working! My office, like many, is without air conditioning. We show up early, make an effort until noon, lie listless in a pool of sweat for several hours, and then go home early.

4) No RATP! The second worst place on earth to be during this heat is on a Paris bus. The first, without question, is on the dank and airless subway. Solution: on your feet, soldier! Alternately: bike riding is the best and only way to catch a breeze in this town, and it's damn fun.

In conclusion, french people are skinny and have more vacation than you because it's hot. So turn off that a/c, America, and get ready for greatness!