Twirl, Glow

I am in love with the Opera Garnier, from whence this photo comes. Next time I come to Paris, I will own an appropriate dress for opera- or ballet-going. And opera glasses. They will be in my bag trying to determine how to find the lake beneath the theatre at intermission. Until then, I fully intend to crawl quietly into this picture and stay there for as long as possible.

For getting your Garnier on, stare at performance snippets and check out the season's offerings here, take a virtual tour of the Opera Garnier here, or watch the trailer for La Danse here. Twirl, glow.

{Photo, Moi}

Keep, Hoard: French Yoghurt Jars

It isn't a problem, you understand. It is a bounty. There is a difference.

{Photo, Moi}

Roast, Fill

On Thanksgiving, we find our way home as best as we know how. We roast vegetables. We whip cream until our arms throb, feeling the sting of sweet. We glimpse all we've tended, all we've sown, and we take a deep, shaky breath of thanks.

Cheers, friends: To apple-picking of a different sort. And to harvests, wherever they may find you. We are grateful. We are filled.

{Photo, Moi}

Flowers, Stones

Saturdays are often cemetery days for me. They are beautiful things, cemeteries--like libraries. Stones all in a row. And like in libraries, I like to close my eyes and and listen carefully for whispers, for hush.

But the things I like best about cemeteries are the flowers and trees among all that stone. Perhaps one day, when I have faded away, someone will have the good sense to make use of the thick ash that will be me. Perhaps they will plant a lavender bush in me. I should like to be a lavender bush. But if I were a tree, bits of me would grow and get old, and other bits would twinkle in wind and turn gold, until drifting down with all the rest and then making such nice ruffling, shuffling sounds before getting damp, wearing thin. Or perhaps I could just become a bit of moss. I should like very much to be a bit of moss.

{Photos, Moi}

Chestnuts, Birds

Sunday afternoon on Île de la Cité, men roasted chustnuts over barrels. I ate them warm from newspaper while eyeing orange trees, clucking at poulets, petting fluffity lapins between the eyes and wishing beyond wishing for a little bird of my own. "I will name him Henri," I thought. "He will perch on my shoulder and sing to me as I sweep the cold, cold floor. He will cock his little head, and we will take presents to feverish match girls, keeping nothing for ourselves. And one day, when his heart stops beating in its little breast, I will weep."* And then I tore myself away from the animal market and mourned Henri's death with great piety under the watchful eyes of Notre Dame. I walked north, through the Marais. I bought a warm, oozy Nutella crepe and thought of virtue no more.



*My Granny used to read Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince to me in her front parlor when I was small. Love for Grannies and Oscar Wilde notwithstanding, it may or may not be wise to read The Happy Prince to small children. Then again, I credit Wilde (and Anderson, of course) for my strong literary affection for consumptive match girls and tiny, good-hearted birds.

Paris, New York

Good news on the papercut front, mes petites! Remember Famille Summerbelle's whimsical papercut of Paris, which once came only in *pink*? It now comes in not *pink,* also known as sage green, giving us permission to lust after it without reserve. Further, their whimsy now extends as far as Lower Manhattan, in midnight blue and nummy plum. Which to come home to?

Tuesday Poem: Indeed There Will Be Time

I've had this snippet from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" playing through my head all week as I stumble up stairs and through cemeteries, wondering whether there is, could possibly, be enough time for it all. It is a constant companion, this question, especially when things are most beautiful, seem most tenuous. I want to ask serving staff, stairs, wisps of smoke whether there will be enough. Surely someone knows. Some days, I know that the time we have is the time we have, and then I go eat something gooey and sweet. The rest of the time, these stanzas quiet, soothe. Eliot always has the answer.


And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Flowers, Herbs

Despite the sort of centering I took care to do early last week, a long work week, complete with a bout of the flu, left me ready to kick Paris in the shins by Friday night. But Paris made up for it this weekend.

The turning point was a trip to the market near my apartment on Saturday morning. It was raining. Stalls brimmed with pots of spices and flats of eggs, and bundles of thyme and rosemary lined the walk. Men murmured. I sampled clementines, inquired about zucchini, bought enough food to make up for all the flu had taken, every inch of me ravenous for color, warmth, life. Arms full, I asked for a bouquet of white raniculas, and turned to find that a stem of pink roses had been tucked inside as well (un cadeau!). And I headed home, smiling, ready to unpack my bags--haricots verts, thyme, a perfect purple aubergine--and spread the wealth around.


{Photos, Moi}

Bearings, Hide

We at First Milk are taking some time to get our bearings in beautiful Paris. This mostly includes hiding inside our Paris apartment and taking pictures of it, venturing out only for yaourt in glass jars, baguettes and beurre and trying not to offend any shopkeepers with our lousy French. It may or may not include weeping, ever so slightly, into our pillows from time to time. Traveling, dear reader, is exhausting.

We will be up and around again soon, but right now we're taking the opportunity to survey the land for a moment, enjoy the inside of our pretty little apartment and sleep for approximately 12 hours a day. We did make a feeble, little grammatically correct radish joke yesterday, at which somebody laughed. We've decided to count it as a rollicking success.

{Chandelier, Moi}

Earl Grey, Yes Please

A bizarre and wondrous tea rap to set you humming this day. Fairly shaky from the gallons of tea I've consumed thus far, I fully intend to sip more with biscuits, more with toast, porridge before the week is through. I may or may not be interested in selling someone's grandmother for a cup.

I'll see you darlings next week. There are babies to tromp with and friends with whom to sing Les Miserables over breakfast. There is a headcold to banish, there are effigies to burn, and a few things remain to pack in, pack up before I head south this weekend.

God save the Queen,
A.

Scotland, Things They Have In

Scotland is where they keep all the especially hungry sheeps and the cold, cold sea. It is where they keep the moss and the lichen. It is where they keep the heavy rain that turns into wet feet and headcolds. And where they keep the castles and spooky graveyards and cardamom buns and wooly things. And, best of all, it’s where they keep the Peonies, who know exactly where to find it all.

I am in love with Scotland. Next time, there will be time for lochs and cows with bangs and heather and moors. And next time I will bring more socks.