MUSINGS BY PARIS

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www.parisbyparis.wordpress.com

I am currently writing a book about my journey from Key West to Paris ... this page is a sharing of sorts, of some of those stories, my observations and experiences in both of these amazing places but focusing mostly on Paris, my hearts' true home ...

I hope you enjoy...

Paris

Dawn and Dusk

When I wake up in the morning these days, I see the gentle glow that is dawn in Paris. It reflects off of the silver rooftops outside of my windows and is often is blanketed by gray and shifting clouds. The mornings are quiet. I am tucked in the inner courtyard of this ancient building, behind tight windows that don't permit the church bells or traffic noise outside unless I open them and feel the chill that comes as well these winter days.

Often, on those mornings while the light grows a bit brighter, I remember mornings in Key West. There the dawn came up with a vivid brilliance that reflected off similar silver rooftops. Outside my windows I could hear the morning doves and the traffic and felt the warm air through my louvered windows that would only grow hotter and more humid as the day progressed.

Both of these places are impressed on my mind and heart and though, far apart by miles and years, they are close in more ways than not to me. Both places are filled with hidden, secret and enchanting places that only truly inquisitive souls find. Both places are visited by masses of tourists who all see the same popular sights and leave not even aware of the little wonders they have missed. Both places have shaped me over the past decade and defined what I see and feel as truly meaningful, beautiful and important in so many ways.

In Key West there were tiny lanes, thick with vines and flowers, and old peeling houses covered in playful gingerbread carvings. Such houses often sheltered equally ancient and withering residents behind their screen covered doors. These people were part of the island, long before the tourists came and the sad changes brought by greed rained down like the almost daily tropical downpours. Not too many years ago these daily downpours often cut off the electricity and for sometimes hours Key West would be silent except for the sounds of nature and then the hum of the power returning and breaking the charm. There were tiny, secret parks, with crumbling benches and hidden corners where coolness resided under the ancient banyan trees.

Frangipangi and heavily laden mango trees were neighbors and familar, comforting sights. There was a cemetery that housed, above ground, the islands' former residents. Winding paths in this place, on the highest spot on the island, was especially wonderful at night when you could slip in unknown through a hole in the iron fence that surrounded this city of the dead. A simple pleasure perhaps not appreciated by so many tourists. Simplicity was a way of life. It had to be in such a remote place, and for me that was the charm of the Key West I lived in.

In Paris, there hidden sanctuaries in tiny unexpected parks, tucked in any available little square, always carefully surrounded by an iron fence with the rules of entry posted on the gate. There are painted benches and graceful green metal chairs that lean gently back to sit on and grass to keep off of. Everyday I see a certain sameness between these two places that is familiar to me. The silver rooftops that greet me each day, zinc here in Paris, tin in Key West, both producing the same affect of unity and charm. The hidden doorways of Paris often once opened to royalty or some important historical figure rather than a sun weathered old conch face. The narrow passageways where once carts and horses trod and today are filled with busy Parisians rushing between the wide boulevards. There are also cemeteries, one high on a hill, one divided and tucked under a roadway and one in a corner of a busy neighborhood in Paris. These cities of the dead are filled with elegant and timeworn minature cathedrals built by loving families for their departed. These cemeteries are home to many elegant Parisians and simple folk alike but with a much grander charm and age than it's island equivalent.

Key West will always be a relatively out of the way and isolated place, not known by many. Paris is and will always be, capitol of the world so to speak, and known to almost everyone. And yet for me they are not that different in the ways that count. In terms of richness of life, meaningful days, they both offer this, each in their own unique ways if only you will look.

The close of each day, the ensuing darkness and the greeting of the night is important in both places. In Key West, the sunset that closes the day and the darkness that follows, is celebrated at the waterfront with street performances of all sorts of irreverent kinds creating a carnival atmosphere. In Paris, night is welcomed with artistic, thoughtful and enchanting manmade lighting of the city's most beautiful sights, rendering many of them more impressive than in the day. In Key West the day turns to night with the casual wave of a fluttering sarong at Smathers Beach. In Paris the night is greeted with an elegant and graceful sweep of an evening gown at the Opera Garnier.

The Metro

The Paris metro in not just a source of transportation, it is a whole separate but yet connected world of passing life and untold stories. The entrance of many are romantic and charming with the glass awnings and art deco embellishments that are so familiar to Paris and so familiar to those who have longed to see her and are now here.

The air is filled with muffled footsteps, distant music and the warm faint smell of machinery at work. The flow of those around you cascading down the stairs is like a current of life. Once past the ticket gate the pace around you quickens even more and all of the muffled, distant and faint sounds and smells become much more rich, alive and vibrant.

Heading toward your train down the long tiled halls is just like flowing down a river, like the Seine above, winding through the long halls, music filling your ears and sometimes your heart, soloists and ensembles, every style and every level of achievement. The tile walls, lined with posters selling, inspiring and questioning … keeping the journey colorful and engaging, much as the lives that serge past you. The musicians sometimes board the train with you giving an impromptu concert and then passing a small worn leather purse or an equally time weary paper cup for your donation.

Small shops with food, magazines, flowers and gifts fill little caverns in the walls and vendors selling fresh produce set up on crates at unexpected turns. Each station reflects in some way the neighborhood above and the name of the station denotes a personage of greatness from the past, or a famous battle or moment in French history.

There are the homeless having a meal or a nap oblivious to the whirl around them and the gypsies piously sitting on their knees, cup in hand slyly conning coins from passersby for their plight which is often penciled onto a cardboard for all to see. These are also your neighbors in this buried and harried underground Paris. Then, the train arrives, and you have only a few moments to step aboard, leaving this station before the buzzer sounds, the doors closing automatically behind you and with a jerk you are off to another Paris adventure.

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