Back through the looking glass : 22/09/06
I've been a little sick this week, with one of those bugs that make your back ache and your brain bake. So I've been 'at home' more than I intended, listening to the sounds of the building and the court yard. Each morning at a certain time the metal shutters begin opening out. At first I thought painters were arriving daily to set up their ladders such was the clacking of metal joints. On my landing the young women who have their apartments next to me then begin heading off to work. They have the same difficulties with their ancient keys that I do, and struggle to turn them. Church bells ring for early morning mass at around the same time; it's a lovely unifying sound across the whole district, and makes me think of Millet's The gleaners (another example of my undeveloped aesthetique?)
Later, the two women behind the geranium pots across the way start to natter. For a short while they talk with great animation. I've read Swann's Way, I know they're planning lunch, and then dinner. "Good morning Emmeline. What vegetable is it that you would prefer with the pressed duck?" one is saying to the other; and "Is it that you think a goat cheese might go well with the Bordeaux Danielle". At this point I usually start to consider my own lunch and dinner, meals far more utilitarian than theirs.
Apres midi the small children all begin to play in the court-yard: "Maman, Maman regard! Regardez-moi!!"
Towards evening there's a constant slow trudge of feet coming up the stairs. Staying in other apartments around Paris I'd imagined entire buildings filled with the very old. Now I understand. They're not old, they have many escaliers et étages to deal with each day and the building stair case is just one of them.
Emmeline and Danielle and all the children and apparently all the men in the apartments begin preparations for the evening meal. Things are chopped, pots are stirred, plates are distributed and people begin eating. At this point there is much discussion, perhaps of the cassoulet.

The "Eiffel" does its twinkly thing every hour; I tried to ignore it but in the end it had to be photographed. The building gradually quietens. One male voice continues to talk loudly, on the telephone, on the staircase, in the court yard, his animation and laughter increasing with the night, to 1:00 am, 2:00 am. But the French 'tolerance' prevails and no-one yells a complaint. Is his discussion intellectuel? I imagine Foucault, Derida. Or beaucoup d'absinthe.
Finally we are all asleep.
I'm sad to bid my blog goodbye, I've really enjoyed writing it, even in Russia where we were so busy I scrambled to get anything online. It was very nice knowing I had a few readers out there. . . I even discovered one in Paris:
So thank you to everyone who has written to me both on and off blog. It's been great fun hearing from you. A demain mes amis!






