London to Paris

June 18, 2013

London to Paris

It’s funny that after just a few days one begins to feel connected, comfortable, maybe even a little bit possessive, of a new room, house, street neighborhood, coffee shop, pub, and the local people you interact with, briefly, but for a few successive days.  East Finchley has been good to me. We had our last meal at The Old White Lion last night and were informed by our new waiter, Adam, that we have been Gregory’s favorite guests, he said he knows this because Gregory is his best friend.  I love a little white lie! 

Day one was a blur, but a very pleasant one; the lens began to sharpen on day two, but there were so many things to learn that I still felt like a stranger.  Indeed, I was.  Now I’ve learned to navigate a bit, use the British pound a bit, and keep my belongings organized.  Just crossing the street without a signal at Bishops Avenue was perilous in the beginning.  Look right, look left-it’s like a kaleidoscope of autos mixing and rushing about you. Quite dizzying really.  In the city the other day I was struck by a baby staring at me from the front left window seat, her mother beyond her driving from the right.  For the briefest moment I imagined the baby to be driving, and the child wasn’t even watching the road!  Being left-handed and always a bit out of step with the predominate natural order of things is intensified by the switch in drivers’ side of the car, cars’ side of the road, which we’ve all heard is the opposite of America; it’s one thing to have read about it or seen it in movies.  Quite another to set out your first day. Luckily for me, I had guidance.  And there will be no driving! 

Our Beloved Blenheim, home of Agri, Roger, and the cats.  We’ll be leaving Dan & Decarlo’s Coffee Shop and Deli in about half an hour, collecting our luggage from the Blenheim, and taking off via Tube to catch the train to Paris.  So glad I started in England, a great introduction to out of country travel, fantastic and manageable.  Paris will be more taxing on my abilities.  Here I blend in and people seem to find the American accent charming.  In France, I fear this won’t be the case.  My French is practically nonexistent, and the few words and phrases I do know will no doubt get tangled and misused and will sound like a turkey’s gobble rather than a nightingale.   I know it will be good for me; it’s the French people, my unwilling or willing tutors, that I worry about. I sleep tonight in Paris in the Marais.  Au Revoir!