La Fée Verte

Dix jours avant de rentrer chez moi, j'étais prête à partir. Je pensais à Noël, à ma famille. Cet après-midi-là, je me suis promenée dans mon quartier, pas complètement contente d’être à Paris. La pluie et le froid me rendaient un peu déprimée. Puis j’ai décidé d’aller au restaurant/café, La Fée Verte qui se trouvait au coin de la rue. J’y suis allée plusieurs fois pour dîner, mais cette fois je me suis mise au bar, et j’ai pris un chocolat chaud. J’ai sorti un livre pour mon cours d’histoire et commencé à lire, mais c’était beaucoup moins intéressant que l’atmosphère. D’abord, l’intérieur parfaitement français et intime : des plantes, des vitraux, le grand tableau aux couleurs vives. Mais ce qui m’intéressait le plus, c’étaient les gens – les barmans. Ils travaillaient, mais c’était comme une fête. Ils riaient, bavardaient, dansaient sur la musique. Ma tasse étant vide, le plus beau m’a offert quelque chose à boire, et j’ai commandé un vin chaud. Maintenant, je me suis liée d’amitié avec ces barmans. « Vous » s’est transformé en « tu » et désormais on faisait des blagues comme si on était d’anciens amis. On parlait en français, et ils ont fait montrer de leur anglais. Un des hommes m’a acheté une bière. La conversation vivante a continué, et quand j’ai dit qu’il fallait partir le 17 décembre, je ne voulais pas le croire. Je me suis rendu compte que ce genre de soirée serait impossible aux Etats-Unis. Partir, c’était la dernière chose que je voulais faire. J’avais envie de revenir à La Fée Verte chaque jour, de parler comme ça avec des Français, d’avoir des amis parisiens. Tout d’un coup, j’ai su que j’appartenais à la France. 

And so I went back to that perfect little restaurant/café/absinth bar almost every one of those last ten days. I studied for my finals while drinking hot spiced wine and joking in French with my bartender friends. I figured out who the other regulars were. I rarely got charged the full amount and in turn tipped generously. One of my favorite establishments in Paris (so by default, in the world), a five minute walk from my apartment. The community I found there is one of the things I miss most now that I'm back in St. Louis, thousands of miles away from vin chaud and French humor. I want to walk around the corner and sit down at a beautiful café with a warm drink and Le Monde, and to hear the song of French conversation all around me. 

http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Ville%20Lumiere/

La Corse, "île de beauté"

I’m almost afraid to try to put Corsica into words, for the same reasons I’ve been having hesitations about portraying it through pictures. Just as a camera lens is too limiting, too distorting, a pen and paper, directed by a scattered mind, don’t have the means to give a deserved description of this paradise. I’ll give a report a meager effort, but this time the lenses that are my eyes and the videotape that is my memory will inconsiderately keep this island to myself.

From the moment our plane bumped down the runway at Ajaccio’s airport, I could tell this would be a different kind of place: the sea was almost directly beneath us. That impression was cemented later, while noticing the smiles of people milling around in the sunshine. We had left a cold, grim Paris and landed in another planet. A planet where cars stop anywhere to let pedestrians pass. Where the names of places and streets could be in French, Italian or Corsican, representing a unique history. A world where time passes more slowly…

My roommate Nicole and I stayed at the hotel Napoleon, which was nice and comfortable, with big N’s everywhere proudly representing the legend of the emperor born in the city. The orange tree below our shuttered window was temptingly close but dangerously out of reach. Our first day we had the afternoon ahead of us, so we explored the old part of town: pastel colored houses, shops selling coral jewelry, a very Mediterranean church. Then hiked along the sea, catching a brilliant sunset.

The next morning, after a satisfying hotel breakfast buffet, we set out to rent a car. Apparently Saturdays in November are not good days to rent. And apparently 23 is the minimum age here. And trains and buses are infrequent at best. Tourism offices exist for a reason! The nice man showed us a bus that would bring us to Tour de la Parata, overlooking the îles Sanguinaires. As for Sunday, absolutely nothing operates during the off-season, but he called his friend who gives excursions, and five minutes later we had a rendezvous for a private trip the next morning. 50 euros each for the half day. 

We found the line 5 bus and the driver informed us that he could go only halfway to Pararta due to road work. So he let us off, and we discovered a little beach that we had all to ourselves. Absolutely gorgeous weather, if a little chilly. The air was my favorite. I think I go days in Paris without taking a real deep breath, but here the subtle mix of the sea, flowers, and burning leaves created an autumnal freshness. We hiked along the coast for a couple miles then back. The so-called roadwork was at the very end… I guess the driver was trying to go green.

After a little rest at the hotel, we went out in search of food and drink. A few bars and cafes were buzzing, but most restaurants we passed were nearly vacant. Finally we came upon the perfect spot: a classy bar/resto with a crowded terrace overlooking the blackness of the night sea. We had some wine, and our little tray of appetizers was replenished halfway through. Nicole and I had been speaking French with each other all day, and now let ourselves slip back into English.

I had been checking weather.com every day for a week, so I was not surprised when on Sunday we awoke to rain. Xavier met us as promised in front of the hotel. When, to my “merci” for helping me into the van, he responded in a charmingly offhand manner, “j’suis comme ça,” I knew it was going to be a fun outing. It was. The three of us chatted in French, and the breathtaking drive around perilous curves went quickly. Soon we were in Piana, one of a hundred or so villages said to be one of the most beautiful in France. Nestled between green hills and bluish sea, the cluster of red tile roofs exuded Mediterranean perfection. Past the town were the famous red granite Calache cliffs. Look them up – I can’t describe them. Despite the rain and fog, it was quite impressive. The next stop was Cargèse, a picturesque town with two churches facing each other, one Greek, one Latin. We walked around a bit and Xavier gave us some history of Corsica. On the way back we sighed at waterfalls sprouting from the rocks, slowed for goats on the road, and sang along to Xavier’s iPod. 

That evening we went to Harry Potter 7 at the Ajaccio movie theater. With one huge room with a balcony, it was very different from the 20 screen megaplexes typical of the US. A velvet curtain lifted to reveal the screen. Instead of an elaborate video clip telling you to turn off your cell phone, an usher called it out quickly just as the movie was starting. It was in French, but I was able to follow fine. 

Already looking forward to my next trip to the Island of Beauty.

http://s1010.photobucket.com/albums/af228/themc123/Ile%20de%20beaute/