#100daysofparis

#day70 This is my homage to "une carafe d'eau". After eating salty, fatty, buttery, sweet, jammy, cheesy, spicy variations of French food, one thing was certain - you needed some water. Carafe d'eau was a free, carafe or a bottle of tap water, or in french: l'eau du robinet. Few years ago the city of Paris was on a campaign against bottled water. Even in the fanciest restaurants, it is OK to order une carafe d'eau. In the evening hours many barmen were kind enough to give you a carafe d'eau with -carafe- of wine you ordered. This is also an homage to those caring persons.

#day66 Shakespeare and company's former owner, Sylvia Beach, was a lady who knew how to make a good move. After years of rejection, James Joyce found a person who was interested in publishing Ulysses. Sheakespeare and company was a small, very charming bookshop in Latin Quarter with a line of people in front of it. There was something overwhelming in the fact that there was a line in front of a bookstore. You would buy a book and get a stamp inside of it telling you, you are on the km zero - a point from which all the distances in France are measured (the real point zero is in front of Notre Dame, that is just across the river from the book shop). I was roaming through the books on one rainy, late spring day. The bookshop wasn't crowded, it didn't sound like Babel and I had that urge to buy 3 or 4 books, just for the sake of the memory of that simple afternoon. I went up, to the second level of the shop and I saw people sitting and reading. They were sitting in silence, they were writing something down, they didn't care about time or space. I took a big, heavy book with a dark green cover. It was written Zelda on it. And then suddenly, piano started playing, there was a couple sitting there, playing some elegant, dark melody together. They, together with dark green leather book cover and Zelda, created the ever lasting memory of that simple afternoon. 

not on a map but a great for food and in the hood: Chez Gladines> 44 Boulevard Saint-Germain, 75005 Paris, France

#day59 Expressing your personality in Parisian apartments was very hard. Apartments were small, old and charming. Apartment itself had it's own personality. They had mold and worries,  high ceilings and graciousness, gas leaks and problems,  balconies and amazing views. Three of my friends had the apartments from which you could see the Eiffel Tower. I needed approximately 7 minutes to get ready in mine 'cause everything was on the hand-reach - umbrella, makeup, book, money. Where apartments are small and uncomfortable cities are vibrant and full of interesting people. Parisian apartments make you walk around and visit galleries, concerts and museums. I did find a way to express myself. On the flee market around Porte de Clignancourt I found red, white and black, old school posters of Frank Zappa, Motorhead and Bob Dylan. When people would visit me - Frank was there to charm them, Lemmy was there to scare them. Bob was always there to sooth the pain...

#day57 Paris made my bag heavier. On Saturdays I would leave my home in the morning and bring all the possible things I would need for that day and the evening and the night. When leaving home in the morning I had yo think about many things. I had to think about special local daily change in climate (umbrellas and rain jackets), I had to think about special local global warming (sweaters, jackets and beanies), I had to think about what will I eat and where and when (nem sandwiches and falafels) and more importantly where and when I will drink (water, specifically, that I would forget to drink if I had too much fun), I had to think about hygiene (antibacterial gels), I had to think about looking pretty (everything from a blush to different nail polishes) and ofc where will I sleep and if that friend will understand my urge to take out contacts from my eyes (contact lenses' box). On one of those days followed by those nights, Trent and Oscar supported by Clan Campbell decided that my jean jacket looks slightly toooo Roxette. I had very small nail scissors in my mighty bag, a powerful cutting tool obviously. They took the vest and scissors and made me look like Bruce Springsteen...

#day56 Trent was a thin guy and he was the perfect person for the Harry Poter's costume on any party that involved costumes. He was a great cook and he loved to eat which somehow never mad him fat. He was invited that summer to go to Cannes, to the French Riviera so he could enjoy in Brigitte Bardot's style of vacation. He thought he is too fat for the Cotes d'Azur. He wasn't. Trent decided he was the new Robert Atkins of the Atkins' diet. Trent diet had a simple name: the Gin Diet. And the sad thing was - it worked quite well!

#day53 I knew a guy in Paris, who liked to point out that he slept with "definitely less than 200 women". Many of us can say that, but this guy was closer to the number 200 than the most of us. Paris was the city of love. Above all it was the city of lovers."Second bouquet half price. You need to make your mistress happy, too" was written on governmental billboards around Paris for Valentine's day. On one of the rare all girls night outs, down on Bastille, Elsa met a someone. Being French, he was charming and good with words. Nothing good happens in a bar after 1am, as Bret East Ellis would put it, so the rest of us were getting ready to go home. Elsa started getting ready to go home, too. She didn't want a half priced bouquet that night. She got another pastis from us.

#day52 Italian writer and a partisan Bepe Fenoglio once said that war and migration show you the best who you actually are. All of us, migrants, who moved away from their native countries for this or that reason, had one thing in common - either we were running away from something or we were running to find something in the new environment. Often both. We were foreigners, expats, outlanders, outsiders, searchers, movers, malcontents. We were called aliens and refugees. The monument on Bastille, my favorite in Paris, symbolized freedom. It was situated in the middle of a roundabout. It was a green column with years and names written in gold, names of the people who died for different freedoms. On it's very top it had a statue that explained very well the idea of life in Paris. It was a statue of a boy, a spirit of liberty. It had broken chains of despotism in one hand and a fire of civilization in the other hand. It was gilded and it sparkled beautifully in the sunset.