Writing and Lunch

I went to the library today and wrote--for several hours.  I could hardly make my hand move fast enough across the page.  I like to go and sit at the bank of desks along the windows--the light pours in there, and the chairs, while hard, are at a comfortable height for me. Across the parking lot, there are some municipal office buildings, and I can watch people come and go.   I watched a woman come out of one of the doors leading to a sort of catwalk that leads to another building.  The thought came into my head that I am on no Disneyland ride, in no French theme park here. These are people who may never visit the United States or even leave France for that matter.  They have daily lives, hopes, arguments, problems and joys--none of which have been provided for my tourist-voyeuring entertainment.

Log huts springing up at Place Gambetta (on the way to the library)

The issue is whether or not, like that woman crossing that aerial bridge to the other office building, I can cross the bridge between the world I grew up in and this French world I so desperately would like to become a part of. The language is the means of transport, and while I improve, it feels like I am moving at a glacial pace.  

I worked at great length this morning with Natalie Goldberg's  Old Friend From Far Away, and find that while her exercises are very effective at accessing memories, they also provoke profound internal dialogue about important life issues, and none of them are suitable material for a blog, at least in their present ragged form.  So, I will leave them out of the discussion for today.  

I am happy to report, however,  that I have been writing up a storm.  Note that I didn't say I was writing well, or writing great literature, but I have to start somewhere.  The editor in me will bring out her red pen presently and will rip into my own scribblings.  But for now, the important thing is to get it down on the paper.

I wonder what they will house.

All that writing worked up an appetite, believe it or not, so I treated myself to a brasserie for lunch. I almost always order the plat du jour--the special of the day.  I always think it shows the chef's skills. Today was hachis parmentier, the French equivalent of shepherd's pie. No hamburger, thankfully, I think it was some sort of poultry, or maybe rabbit, based on the bones I discovered.  Whatever it was, it was delicious. It contained some wonderful wild mushrooms  as well as the occasional piece of fruit---I couldn't identify it, but yum!  All of this nestled beneath something that would be insulting to call mashed potatoes.  Next to me was a lovely big dog--his name was Willie--looking soulfully at my plate.  I wanted desperately to give him a treat, but one thing I have learned  is that people here don't like you interacting with their dogs.  Nor do they encourage their dogs to interact with you.  So, Willie had to leave treat-less. 

I couldn't eat all of my lunch; the portion was just too large for me these days.  Then I sat and simply people-watched for the better part of the lunch hour.  I love the fact that nobody pressures you to get up and leave so they can turn their tables. What I do find is that those people, like Willie's owners, who were just seated for coffee and the crossword puzzle, get up and leave when they realize that the waiter needs the table to accommodate the lunch crowd.  There weren't as many tables up today, because of the dicey weather. I love watching the dads come and pick up their kids from school and go home for lunch with them.  

The photos are of the little huts springing up in the Place Gambetta.  Something is coming, and I suspect it might be the holidays. 

I So want one of these little pick-up trucks.