bananas en flambee for almost a month, and finally, last night, I
found it at a little out of the way Greek place near the Sorbonne. So
happy!
I was proud of myself yesterday for pushing my boundaries in a new way
and going to the Hammam (Turkish baths) at la Grand Mosquee, the main
mosque in Paris. I've never done anything like it before, it was
totally outside my traditional comfort zone, and I honestly had no
idea what to expect. Overcoming my initial shock and the
disorientation of walking into a room full of such brazen nudity, like
walking into the fantasy of some incredibly imaginative 14 year old
boy, I eventually got the hang of it and actually had a really good
time. It was definitely not a tourist attraction. The clientele was
all either plump, old Turkish women (unabashedly strutting around
topless) or young, posh Parisiennes there on a long lunch break, lying
together and gossiping, naked, and giving each other massages. For 25
euros I gained admittance to the baths (a cavernous, labyrinthine
series of steam rooms, decorated with beautiful Persian tiles) and a
10 minute massage with one of the professional Turkish masseurs. I
signed my name onto the massage waiting list, as number 72, and soon
heard then call number 42. So I settled in on a mat against the wall,
relaxing in the warm, steamy room, ordered a mint tea and slice of
orange cake while waiting my turn to be slathered in eucalyptus oil
and relaxed from head to toe on one of the six tables centered in the
middle of the room for everyone else to see. Not a bad way to spend
the afternoon, actually. It seems to be the only place in Paris that
doesn't reek of cigarette smoke, so I rather enjoyed my three relaxing
hours of Turkish delight.
After a day of sightseeing on the Champs Elysees, discovering the nice
but hardly sensational Museum of Fine Arts, and, of necessity, finally
having to eat at Quick, the French fast food chain, I met up with Dan
at l'église Saint Merri tonight to volunteer distributing food to the
homeless. With an eclectic group of French, Italians and one other
American, we walked around Les Halles with canteens of soup, coffee,
some turkey sandwiches and bananas. Having spent the last two weeks
determinedly averting the gazes of the bundled, bandaged and shivering
homeless on the streets of Paris, with outstretched hands and little
cardboard signs reading "SVP - aidez-moi, pour manger", it was really
nice to finally feel like I could make a difference for them, even if
it was just a small one.
Dan and I and Valerie, the Frenchwoman who runs this weekly program
through the church, took our basket full of meals to a large group of
Romanian immigrants huddled outside the closed doors of some of the
trendiest boutiques in town. On foam mats and woven blankets they sat
around small pots of watery soup boiling over makeshift firepits. When
we came, they all lit up. One by one, they introduced themselves,
Gigi, Alex, Petrie, and many others. With large arm gestures and a
nearly incomprehensible French-Romanian hybrid language, Gigi
explained to me that things were so bad in Romania, it was better to
be homeless in Paris then live in a house and have a job in Romania.
Her brother and his two children were still there, and she was trying
to get them out as soon as possible. Then she brought out pictures.
She showed me her two grown children, and three granddaughters, living
clearly in total destitution in what might have been a burned out
warehouse. I think my heart actually broke when, a few minutes later,
she asked if I was hungry and would like some of their soup.
We stayed to just talk with them for almost an hour, offering them
seconds and thirds of everything we had, and listening to their
stories of growing up in Romania and as they sang for us some of their
favorite Romanian songs.
I felt guilty and sad when we had to get up to leave them. It's
freezing out tonight, windy and sleeting. I can't even express how
thankful I felt to be walking into my toasty warm apartment, with a
hot meal and a soft bed waiting for me.
Envoyé de mon iPhone
