medically speaking

Today I met a key figure in my life as a Parisian. My doctor. I chose her based on the fact that she practices homeopathy in addition to general medicine, her English is very good, and lastly, her office is minutes away from my apartment. She is part of my arrondissement.

The relationship between doctor and patient is an important one and I dearly miss my doctor from NYC. In addition to solving any ailments, physical and even at moments emotional, I considered him a paramount, even paternal presence in my life. Have I now met his maternal equivalent? Perhaps. I immediately felt at ease in the presence of this elegant French Madame, who possesses the nurturing eyes of a mother. The visit was reassuringly personal. We spoke about my decision to move to Paris, the benefits of yoga versus tai chi (the latter of which she practices with great passion). She even advised on where to buy the most healthy breads amidst our local boulangeries. (Ah, the French diet of cheese, wine and bread!)

I feel much more at ease. Knowing should I need medical counsel, or a soothing voice, it’s only steps away. What’s more, an office visit costs a mere $50, without insurance. And this nominal fee is fully reimbursed with the proper documents. Not to mention medicine costs less than a café au lait. Surely it would not be difficult or costly to become a hypochondriac within this socialized system?

after the rain

I love the Parisian rain. It falls only long enough to collect the most inspired thoughts under the roofed terrasse of a local cafe, or slide into the surreal world of a nearby gallery. There exists something deeply romantic about the sudden gray skies and calm upon the streets. Many wintry afternoons are spent with umbrella in hand, searching for a distant rainbow. The return of the sun signifies rebirth. The artists soul is awoken in such moments. I can well understand how writers and philosophers found inspiration within such luminous stillness.

yoga high

It is via the spiritual path of yoga that I arrived to Paris, albeit indirectly. Hence, it will continue to be an integral part of my journey. But in French? Surely yoga needs no translation. This worried me, as my French was not yet as advanced to include body parts and movements. With much research and a fair amount of good fortune, I discovered a suitable yoga studio several cobbled streets away, the Centre de Yoga du Marais. As though sent by the yoga gods, my teacher is American, from NYC no less. Her energy is warm and welcoming. Immediately I feel well. For ninety minutes I am at home. The clatter of a foreign world ceases to exist. I am momentarily living and very deeply breathing, familiarity.

Upon leaving this sanctuary, I am filled with vigor and an enlightened perspective. The challenges ahead seem much more attainable. I float homewards and smile at the life that has been granted me.

swimming in a sea of French…

Some days I experience what I call a ‘French block’. My mind cannot, or more accurately, does not want to think, speak nor understand anything French. It feels too much like starting over, like so many years ago when I moved to NYC and knew but one soul amidst a sea of strangers. I was young and impressionable then, and now? Still rather young and slightly less impressionable, but filled with the same eagerness to know and see and learn and meet. But here in Paris it’s much different. Most of all due to my poor comprehension of the French language and certain cultural aspects I have not yet decided whether suit me (as if I had a choice). Within this particular sea, the faces don’t smile as easily when you glance in their direction, and when looking lost or desperate, rarely will a local offer a gesture of compassion. It is those who have shared this experience, those with empathy (most often possessing a foreign passport), that help me to understand that it is in fact time and a rather liberal amount of humility that will ease this transition and allow the culture to envelop me.

I might add that a good glass of Saint Emilion in the late afternoon sun at the local bistro, can surely serve as a lifeboat.

a taste of Napoli

I have been missing the intensity and energy of New York City. The constant buzz in the air and movement on the ground. A dose of Napoli is exactly what I needed, and away we flew to this city in the South of Italy, unlike any I had ever experienced. Quite a contrast to the calm and order of Paris. Might I add that what I love about living in Paris is the proximity to so many diverse and fascinating worlds, merely hours away via train or plane. Needless to say, within NYC exists a composition of cultures, but there is nothing like complete immersion in the place of origin.

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Five days and nights were spent safely tucked away in the Spanish Quarter, next door to a convent. This hidden neighborhood is discovered by few but curious to many. On all sides we were surrounded by reckless kids on motorbikes, often 3 to a bike, peddlers selling designer goods and electronics purchased from ‘borrowed’ credit cards. Fresh produce is plentiful and sold in wooden crates for mere centimes. Napoli is a city in which people live by their wits and where rules don’t apply. I felt high on this air of chaos, or was it the endless nocciolatos that caused my heart to beat at such a pace? And let me not begin to speak about the pasta…I have discovered the soul of Naples.

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The calm after the storm was Capri, an island of intense beauty and serenity. An ideal place in which to digest the many sensations of the South as we head back to a dream of another sort.

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living history

I have always enjoyed the company of older people. When I was a little girl I would sit for hours with heavy lids, listening to the conversations and trying to follow the gestures exchanged between my parents and their unique assortment of bohemian intellectual confidants. I was much more eager to sit at the adult table than with the kids who somehow I found too simple-minded in their approach to life. It was the elders who had truly lived, as they spoke with great enthusiasm about the pleasures and travails of life which seemed so fascinating to my young mind. Much more interesting than a history book are the reflections of someone who has lived the story.

In Paris, a city of such remarkable history, I have found an elderly companion with whom to share it. Her origins are Polish and her experiences are plenty. Recently we attended the Grand Palais for the Renoir exhibit. It seems fitting to peruse the work of this venerated Impressionist with a woman of class and culture. Though he is not a favorite of mine, as the work does not move me like that of Cézanne or Degas, it was a genuinely historic experience. Our next rendezvous will include an aged whisky and tales of life in 1970’s Paris. Though I must admit as I become older and (I like to believe) wiser, and this new chapter continues to be written, I appreciate more and more the innocent and open mind of a child.

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