the other wall give the ambiance of an artist's loft, a writer's garret.
The apartment came with an ancient white iron twin bed -- absolutely the largest bed that could possibly fit in here. I found a white bedspread with delicate purple and blue flowers scattered across the middle. It drapes all the way to the floor, and I realize it's my American view of what Parisian is.
Bernie's old legs won't let him jump high enough to get in bed with me, so the first week, I bought him a small used two-cushion sofa at the flea market and paid two young men to haul it home for me. It measures exactly four feet across, so Bernie precisely fits! And it's nice and low. He can almost walk onto it. I scooted it under the windows so he can get some cool air on hot nights. It has a couple of holes in it and and fabric has faded to a neutral beige/grey and of course Bernie and I know it's a dog bed, but with my purple chenille throw tossed over it during the day, it can double as a sofa. Bernie thinks it is perfectly lovely and the room shakes with his snoring every night. It's a warm and reassuring sound.
Luckily, being on the third floor, our windows face the ever-changing Paris sky instead of other people's windows. We only need sheer white curtains that we pull back during the day to let in straight rays of sunlight or billowing white clouds or a sky the color of steel wool. I've put a poster of Sacre Coeur on the wall and a fragrant wreath of lavender on the inside of the front door. Photos I take of Bernie in Paris march across our kitchen wall.
There's a small table about the size of a card table on the far side of the bed, with a couple of chairs that look as if they came from an ice cream parlour. It's meant to be a little spot to eat but now the table is piled with my papers, French-English dictionary and my ragged synonym finder that I've been dragging around since college. I found two short squat blue and white Dijon jars for the desk. One holds pens and the other Lilliputian bouquets of violets or Lily of the Valley. On the first of May, bunches of Lily of the Valley are sold on almost every street corner in the city and the very air of Paris is saturated with that scent.
The ceiling is nine feet high with years worth of cobwebs. It goes with the floor of wide wooden planks with deep hollows and dents and dimples and pits. Paint peels in spots, giving us glimpses of years of different colors. Bernie and I liked this apartment, this building, immediately. It is home. It's a safe place to be.
When I wake up in the morning, Paris is also waking up, and waiting for us just outside our door. I am drawn to the complexity and tension and excitement of the city. To the place where the unexpected lies just around the corner.
The landscape of trees and mountains and country vistas bores me quickly. To wander in empty land, however beautiful, begins after awhile to feel like a narcissistic indulgence. It's a two-character play: the human and the wilderness. And the human always has the starring role. Just listen to someone describe a long hike in the mountains. You'll see what I mean.
Cities, however, pull you into a supporting role and Paris does that best. Any person here is not the center of it all, but a small part of a living, breathing, changing city. Here I can be anyone I want to be. I can even be invisible. I prefer the landscape of horns honking and sirens wailing and crowded sidewalks and buildings that reach to the sky. Of bright lights, a crescendo of strange voices, impromptu and temporary connections.
Bernie agrees with me. He once wandered alone for a long time, somewhere in the dense brush, canyons and gullies along the Mexico-US border, injured, lonely, starved, thirsty, cold, dying. And although he is a brave dog, probably afraid. Bernie was the star of his own tragedy. Here, he's just a dog in Paris. He told me he has always yearned to be a City Dog.
Some of these stories are based on real people who existed at some place, at some time. Some are not. Do you care? Does it matter? If you really want to know which is which, ask Bernie. He was there for all of it.
Janice Keaffaber
Pacific Beach, California
Be kind. Everyone is living a hard life.
- Plato
