How Much Do I Love Paris?

LIZ SAYS: Dick is back in the States to deal with the selling of the house. It has pased all its inspections and the closing is set for the end of the month.
It has just hit me that this is the end of an era in Madison.
But, I can't get too sad.
Being alone does have its up side.
Adrian phoned to invite me to lunch tomorrow and make sure I was not lonely.
I went for along aimless walk today and listened to the French pop I had downloaded onto my phone. I had not listened to it because Dick and I are usually together. It was very nice. I walked along the river, took photos of people taking photos of each other, which is a project I'm working on.
I notice things that I would just chat through if Dick were here. I went to the bistro on our corner, the Petit Cardinal. I realized that I had learned to eat a burger with a knife and fork, although turning the fork upside down is still a conscious effort. The regulars came out as they smoked and wished me "bon appetit". I realized that I didn't even recognize them, but they noticed me and that I was alone. So, they wished me a good meal, and greeted me to make me feel less alone. We, I, always try to eat outside. I love it. Just sitting on the corner taking in the comings and goings while I down my dinner. We often study our french at the Petit, so we go there almost every day at least once, sometimes twice. Its nothing special, a normal bistro. The food is better than most, but nothing spectacular. In other words, its never going to be in Michelin, but the service is great and the food is very good. I just realized that the smokers noticed me,us, because we are often outside eating. As they come out to smoke, they see us and tonight I was alone, so they said , "Hi". It was sweet.

When you first get here, you notice Parisian waiters are a gruff lot, with their black aprons and white shirts and grunts. But, as time goes on, you learn to understand and love them. One, I met when I first arrived. I call him Buster Keaton, he has the saddest face and a gruff exterior, but he's a sweetheart. He is probably 50ish, but he smokes a lot. He cannot speak english very well, so he makes little grunts in response to things he does not understand. It made him seem mean until I understood he just didn't get what I was saying. Now, he amuses me. I, so want to see him smile, just to see what it looks like.
The other waiter is Vahnsahnt (Vincent). He is younger and has the greatest poker face.
His lips just barely curl up on the edges if he is amused by our accents or happy about a tip. He told us his name once he realized we came so often. He speaks a little English, and would clearly be more friendly if only we could talk to him! We can count on him to pronounce a verb for us, which I think he gets a kick out of. He knows our order for coffee with milk and water, by heart and recites it to us every time we sit down, then the corners mouth curl just a bit. I was able to tell him that Dick was back in the States for a week and he sympathized.
So, even though, I'm alone, I feel safe and cared for. That may seem like a lot to extract from dinner and an aimless walkabout but, that's me and that's Paris.

Time is on your side... for once

Here at Liz and Dick a go go we're always trying to help you maximize the efficient use of your time. To that end, we've added a clock feature to our ever expanding tale of intercontinental migration. Now, thanks to our new analog clock feature, you can discover at a glance whether Parisians are having their morning coffee or typical midwestern folk are having their malted beverages while you're rambling 'round the Web. See how helpful that is?

something i thought i'd never do

LIZ SAYS: Today, I did something I thought I'd never do, voluntarily at least. I was fingerprinted.
The woman who with her surgically gloved hand tells you to "try not to help me", attempts to control a hand that you try to make limp. All the time, the image for a thousand movies, a million TV shows, goes through your head. Next comes the mug shot, front then side, but wait, there is no proceeding crime scene. This is going to the FBI to prove I'm no threat, that I've never done this before. A good conduct record = the absence of a record which you prove by giving your fingerprints to the FBI, to find or not. Bizarre. Having to prove that I haven't done anything by doing something associated with doing something.
The French have made me do a thing I would never have imagined doing voluntarily.
It's sort of like going to the doctor and having him/her say 'relax'. You immediately cinch up, you try to make your hand go limp but then there are all those images, "Top of the world, Ma!" (maniacal laughter).
The police department is moving or being refurbished in Madison and the temporary, I assume, headquarters for the fingerprinting was through the basement which smelled strongly of canned vegetable soup. You found the window through which you pay and then crossed over to the next window to the fingerprinter. Both windows in the same room but neither person seemed to communicate with the other and that soupy smell.
Then you go through the forever beige door to the fingerprinting room. Dick had been fingerprinted before. As a child, he had toured the FBI, who evidently give the kids a thrill by fingerprinting them and letting them listen to the ear splitting chop of a tommy gun. I, on the other hand was lost in my Hitchcockian fear of authority, hoping my hands had never been anywhere that could cause me to be accused. "...but I didn't ... your honor", walking down a long hall with the jail door striped shadows cast on the wall.
But, then she showed me the industrial sized plastic tub of "washwipe" or whatever it was called, the ink melted off my hands, I put the cards in the envelope, with the $18 money orders and sent them to the FBI. Up to four weeks from now, I'll have my fingerprints back on a card stamped 'no record', approved as a good citizen of my home country, possibly acceptable to you, Monsieur? C'est bon?