I'm sitting at Chez Louisette right now, having my first meal in Paris: Chocolate mousse with rainbow sprinkles and a Kronenbourg Blonde. I have been wandering around Le Marche aux Puces du St. Ouen for hours, only to stumble upon my destination. Right now this fantastic old French chanteuse named Manuela is ripping up the house with her rendition of "Mon Vie en Rose," and her voice is incredible. It's like listening to Edith Piaf live. This woman Manuela is apparently quite famous. She only sings on Sunday afternoons, and I am so grateful that I happened upon this place with perfect timing. Manuela is wearing these tiny stilletos with a wild black and white print on them, a black suit, a red silk rose pinned on her shoulder, and lots of hairspray.
Before she took the stage there was a man whose act was part mariachi part karaoke. He went around with his sombrero when he finished, collecting change: apparently a tradition at Chez Louisette. Earlier this morning I had sorted my change in the London train station, waiting for the Eurostar. I put the Euros in my wallet, cents in one jeans pocket, and pence in the other. Together my pockets may have come together to make one Euro, but I was doubtful and I had no idea what I was going to do with this change.
So now, pence in one hand, cents in the other, I showed my full palms to the mariachi man. He pointed to one hand, and then the other, and nodded. Once I had deposited my change, he then kissed both hands, one after the other.
Up till now, my day has been a haze of mourning and awe. Last night in London I got an email from an old college friend. We had worked on our poetry thesis' together, and he was writing to tell me that our mentor, the poet Deborah Digges, had committed suicide. My brain immediately emptied and my body went numb when I heard this news. I hadn't spoken with Deb for almost four years, and I instantly regretted this. I loved Deb; I admired her poetry so much, and I thought she was incredibly beautiful and graceful. I loved the way she spoke with her slightly trembling hands, and how her long eyelashes fluttered in front of blue eyes, slightly squinted.
I have a memory of Deb sitting at a restaurant. We had all gone out for drinks and snacks to celebrate the completion of our thesis', and she was a pot of bubbly, happy energy. She was enjoying her beer, dancing in her chair, singing little songs, joking, and laughing. All around me now at Chez Louisette, people were dancing in their seats and being merry, and Deb is sitting here too. All day she has been accompanying me through the streets of Marseilles and through the winding corridors of the marche aux puces. Now she is sitting with me at this table covered with a stained blue cloth with little gnawed holes in it. She is dancing because it is all so beautiful and she is whispering "Write, write, write...."
The follow-up singers come up to me and ask for my change, and I give them each 2 euros, which was all I had left, and I like to think that bought Deb a Kronenbourg. They ask, "Mademoiselle, qu'est que vous ecritez? Are you a novelist?" I just smile. I am writing about how this place looks like an inside out Christmas present. The ceiling is an explosion of shiny gold foil, tinsel, and bobbly ornaments. Kitch has never been so beautiful!
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