Bonne Journée
“Is it Bon jour, or Bonne Journée?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s confusing,” she says. “But that’s the French.”
We’re having coffee with Aurelie, our artist friend who lives in Paris, but who had once lived quite near us in Brookline.
“How long has it been?” I ask. “Since you left Brookline came back here to Paris?”
“Seven years,” she says. “My girls are 11 and 13. The youngest was just 8 months when we first arrived in the US.”
When Mary and I arrive in Paris, the jet lag hangs over us like a morning fog. We meet Aurelie at Pause Cafe just outside of Le Bastille and close to the apartment we’ve rented in the 11th arrondissement.
“This location is wonderful,” she tells us. “I used to live here. You have great food, but it’s not too commercial and not too many tourists.”
We notice all of this right away, our location just outside of where the Olympic throngs will congregate for these Games, these the first since Covid stripped them of their spirit. Sure, we’re here to see some of the sporting events and revel in chants of USA! USA! But we’re also here to speak the language and remember what it was like when I lived here sixty years ago. Now, to be able chat with a Parisian about Paris is a blessing.
“Where might we go in this area?” I ask.
“You can just walk,” Aurelie says. “Down by the boats on the river next to Bastille. I used to walk our dog Canine there.”
“Canine?” I ask, not sure I’ve pronounced the name right.
“Yes, Canine. It means dog, or dog tooth in French.” She says with a laugh. “Some people are naming their dogs Jean Pierre, and Maurice. But I have to call it. So Canine.”
No bullshit here. This is Aurelie, our Parisian friend who once painted portraits of the people she met at 4A Coffee where we all gathered at the corner of our street in Brookline. 4A our little oasis in the center of Coolidge Corner, and a place where people talked to strangers in a way you don’t readily find, anywhere.
“I miss that place. I miss Alan and Erke so much,” she says of the owners, one from Dracut, the other Kasikstan.
“We see Alan walking up and down Fuller Street. Erke we see in her white car.” I say. We all miss 4A and the connections we made over the nine years they were in business. There’s a special bond we made with people in their little shop, a lifelong connection.
“I see people walking about the neighborhood, and I know them from 4A.” I explain. “I might not remember their names, but I still wave and say hi.”
“I miss it so,” she says.
We’re here in Paris not so much for the greatest hits, as for just listening to what the city will present.
“I love museums,” she says. “But they might be crowded.”
“We’ve done The Louvre and Musee D’Orsay,” Mary says. “So we’re good.” I’m sure this sounds a bit like sacrilege, one can never be done with the Louvre, and yet we’re going to skip it on this trip.
“You can walk along the boats at Le Bastille. I used to walk the dog there,” she explains. “And the cemetery where Proust and Chopin are buried. You will see some of Edith Piaf’s lovers spread out around her.”
“And Jim Morrison,” I say, behaving like just another American bent on chasing pop culture.
“Yes, but it’s quite small,” she tells me. Mary and I are not huge Doors fans, so we won’t search hard for him, and yet I’m drawn to go to see others. And it’s close.
“Push open big doors in your neighborhood,” she suggests. “Some are unlocked, and you will find artisans shops and studios just inside.”
Paris, open to those who push, a bit like the Parisians who finally smile when we speak the language.
Aurélie’s arrived by bike to meet us, and we talk a bit about getting around on two wheels. This city far ahead of Boston in this regard, and especially for these Olympic Games where access to the city by car is constrained. During the Opening Ceremonies, cars were prohibited from entering the center of Paris. Instead, a flotilla of Bateau Mouche will carry all the athletes down the Seine to the base of the Eiffel Tower. You can rent a Velib bike and zoom around town with ease, taking in various neighborhoods otherwise too far to reach on foot.
“We read about Macron, and what you’re going through,” I say. “You have another vote soon.”
“It’s nuts. He’s a little crazy.” She explains. “He rejected the proposed Prime Minister. Just like that he said, ‘Non, pas maintenans, peutetre apres les jeux.’”
“We have our problems too,” we say, and she nods.
“It’s everywhere,” she laments. “But Macron. I just don’t understand him.”
We talk about our kids. About her work. “I’d like to try something in LA.” She says, explaining how the city was founded. “They picked forty four people. Diverse set of missionaries. And it went from there. So interesting.”
Mary and I look at each other, amazed and unaware. “You won’t be able to ride your bike in LA. It’s all cars and highways.” I say.
“I know. You think you can do a couple of things in a day, and then see how far you have to travel to get there.” She says. “Still, I’d like to go. The galleries and opportunities in the US are vast, not like here. When you talk to an art dealer here, they just say “Non, I must discover you.” So French. Everyone is “no, I don’t think so.”
Mary asks about how Parisians dress. “I’ve been worried about what to wear.”
“Black,” Aurélie says. “Always black, and gray, or maybe dark blue.”
“I’ve got colors,” Mary says.
“Yes, of course,” Aurélie responds. “LA is so much color. I love it. But I’m always in black.”
“Like your big paintings,” I say.
“Yes!”
“We’d love to come see your studio,” we ask. She explains that she’ll be out of town for a week, but back and maybe we can arrange something. She says she’s had to move out of the city, past the peripherique.
“It’s not far, but when you cross the line it feels like you’re not in Paris,” she laments.
“Can we get there by metro?”
“Yes, of course.”
Great, and we make a plan to be in touch. We’ve been sitting for over two hours, talking — longest any of us have ever talked. We were all too busy when we knew each other back home, but this is what one does when in Paris, sit at a cafe and talk.
“Brookline’s important to me and the kids,” she says. “It was very hard, which makes it memorable. My youngest didn’t speak French at all when we returned to Paris, now she doesn’t speak English. Funny that way.”
We all love you and miss you Aurélie. Your beauty. Your paintings. Your Parisian spirit.
“Come back,” we say. “You can all stay with us. We have a fabulous gallery right in Coolidge Corner called Praise Shadows.”
“I’d love to. Maybe someday.”
When she leaves, we hug and promise to try and reconnect in a week.
“Bonne Journée,” she says, and off she goes. A few minutes later, we see her on her bike, riding along the streets of Paris.
BTW. It’s bon jour when you say hello, and bonne journée as you are moving on to the next thing, like see you later.
