First, a backstory: my first year at Princeton, in March, I went to NYC for a weekend to spend with Alexandra and Paola (both of whom coincidentally studied abroad in Paris with me) and on the train, I met two French people. It was a funny coincidence, but not unheard of. We spent the whole hour-long train ride chatting in French about literature, and when I mentioned I studied 20th century French literature, the woman (it was a man and a woman) asked if I had possibly read her book: Omerta dans la police. I hadn't, but was a bit shocked that I had been talking to an author for all this time! She told me it was a "best-seller" (yes, that is actually how you say it in France), and that I should go to France and buy it. I told her I try to go to Paris as often as possible, that I was just there that January, that I was hoping to go be in France for the summer, but in Avignon and not Paris. Anyway, it was a very pleasant conversation, and she told me that if I was ever in Paris, to let her know via Facebook (we added each other, since that's how things are apparently done nowadays, even with famous authors), and we could meet for coffee or something.
Last summer, I wasn't in Paris for very long, so I didn't bother contacting her. But one day, I decided to take the bus to Aix-en-Provence to meet Justine's mother, and she gave me a rendez-vous spot in a bookstore. So, I got there early (to be on time is to be late, according to Mr. Eicher, right?) and browsed for a while. Walking through the bookstore, I came across a table entitled "best-sellers" and guess what book was on it! Omerta dans la police!! Now, I probably should have bought it then, but I had already bought SO MANY books last summer, so I just smiled and thought about how many random awesome things happen in my life, then spent a lovely day with Justine's mom eating a nice lunch, great cookies (calissons, the specialty of Aix-en-Provence), ice cream, and seeing the sights.
End of backstory. So, today I woke up, saw that this author (her name is Sihem Souid, by the way, in case anyone wants to look her up) had posted something on Facebook, and immediately thought: "hey, wouldn't it be cool to buy her book?" So, I headed over to one of the only two bookstores that are open on Sunday's in Paris, La hune (Justine had told me about it last January when I came, and I love it!), and started checking all the shelves. At first, I wasn't sure if it would be under "littérature française" (since a best-seller probably wouldn't be considered "literature" quite yet, right?) or "romans policiers" (which are detective novels, so probably wouldn't include novels ABOUT the police). I checked both, and everywhere else I could think of looking, before I finally decided to ask a sales clerk. I gave him the title, and he said: "Oh, I know of it, but I don't think we have it." He checked, and he was right. He looked at me and asked why I wanted it, and I told him how I had met the author randomly in a train going to NYC, and he said they could always order it for me. I asked him if it was any good, and he said it was probably a good idea to flip through it a bit before shelling out 20 euros. He suggested I try the librairie down the street, conveniently the only other one open in Paris on Sunday's. I went there, asked, and they didn't have it either. So, I asked the lady if it was really a "best-seller" and she said she didn't think so.
And that, my friends, is the story of how I failed to accomplish anything today! Well, I did get to Berthillon (of course), and had framboise à la rose (raspberry rose) and spéculoos (some sort of cookie thing). So good!! I also had drinks with Jérôme, one of my former English students. We went to his favorite American bar, Indiana, where there are Indian decorations everywhere. He ordered a cocktail and an ice cream sundae. Strange, I know. I got a kir, my favorite, and we chatted for a good two hours. It may sound strange, but that is definitely the norm in France—people meet up, and chat for hours over one or two drinks. No rush, that's just the way it is. I love the way that nothing is rushed here, but we'll see if I still say that tomorrow when I attempt to go to the bank where I have a French account and ask them if they can possibly get me a "code secret" without mailing it, seeing as I have no permanent address in this country at the moment. I would really like to check my balance and make transactions online.
While I was in the area, I snapped a picture of this lovely sign. It says that Picasso lived and painted Guernica there, oh, and by the way, Balzac wrote a short story about an artist who painted an unknown masterpiece there—what a coincidence! Well, after a bit of research (for a paper I wrote this year), I found out that Picasso lived there BECAUSE he read the Balzac story, loved it, illustrated it, and it was only after he had done all that that he painted Guernica. Still cool!
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