From Here to There

DICK SAYS: Saw the contractor and the fixer today. Theoretically, we'll be moving into the new apartment at the end of next week. Theoretically, the new bed, the new folding dinner table, the new armoire that will keep Liz's frocks safe and warm, the desk (which is new but works an old Art Deco look) and the used but nice bistro chairs for the dinner table will all show up right around the same time. We were on the phone with various vendors for much of the afternoon, trying to set up deliveries. Our somewhat improved French was a plus in terms of getting certain important points across, but getting something delivered in Paris is never a simple matter. Fortunately, Mme. Bourgeois, the gardienne at our new building, will actually receive packages. Our current gardienne is much more interested in taking long walks around the neighborhood and meeting up with his Buddhist friends(or maybe they belong to some off-stream Hindu sect) than receiving packages. Even the occasional tip does nothing to increase his interest in receiving things. In fact, last week he posted a sign on the door to his ground-level apartment/office that stated in no uncertain terms that packages were not to be left in front of it. I thought he might be spending the weekend staring at one of the tripped-out, blacklight-illuminated mandalas that adorn his lair and didn't want to be disturbed. But, no, he was away for the weekend. Or maybe he was in the hospital; he's had a lot of complaints over the past year--some kind of internal hemorrhage, back trouble, a bad knee, etc. Or maybe his mother came by. I don't know. In a week or so, we will be ending our time with him. In any case, I never caught his name and he's never offered it. I don't think the fixer--who's dealt with him for several years--knows it either. As for the meeting with the contractor and the fixer, the highpoint--for me anyway--was when I noticed that the former was showing Liz a picture on his cellphone of which he was quite proud. Turns out it was a shot of Mother Theresa with John Paul, the late Polish pope. We won't be discussing religion anytime soon.

Weather's good, despite the ash cloud that's currently bedeviling this side of the world. The kids from the Lycee down the way are bantering with the drunks who buy tall boys of double-strength beer at the local Fran Prix market; Teddy's yelling at the sun; and somewhere a true Frenchman is enjoying a big, round puck of steak tartar. Say goodnight, Teddy. "Ahk, ahk, ahk, ahk, ahk!"