The end of something

Out with golden leaves! Away with you, cozy afternoon breazes! Pack it up and move it out, green grass! Autumn, your days are done!
Winter has firmly set in here, and though that might mean subzero temps in Chicago or three feet of snow in Siberia, in Paris it means grey, windy and rainy, constantly. It feels like the city has the flu. The days that are sunny, or at least dry are little blessings that the whole city enjoys. In short, it is gross right now.
Another end brought by December, the high season is officially over. We are in our big slow down phase, and we wont pick up again until mid to late January, not that I will be here for that. So, it looks like I have spent my last days at the Premiere Class Hotel, and I am forever grateful for that. The beds at the Hyatt are the best I have ever slept in, which, of course, makes them all the harder to get out of, espcecially when it looks and feels like puke outside.
Things at work are fine. The chef promised me that since we would be full staffed this week, I would be transfered to pastry, finally. A good thing too, all of the Christmas and Chanuka stuff is getting made now, including a three foot tall and wide gingerbread house that is the centerpiece of our Christmas buffet here. There are these little (two foot tall) Christmas trees all over anything that will stand still, but they are cut from real pine trees, so the hotel smells pine-a-licious.
Oh, but wait, someone is out again! Someone didnt show up to work... again. Who could that be, I wonder? Long story short, I am still on breakfast, probably until I leave the chef says, because Francine didnt show up for work at all today. Why dont they just fire her? Because she suffers from depression, and French law protects her because she isnt just randomly skipping work..... she says. So, that is one thing the US defintaly has over France: crazy or no, your ass is canned if you dont show up.
Although, I was glad to be at breakfast today. We had a group of sixty people in from Pfizer (yeah, that Pfizer) today, and Marc took a break before they arrived, thinking that they werent going to show, as they were really late. I took over for him, and thats when they came. I tell you, covering both cold and hot buffets at the same time is no longer a big deal. For example, I had a line of people waiting for eggs, bacon to make, French toast to make and salmon to plate up. I managed to get it all done, and was so not flustered, I actually managed to make myself an omelett during that whole thing. So, I guess I am learning.
Too bad it isnt Christmas in Korea, though, as the Koreans dont stop coming. I found out that Korean Air is "disappointed" in the Hyatt because we are not fulfilling our end of the bargain we have with them. They put in their contract with us that we MUST have at least one cook at breakfast who is Korean, so their employees dont have to fumble over the language in order to demand their boat loads of food.
I dont see the problem. In working with them for the past weeks, I have learned a bit of Korean from them. For example, if you want to say "Good Morning" in Korean, you say: "OMLETTE!!!" If you want to say, "I'm very well, thank you. How are you?" you say, "FRIED EGGS!! NOW!!" I'm so multicultural, it hurts.
Moving right along...
Two weekends ago my friend Olivier and I took our friend Javier out to celebrate his last night here. He was moving back to Madrid, and we thought that some drinks and music might be in order. I was staying at the apartment in the Bastille at the time, so I suggested that Olivier take Javier down to me, and we could go to a favorite bar of mine. We ended up at Le Guillotine and heard some live funk. It was great. You actually descend into this cave like room, where there are wooden chairs set up in rows, and the band is on a raised platform at the back of the cave. We laughed and talked and bopped along to the funk until about 2am. Then we took a leisurly drive down the Champs Elysees, so Javier could say goodbye. Right now, the whole way down to the Arc de Triomphe is lit up especially for Christmas, so it is really pretty. It was while there that Olivier channeled my wife, and that was really creepy.
We passed the huge Louis Vitton store, and Olivier pointed it out, saying: "There's Louis Vitton, one of the most expensive places on the Champs Elysees, although I dont know why. Nobody really likes their bags. You only buy them for the initials and who really likes brown on brown anyway?" This is a direct quote from Ruta, and the two have never met. My jaw dropped. I mean, yeah, Louis Vitton is gross, but that is really weird that two people have the exact same opinion in the exact same words, how many miles apart? Weird.
What really got me about the night though, was that Javier was leaving. I remember when he arrived. He just sat down quietly at the table I was at in the employee restaurant and didnt say a word. Since then, I cant say that I have gotten to know him too well, but one night he made mention that he was leaving on the 30th of November. Everyone around just then: me, Will, his girlfriend Cecilia, my friend Inna from Siberia, all made mention that we would be leaving soon after that. Inna first and then Will, Cecilia and me in succession. So, Javier's leaving signaled the beginning of the end of my time here, and it is winding down in reverse order too. I mean I met Javier last, and before him Inna, and before her Will, so it feels like the beginning of a process, like I am losing friends until I am the only one left. That's when I will go. Strange. I didnt like the feeling that I was actually going to be leaving here, so I doussed that feeling in beer and funk. I am not going to worry about it right now.
The next day, I took my time wandering around the artist's quarter of Saint Germain, but I didnt really find much that interested me. I stopped and had coffee with Catherine on the boat, and then decided that grey and rainy isnt good for much, but it great weather for a museum.
I headed over to the Musée d'Orsey, and had a total ball. The Musée d'Orsey is a huge old train station that has been converted into the museum it is today. It is one of the "big three" museums of Paris: the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsey, and the Centre Pompidou. These three museums cover all the art up to the 19th century, the 19th and early 20th centuries, and the 20th century to modern art, respectively.
I have mentioned that if I see another painting of a swooning duchess, nude on a cloud being carried by flying babies, I was going to vomit uncontrolably, so it was my good fortune that the Musée d'Orsey is dedicated to the 19th century guys.
These are painters! What a museum! I mean, Degas, Picasso, Monet, Manet, Caillbotte, Tolouse Lautrec; they're all in the same place! "Hay Stacks" and "Stary Night" are a few feet away from each other!
I have never been someone who was really into painting, so I rented the little audio guide that will explain any painting or sculpture in any language. It so happens, that the museum is also hosting an exhibit of Hodler's work right now. The lady behind the desk asked if I wanted the audio guide for the Museum or the Hodler exhibit. I was like, "Um, I dont know Hodler." She snorted and chuckled, then said "Nobody does." I liked her.
Anyway, after three hours of wandering the museum, I finally had to sit down. There is that painting by Degas of the outdoor dance hall in Montmarte. I dont know what it is called, but you would know it if you saw it. I sat in front of that one, and I just let my mind go. I think it is one thing to wander a museum and hear all the facts about a painting, or whatever, but I think the hard part about that is that you never get to spend anytime with one painting, 'cause there is so much to see.
I just stared at this paiting, and the more I stopped trying to figure it out, or to listen to the ambient noise of the museum around me, the more I could feel the warm summer breeze of Montmarte, and hear the accordian and piano echo in the distance. I felt like I could see the dancers start to sway, and it made me a little dizzy. I felt like I had fallen head first into the painting, and I had never been so completely transported before. Men in full suits, women in proper little hats; the self important first mustaches of young men, curving out from their faces in crazy angles to visually verify manhood to young women who couldnt find them more rediculous or charming. The tiny, fragile glasses of French pastis skattered over the wraught iron tables. Dancing with a sweetheart, while the old ladies gossip and the men play pétanque and talk about the war, and all of it swirling, swirling under a sky filled with stars, except for the part blotted out by the smoothly sloping towers of Sacre Coeur, who will always remind to leave room for Jesus on your dance card...
Someone's child screamed for mommy, and my rainy day reverie was shattered. In a flash, I was back on the museum bench, rubbing my eyes, and present to the sounds of hard soled shoes on marble floors, the chatter of museum wanderers about this painting or that, the rain on the windows of the museum. I walked over and looked out on a much more modern Paris than the on I had been dreaming of.
I will be leaving soon, and in some ways it seems like I have only just started to be here.
The sun had gone down while I was day dreaming, and the evening lights had come up on Paris. How long have I been gone? I cant believe I am coming home soon! I looked back at the painting before leaving the museum, and I though to myself, "Javier is gone. Its almost December. I am really going to miss Paris." But I am not sure which Paris I will miss more: the one I live in, or the one that lives in my dreams.
I'm not sure there ever was a difference.