Bye Bye Baba

My month is up at 166 Magenta Blvd, in the 10th Arrondissment on the corner by Metro Barbes- Rochechuart. A long 19th century flat with fireplaces and broad, gothic mirrors in every room, and a balcony that runs along the outside of the entire floor, over looking the discount shoe shops, Lebanese Patisseries, and a multi-culti crowd of ladies in their wrap- around green sarong dresses, and boney black-clad parisian women, mounted on their bikes clanging at people to get out of the bike lanes that run alongside the broad boulevard sidewalks. The Sacre Coeur, OZ-ish and white, peers over the city on the shoulder of Montmartre. I'm missing this place already; the creaky wooden floors with a few slats popping loose. Baba; the calico striped dog-cat who sleeps on my chest, a purring accordion, as I watch Fashion TV runway shows; who ignores her dried catfood and begs for yogurt, milk, and cheese. Each night, Baba and I sleep together in white down comforters, I find her nestled in the cave of my elbows and blanket, a paw thumbs out from the warm mass. I now understand the simple decadence of the relationship between a lady and her cat. How, poor in Paris, I am the old cat lady retiring to the comfort of tea with Baba, preferring the reliable repore over expensive drinks and empty conversation in art-deco bars. When I do go out to the bars, I find myself dreaming of the retreat, the room I've earned, the rest I seek; lullabyed by Baba's throaty, grainy whispers.
And my other roommates have been exceptional as well. Maurice, quizzes me on French vocabulary, Star Wars plot lines, and takes me to pop rock concerts at abandoned metro stations (the Flech D'OR "Golden Arrow"). He's a German Francophile, a dapper dresser with a fifties coif that he may hair clip to one side, a love of rock n' roll and American culture, and his dark-eyed lean-legged girlfriend, Sonya. Christophe, invites me to plays written by his friends, shares aperitifs and cheese with me ("this cheese is very famous, you have to try it....is it okay to say, in English, that a cheese is famous?"), works for an environmental agency writing articles about farmer's unions, and sets the table for breakfast where we remember Phil Collins lyrics and bond over our shared religious practice: coffee. Siegfried's room is next door to mine, and I often hear his musical composition and recording sessions. A contestant on France's "American Idol", he writes songs for other artists, avidly watches independent films, and debates with me about the Dangerous Michael Jackson being darker, brooding, and therefore superior to the poppy, disco funk Off the Wall Michael Jackson.
Each man is an artist, a musician, an opinionated humorist and a sweetheart.
I made an "American" brunch for Maurice, Sonya, and Christophe yesterday, since Seigfried was at a work conference in Russia, and it was my last full day with them alone in the flat before Melanie's return. I have been subletting the room and the cat and this life from Melanie, a research librarian who has been doing volunteer work at libraries in India for the past month. She and I share an addictive love of Lillies, soul music, and record players. Living here has been like being her and me. I have felt so at home in this place, I wanted them to see how I was when I was at home in the Bay area. So brunch was vanilla cinnamon brioche French Toast ( although, here, it's just Toast), with banana, apricot, or strawberry confit, creme fraiche, nutella, eggs, bacon and mimosas. The recipe, pronunciation and timing of the mimosas caused the greatest amount of confusion( " When do we drink these? As an aperitif before the meal? After the meal? Is it a Spanish word? How do you say it again?"). After everyone requested fifths on the French toast, Maurice celebrated the familiar heaviness of the meal, remarking how Americans and Germans have a similar affinity for meals with heft, grease, weight, and cream.
Baba came to beg for milk and creme fraiche at the table. After arranging peaches, orange juice, and champagne in glasses, Christophe poured everyone more coffee, and Maurice quizzed me on American dating practices and J. Geils Band lyrics before breaking out MJ's "Blame it on the Boogie" on vinyl. "Michael at his best; his voice is so pure, high, and solid." Siegfried, a Stranger in Moscow, was in no position to disagree.