When it was cold out, the people moved about differently. In
Passy, the old ladies in their long mink coats quickly marched together to and
from various cafes and stores only stopping when a desirable window display
caught their eye. Outdoor tables were abandoned save for the few teenagers who
sat in huddled groups, wearing matching Moncler and Canada parkas and smoking
their rolled cigarettes. And on days when the sun shone through the thick Paris
clouds, people walked quickly still, but with the slightest grin on the corner
of their lips, silently enjoying the few rays that they saw. People took
shelter in the metros. Condensed together in those small cars, the body heat
was enough to warm me up from a trek from 56 rue de Passy to La Muette.
Granted, the walk would have been cut shorter had it not been for the brilliant
Cartier display that I could not help but to stop and stare at. The metro line
9 was relatively empty when I hopped on. It was three o'clock and the hustle
and bustle of the commuters had come to a stop and the car was filled with
random people of all different ages and walks of life. I always thought these
were the most interesting rides, because these were the people who did not have
the normal metro-boulot-dodo lives.
The young boy who sat directly
infront of me was leaning on his left hand and I could see his eyes get heavy
from sleep. An early morning class or a visit to a museum could do that to a
young Parisian student with the blonde perfectly messy hair, that only Parisian
boys can have.
Next to him
was an older Vietnamese man whose eyes kept meeting mine as if he was trying to
remember if he had seen me before. I turned away as to give him the answer
"no," but he continued to look so just avoided looking in his
direction. As the subway car still buzzed with a random assortment of people
growing and shrinking at the major stops, I thought about the different lives
that each person had: the woman reading the Canard Enchanie, the paperboy
hatted man who tapped his foot in sync with the rythm that played from his
headphones.
After 40
minutes on the metro, I got off at Maraicher like every day, and decided I'd
rather walk home today instead of taking the bus. It was only a seven minute
walk and I figured it would be enjoyable considering I had the free time today.
I stopped
by my favorite fruit store that was on the way home. The outdoor store was run
by a wonderful Chinese family and even though I couldn't understand their
French and they couldn't understand mine, I always greeted them and smiled and
sometimes I said hello in Chinese because they were so nice and reminded me of
my Korean family. They had the best fruit out of all the stores in my
neighborhood. Probably because they only sold fruits and vegetables or maybe
because they just had some brilliant way of knowing, but I never bought my
fruit anywhere else. The parents had a son who worked the store at night and I
would sometimes see him if it wasn't too late. His name was Thierry, or at
least I thought it was Thierry, at least that’s what I thought I had heard him
say. He was very nice and friendly and asked me how my day was whenever I went.
I spoke to him in my broken French and he spoke to me in his broken English and
we never said much to each other, but I knew we were friends. I always bought
their Royal Gala apples, the smaller ones because I they weighed less and they
were cheaper. I started buying their clementines too when it was in season, and
they were always delicious and a bit expensive.
I never bought too many at one time because I thought they would get bad
in my refrigerator and I also wanted another reason to come back and visit the
family selling the fruit.
When I got
home and put my fruit away, I changed into my favorite cashmere sweater that I
had stolen from my dad before I flew off to Paris. It reminded me of him and
was worn in and old, but I didn't mind because I never wore it out of the house
or in front of people. I peeled a clementine and sat on my bed and tried not to
think about my family because it was Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving doesn't
really exist in Paris at all.
But I knew
I would be alright because I had my dad's sweater and it was clementine season.
