Paris in Love (29 page)

My excuse for why my French is terrible is that my head is filled with English words. I like to think about their nuances. Take
gay
, for example. It’s a shame it’s all but lost its original meaning; to me, it has a kind of tinsel joy, like waltzing on the deck of the
QE2
, or the feeling of swing music, played at a frantic beat and danced to by soldiers returning to the front.

Milo still loves Luca—his original owner—dearly, though it has become manifestly clear that Milo is not a boy’s dog, insofar as his favorite activities are eating and sleeping (in that order). Luca made up a song when Milo was a chubby puppy that goes,
“Milo, precious Milo, sweet and juicy, tender Milo …” He still croons it, even though Milo is now the size of an adolescent seal. You can’t really hold him in your lap, so Luca lies on the floor, his head on Milo’s stomach, and sings to him during television commercials.

On the way home from shopping I tried to counter the misery of trudging along with bags of groceries and freezing toes by conjuring up the memory of lying in the moss of a Minnesota forest, with curly-headed ferns bobbing over my head and a sweet, warm smell of growth and black earth around me.

How I Know I Married the Right Man: Last night we went to the cinema, where we watched the Meryl Streep movie
It’s Complicated
. We had to sit separated by two people because of an extraordinarily rude woman, who refused to move over a seat. At first I was cross, but as the movie went on I realized that I was listening to Alessandro laugh, quite as if he were a stranger to me. We laughed—hysterically—at all the same moments. Ordinarily I don’t notice, because he’s right at my shoulder, but last night I became aware of how great it is to be married to someone whose sense of humor dovetails so precisely with my own.

Back in New Jersey, Father Mahoney wore a black cassock over his majestic stomach, occasionally adding a purple chasuble. In contrast, our priest here is Dior on steroids. Today he wore a white surplice with a foot-long border of handmade lace and a deeply scalloped hem. Over it he wore a crimson brocade chasuble,
to which had been appliquéd a dark green velvet cross, adorned with twisting patterns of gold embroidery.

We just came close to a family spat over the question of whether Milo should stay with us in Paris through the spring and be put on yet another diet (which clearly is not going to happen in Italy). Marina said that when we left him in Florence all those years ago, he felt abandoned by us, and that’s why he overeats. She’s the Oprah of dog owners; I’m sure it will surprise no one that Milo is going home with her for further coddling.

Yesterday I went with a friend to the Musée Jacquemart-André, the home of a nineteenth-century couple who were passionate art collectors. The collection is spectacular; the bath alone was worth the price of entry. My favorite picture was of a dreamy, sensuous young woman by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. A painter stands before her, naughtily drawing her skirt a bit higher with his cane. If you’re planning a trip to Paris, this museum is a must-see—the café is catered by a fabulous patisserie, Stohrer. Nicolas Stohrer worked in Versailles as pastry chef to King Louis XV; he’s famous for creating the beloved
baba au rhum
(rum cake). Diet suspended for the occasion, I had it, and I think he’d be proud.

I was riveted in the Métro by an utterly superb trench coat worn by a long-nosed Parisian woman in her forties. It was shiny black, stamped with a snakeskin pattern, and belted at the wrists and the waist, with epaulets and large pockets. She wore it with a lacy
white scarf and a busman’s hat, jauntily situated on the side of her head: Emma Peel from
The Avengers
, with a Gallic flair.

How to Know You’ve Overdone a Politically Correct Agenda: Anna told me last night, very seriously, that her Italian teacher was racist. Apparently they watched and then discussed
Star Wars
(the educational value of which was lost on me). “You told me that you should never describe people by their race and then say bad things,” Anna insisted. So what was the teacher discussing? The alien races in the bar scene.

Le Bon Marché is a department store with a fabulous gourmet grocery section. Imagine a table laden with shallow boxes with fresh, pale brown eggs tumbling out. Surrounding them are egg cartons in Easter egg shades … choose your eggs, choose a pastel-colored carton, make a wonderful omelet!