Paris Plage Partout

You know about Paris Plage. The beach in the city concept (looks glamorous, right?). Beach lounge chairs along the Seine, imported sand, people stripping off their city-wear for their beach-wear. Most Parisians are well-aware of this luxury offered them during the summer.



But did you know that you also have the opportunity to be a human water hamster at another of Paris' plages? That's right, in this contraption, you can, while floating on the canal, successfully rotate this inflated water wheel round and round by making movements not unlike a frantic gerbil. I was really delighted to come across this accomplishment at the Canal de l'Ourcq, where Paris Plages (note the 's') has now migrated (we are no longer limited to just the banks of the Seine). Wow.




The hamsters taking a well-deserved rest.



Little and big ones can also take boat rides or participate in plastic boat races conducted by what appears to be Zac Efron.



The Paris Plage up here starts at Rotonde de Ledoux (nearest metro: Jaurès) and runs to the former Magasins Généraux (in Rue de Crimée).

First day back.

My plane landed and I knew I was definitely back in Paris when three things happened today:

1. I ran into the back of a car on my vélib.' I was not paying much attention, thrilled to be flying on a bike in Paris again, when the car in front of me careened to a stop. I pulled my brakes hard, hard, hard, and only after my tire had already jolted with the bumper of the car. I awkwardly fell off, then picked up my bike and stormed to the front window of the car to deliver my best Parisian "I'm-a-seething-and-unhinged-driver (well-biker, but-still)" speech. The door to the car opened and I began my tirade...did he not see me behind him? Why would he stop like that in the middle of the road? But then something very un-Parisian happened. He interrupted me and asked if I was OK. What? I asked him to repeat it. I was so stunned as I rode away that I was still looking back at the man who had landed in Paris from the moon, when I remembered what I was doing (riding a bike) and panicked because right in front of me was another bumper I was about to hit once again. Swerving heavily, I missed it, but as I rolled past the window, the very-Parisian driver of this car yelled out scoffingly, "deux fois!" (two times!). He was mocking me and I beamed. I felt comforted. Yep, I was back.

2. Then, I went to Le Marais in search of a few things for a little soirée this evening (we were having a baby shower for a beautiful friend Aralena and I was in charge of dessert). A cake from a French pâtisserie. Perfect. I marched up to the pâtisserie I had been bouncing around and then holding in my head on my way and found that it was totally dark, with brown-colored paper lining all the windows. On the door, there hung a discrete sign, Entreprise fermée tout le mois d'aout (Closed for the month of August). The month? And like a plague that hits Paris every August, this little sign hung not not just on this pâtisserie's door, but on the doors of most small shops in Le Marais (and most other neighborhoods in the city). 5-weeks paid-leave. Butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers. They've all got it. Paris, the graveyard of August. Though they do keep enough open for tourists to scuttle through.

3. This next one was self-harm. I asked for it. I went to BHV. Yes. The day I returned to Paris after being gone for almost a month I went to BHV. Cuckoo. The list was short this time. Baby shower necessities: fabric paints and a ball of string (alright, fine, in no world are these things necessities). The paints - in and out - quick. The string, another thing. I walked to the knitting section and found a ball of blue string, picked it up and walked away with it. I saw a woman out of the corner of my eye lurking, staring a little, but assumed it was just your typical French girl in her measuring-you-up pose. I stood in front of the woman at the check-out (who was, fortunately or unfortunately, not Adeline. I did inquire if she was around though). Clucking tongue. Waving finger. Pointing in the direction of the balls of yarn. There is, of course, a "string measurer" to be seen first, who will measure your string and create a ticket. This might have made sense if the ball of yarn wasn't an already packaged thing, bar code staring straight up at me. If it needed to be measured, for instance. Saying nothing, I yielded. A long, string-wait ensued, watching the string girl make little tickets on tiny squares of paper for orders of tiny (already packaged) bundles of string. My turn was up. I handed her my yarn and she said, pleased with the situation, "You'll have to see my yarn colleague." Yarn colleague was, naturally, lurker from earlier (who didn't bother telling me about her job when I walked away with one of her products in my hands. She knew full-well that I would be halted and sent back). She had a little triumphant smile. I had one too. Mine was bigger than hers because this time I was thoroughly amused. It was all too good to be true. I eventually left BHV positively tickled. Seriously grinning. These guys are unbelievable.

People Picture Show

All the Johnsons in the world. Or so it might seem. This is my dad's side of the family - 55 first cousins on this side. So many. Johnsons. Do you see us?



Then the immediate Johnsons (Paul is missing because he is in Miami serving a Mormon mission. In his absence we all longed-for his cracked-wheat humor). What people. Together = regalement for all.



Marc.

Marc is a gypsy. If you look in the back of his car, it is an olio of randomness: a can of age-old lemonade my grandma gave him, a faded atlas, an old i-pod robot arm, a couple of those tools you use to get off bike wheels with, an oversize sketchbook, a box of screws, hinges and doorpins. Don't dream of sitting there. But do dream about sitting next to Marc. Gypsy dreams.

Andrew.

Lately Andrew has been composing songs on his violin. He starts playing a gig and commands: "Mom, write this down." Luckily, my mom totally can. He likes to wear his tuxedo on every possible occasion, along with aviator sunglasses. Andrew is 12.

My mom.

Most people who meet my mom aren't persuaded that she is the mother of eight kids until they see all of us. She is beautiful and young, usually laughing or smiling. She took Marguerite right in her arms from the very beginning and won her over by the end -when Marguerite gave her her doudou to hold, my Mom knew she had made it. And then while reading the story of Corduroy the bear in English, she found a little French girl giggling away next to her.

Julie.

Julie is my older sister. Julie is brilliant. You can see it in her eyes when she scans a room or when she converses. Julie is crazy about Joyce. When she walks with Joyce, she asks her what she smells and what she hears and what she feels - all the senses, not just what she sees.

My dad.

That's my dad in the yellow jersey. All the obsessive genes in our family (and there are a lot going around) stem from him. He is 53 years old and his best friends hover around the age of 25, since 25 year olds can keep up with him on bike rides (they gut their way through it). In the next month, he has 3 trips planned and Marc is going because he can keep up: Bamff Canada (hiking, biking), Yosemite (hiking, climbing), and he is coming to see me (read: to bike the passes in the alps of France). "It is a slow month," he says. Fanatical.

Paul.

Here is the missing boy, Paul, in Miami. He is evidently a very serious missionary. He is featured here wearing a certain tie for which Xavier and I carefully combed through a glimmering tourist shop in Montmartre. It looks phenomenal. Paul recently sent home news that he caught a turtle on the way to church and during the service, he hid it in the utility closet until he got out of church.

Rebekah.

Here is Rebekah. She is joyous. Even when she was recently angry at my mom because she wouldn't let her go somewhere, she was giggling in between her heaves of annoyance. She measures only 5'2" but she has the confidence of a girl twice her height.

Stephen.

This is Stephen. On the way home from picking him up at the airport, Stephen announced that he was mainly excited for the food. He cooked the whole time he was here: rhubarb syrup, grilled pizzas, smoked salmon pasta, he baked bread - delectables straight from Martha and my mom.

John.

John is Julie's husband and Joyce's dad. I would want him for a dad. He will do anything for Joyce. He is the kind of guy you want to hang around because he is like a balmy day - you feel like sauntering along slowly, enjoying the warmth.

Melanie.

Here is Melanie and her four-legged friend, Tuffy. Strange name for a horse? It gets stranger, for Tuffy is just the 'acronym' for the horse's real name: Too Tough to Dream (we are still sorting through all the layers of such a name). The point though, is that she is a horse-gal. Her favorite slogans include, "Horses are very stable people," and "My best days are spent with horses." And she isn't joking - at all.

Joyce

Joyce, dreamy Joyce. And she just keeps getting dreamier.

Xavier and Marguerite.

These two characters get featured all the time here...wondrous creatures.