The faces of the people at the table lit up as I mentioned how we saw "Pirates of the Caribbean" on the airplane.  The conversation bubbled over how great so-and-so was as the pirate.  I got that sinking feeling once again, realizing just how "out of it" Blair and I are.  Without TV, and rarely seeing movies, we tend to live life raw. 

We sat down to eat at the restaurant last night, after having served who we thought was everyone.  Between the baby spinach salad with tomatoes, and the pasta with escargot, a table of three with an infant arrived.  Nicole and I tsk'ed about a 7-month old being out at 10:00 PM.  We rushed into the kitchen to whip up their dinner.  The father had one of the deepest voices I'd ever heard.  The mother was ravishing, with lush, long, deep brown hair and big golden earrings.   Her brother accompanied them, staying outside to smoke, apart from the baby.  All of them had the duck.  "We made it too good", I told Nicole, as we made the brother a second helping, in the kitchen at 10:45.

It's been raining in Paris for days.  My hour of walking each day has been more difficult to achieve in the cold and damp.  Sales are on in all the stores -- 70% off the sign reads -- I feel sorry for people who bought Christmas presents.  Really, I am feeling sorry for myself and everyone else who is experiencing this lack of light and sunshine.

It's been a spotty week at the restaurant.  Very little evening business, and that, on Thursday night was rushed.  As customers, Blair and I would always plan on spending the whole evening there:  "we're here for the ambiance" I'd tell Michel, who would respond "I am too."

Not everyone who comes in is wonderful.   Last night, the lady who talks to herself (no, it is not a cell phone), spent hours at the bar.  She brought Michel a gift -- a book about pirates, from "your siren".  Nicole was not amused, but Blair and I were, as we hypothesized about how she DID think of herself as a pirate girl, and how she likely had a tattoo or two.   She isn't very nice to women, generally, me included.  She demands that Michel wait on her, and take her money.

Near 11, a funny little man came in.  He asked Michel to uncork his bottle of wine, bought from the late-night Arab grocer.  Then he latched onto the table of three.  At once, the mother took the baby out, to put him to bed wherever they were staying. Nicole and I sighed with relief.  The man, an Italian, from near Torino, got into a conversation with the two men.   He spoke in Italian, French and English.  He fondled the man's jacket, as Michel cautioned, "keep your hands off."

The restaurant is my TV, my movies.  People are infinitely more interesting, deep, complex, than their virtual counterparts.   Books even leave me cold in comparison to who might be "out there".   Mme. L's grandmother was a gypsy; Mr. S a former Nazi; Mme. T walked from the top to the bottom of France; Mr. M is madly in love with the girl across the street, one-third his age.   Real life.

A regular at the restaurant tells me his favorite thing to do is to watch "Friends".  Crestfallen, I put my repertoire of tales away for another day.   I want to hear a real story, an escape from China or from the gendarmes, a jump from an airplane, or from a merry-go-round. 

I am looking for a pirate to paint, someone with that look like he's going back to sea to be free.  In the meantime, I paint the butcher, who stuffs my wild pheasant with mushrooms, and decorates it with the head and feathers.

Eventually, the two men leave and the Italian follows them.  He is surprised they are so much bigger than him.  Moments later he returns, looking for something he left behind.



Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER