Last week was not the greatest week. Oh, nothing terrible happened, but do you ever have those weeks when nothing goes particularly right, either?
The weekend rolled around, and I got out of the house and tried to lift my spirits.
On Saturday evening, I recruited a friend to check out a food truck event with me. I was quite excited for this—there would be barbecue!—but the lines were so long that we decided it wasn’t worth it, especially since we didn’t know if the food would be good. I was also surprised that there weren’t actual trucks set up, but stands.
My friend smartly suggested seeing if the food truck I had raved about, Le Camion Qui Fume, was open. It wasn’t that far from where we were, so we walked across the Pont de Bercy to the movie theatre outside which Le Camion Qui Fume parks. It was indeed there, but my friend was wary about waiting in the long line. I should mention that this was the first time he had seen a food truck, and prior to that night he didn’t know they existed. I skipped a beat when he asked me what the concept was—not because I was surprised that he didn’t know, but because I had never described one before. “You buy food… from a truck…”
My (American) friends and I had willingly waited for Le Camion Qui Fume’s delicious burgers many times in the past, but I decided not to make my (French) friend wait an indeterminate amount of time for dinner.
There were two new neighboring trucks that weren’t there the last time I was in the area, so we split up and ordered from them instead. How funny that this non-event was more of a food truck festival than the actual festival.
On Sunday, I sat on the steps beneath the Sacré-Coeur to soak in the view of the city. At the bottom of the staircase, a man carefully swept the length of the bottom few steps. In the beginning, I figured that he was preparing the space for a show he was going to put on using the contraption behind him. Almost half an hour passed, however, and he was still sweeping those steps.I stopped in the Sacré-Coeur, and when I came back he was setting up the stage. A fine illustration of wild animals in soft colors formed the backdrop. When he turned a crank, the scene rolled to the left and a new one appeared. It was quite impressive. A clock read, “Next Show 5:00.” It was only 3:30. This man certainly put in a lot of prep time! I found his concentrated attention fascinating. He was not a person who does things half-baked.I continued my walk in Montmartre. I came across a small park with this quote on the wall:Translated to English, it says, “To love is a mess… so let’s love!” Does that seem reckless or wise to you? Or does it depend on who’s doing the loving and who’s being loved? Something to think about.
Below this glamorous bombshell reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn were blue tiles with “I love you” written in a multitude of languages. After leaving the love wall, I came across a clothing shop whose dresses in the window caught my eye. I browsed inside while the shopkeeper ranted on the phone to her friend about someone she was angry with. She didn’t hold back or attempt to lower her voice. I tried on a dress and came out to look at myself in the mirror, as the fitting room inexplicably didn’t have one. As I turned this way and that to see how the dressed looked, the employee said, “C’est mignonne !” (“It’s cute!”) in the middle of her tirade to her friend. I had to laugh.