Woke up my first morning in Paris and thought it was Groundhog Day: there was Matt Cronin standing on our puny little balcony in his boxer shorts, smoking a Marlboro Light.
Wonder what the neighbors thunk?
We are, after all, staying in the very fancy Auteuil neighborhood, frequented by important French personages like the formerly long-haired, dashing, Euro-playboy-esque, poetry writing French prime minister, Dominique de Villepin (control yourself, Lucy, I know how easily youâre seduced by a crisp couplet, even when it isnât flowing from the pen â ahem â of a guy in a silk suit and aviator shades!)
Oh! Just want to let you all know that when weâre done with this stupid distraction called a Grand Slam event, weâre going to have a new contest. We will pick one male and one female player, and the contestants will have to write a Bec Hewitt-esque wedding poem.
The apartment is nice but, predictably enough, about six times smaller than the pictures on the internet indicated. You can swing a cat, but barely, and as itâs just a one-bedroom place, Matt very nicely offered to take the living room sofa, and I very nicely offered to pay half the rent, even though Iâm only covering Week 2.
The elevator is, shall we say, quaint. . . one of those cool-looking wire cage ones. The wall plate says the maximum is two persons (without luggage, of course) but let me put it this way: I took a nap on the way up (you know how slow Eurovators are) and never fell down.
So I went out to the local Monoprix, a nice walk up Avenue Mozart (this is the 16th arrondissement; the big word, Iâm told, means something like âhood). It looks like a toy supermarket to someone like me, whoâs accustomed to Big Box supermarkets like Albertsonâs or Vonâs,where they have six-inch diameter fire hoses on timers washing down the fruit and the Rice Krispies display is six stories high (okay, goons, start your anti-American emails now!).
I noticed that they had only a dozen or so full-sizes shopping carts, and they were chained and locked together. Whatâs that about, I wondered? Is there a shopping cart theft epidemic in Paris, or is the time-honored job of cart boy no longer considered gainful employment? That would offend me, as the noble profession of cart boy was my first real job, at 16!
Most people buy their groceries one small wire-basket at a time. I grabbed two of them, although I found that maneuvering in the aisles with one to port and one to starboard was a little tough. The little old ladies were flying like bowling pins! Just kidding, although hereâs a secret for those of you who pride yourselves on your ability â rather, your illusions about your ability - to âconnectâ with locals when youâre traveling. Supermarkets are a kind of DMZ between locals and tourists. Everybody needs Prepar â Maalox, right?
On the way home with my three bags of groceries, I bumped into veteran journalist and friend Sandy Harwitt, whoâs staying, like always, at the local Queens hotel (file it, she likes it).
Each year when she arrives, the hotel staff greets her with hugs and kisses: âMiss Har-weet! So good to see you again! You look Bew-tee-full!â She also gave me some invaluable intel. Although the local pizza joint closes at 10:30, Anne the manageress apparently takes phone orders from ink-stained wretches at Roland Garros and keeps the food warm until they arrive. All in all,
Iâm getting used to my new neighborhood. Wonder if I'll miss the buzz of the Left Bank before the week is out.
Iâll be posting later on the Firekitten Hingis and Shahar Peâer; the third set of their match (they had split when the match was postponed by darkness) ended a little while ago. Also, I checked out two videos cited by comment posters: this one recommended by the intriguingly named Lanterne-Rouge (we know which "district" she's from, right?)or Lleyton Hewitt lip-synching Eye-of-the Tiger â hat tip to fiery Ameriphobe Mc-Kevski for that one. . .
Just a little something to lighten up your day, I hope.