Sundays

Sundays in Paris are sort of magical.

Once you get over the fact that everything is closed, and you just learn to go with it, Sundays are beautiful. You really are not expected to be accomplishing anything. No one is really accomplishing anything. They're days to be idled outside, to be enjoyed. You see people walking leisurely, strolling. And even the most sour-faced Parisians will be caught smiling on Sundays.

I just got back from Reims today (post to come), and my friends and I spent part of the unusually sunny Sunday morning in Cafe Francais. I had a pain au chocolat and just enjoyed being where I was.

All along my commercial street, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything was mostly closed, but people still strolled. Across the street, at another part of the circle that makes up the Bastille area, the open air market was going on. It was a relaxed sort of day. The kind of day that Sunday should be, but almost never is back in the States.

I find myself not even feeling what Theo and I dubbed "the Sunday feeling" when we were kids. The infamous Sunday feeling is a guilty-in-your-stomach-horrible feeling that we'd get on Sundays. Sundays brought Mondays and the beginning of the school week.

Now, Sundays are meant to be relaxing. I actually enjoy having the time to do the laundry on Sunday and to do not much more than walk around. There's something special about them in the same way that there's something special about the buildings here. At first I was so unbelievably frustrated by the fact that there were beautiful building facades that sometimes led to hideous, bereft interiors. Now, though, that I've seen my share of the inside of French residential buildings, I know that they often hide something else.

Many buildings are "digicode" protected. You type in an alphanumeric code to open up the front door. More often than not, though, this does not lead to an apartment building hallway. Rather, it often leads to a courtyard. These courtyards range in style from the terrifying one in a building in Belleville (where I briefly considered an apartment) to the historic buildings I've been in. The first one had my eyes warily darting behind garbage cans, looking for axe murderers lurking in the shadows. Then there was the hidden oasis in the 20th arrondissement where Sarah and I stayed. This one was overflowing with flowers and trees in pots and a golden dog who greeted us when we entered. Then there was Sarah's historic building with its dramatic courtyard. After a few glasses of wine, we would stand in this courtyard and pretend to be statues or to put on Greek tragedies.

I'm coming to discover that much of Paris is like this. There are all sorts of hidden pleasures behind the doors.