Sunday, July 8, 2012

The Curse

We are in the middle of a grand demenager to our new appartement.

The skys have been dark and filled with low hanging clouds.  We've been dodging rain drops with each trip we've made.  The metro is sometimes full of commuters and many times not.

It's a haul of some luggage or other.  Filled to the brim with our worldly belongings.  Five large valises moving from the 16th arrondisement, one at a time.

Taking the number 6 metro to Pasteur and connecting through the tunnels, up and down stairs, to the number 12 metro line.  Boarding another train and exiting up into the light deep into that most Parisian place, the 15th arrondisement.  Past the locals and around the dog sh*t.  Onwards, hauling and dragging our valises filled with what's left of the stuff of our lives.

Each return trip, we see the group of Rom musicians gathered at  Sevres-Lecourbe.  They await a train to take them to richness and fame.

Time Keeper's Goddess

Enter the Goddess of the Age of Rationalism

Today we had a middle aged accordionist join our car as we rattled up the line, returning to our appartement in the 16th.

The man played two songs.  He played them sufficiently well to be called a traveling Rom musician.  Not great stuff.  Just sufficient.  Two songs.  That was it.

Next thing we know, he's calling out "Bonne journee.  Bon jour.  Merci.  Merci.  Thank you."  He started walking the car.  Tip cup rattling like the train we rode.  Soliciting for a bit of dosh to feed the clan.

As he reached our end of the car, I was staring off into space.  No.  Actually, I was watching the hydraulic pressure gauge.  I was wondering how much pressure was being indicated on the dial.   I was wondering what happened to the gauge as it measured the opening of the metro rail car doors.  I wondered what the hell that damned tip cup was doing under my nose.

Such persistance, this!

After more than a few seconds passing with the tip cup firmly planted under my nose, I slowly, disdainfully, moved my eyes over the top rim of my glasses and looked the Rom accordionist straight in the eyes.  I did not let my gaze wander.  I just look deeply eye to eye at him.  Then, very slowly, I oh so very very slightly wagged my chin "No!" from sided to side.  I held his eyes firmly with mine.

We reached the next metro platform just in time for him to break our stare and continue his chant of "Bonne journee.  Bon jour.  Merci.  Merci.  Thank you."

Then, very quietly, under his breath, quite sotto voce, he cursed me.  He cursed me with his best Rom curse.

Saint Rationalism

Enter the Seer of Hermetic Sciences

Interesting times, these.


  1. OK, this post explains why the last post was about the school near your old apartment - you haven't finished moving yet...

    Perhaps you could hire the Rom to move your bags? ;-)

    1. Huh. I hadn't thought of that. I'd be afraid he'd make off with the bags and we'd never see him again. LOL!

      Actually, I thought seriously of asking him "C'est pour moi?" as he was dangling the cup under my nose. I could use a little spare change as much as the next guy.