cats – Out My Window

Art in Paris: digital and natural

Monday, I was sitting on a platform in the back of an old foundry in Paris overlooking what is now known as Atelier des Lumières. The Atelier is the first digital art museum in Paris. I have gone five times since it opened its doors in April of 2018. All the shows are a combination of Art and Technology. Using 120 projectors, images are thrown up on walls and the floor. They are in constant motion and accompanied by music.

After watching a show of Cezanne, Kandinsky, and Van Gogh, I decided I wanted to know more about the origins of the Atelier des Lumières. As each of the shows ended and the credits were projected on the walls, eight cities (including Paris) now house these light shows: Bordeaux, Les Baux-de-Province, Amsterdam, New York, Dubai, Seoul, and Jeju. That is six more than the last time I was there during the summer of 2020. My sister had told me she had tickets to see the Van Gogh show in Detroit (for five times the price we pay here in Paris!). I had assumed it was the Paris show that was traveling but I’m not so sure. There is a permanent installation in New York.

The first of these art and technology shows, Carrières des Lumières, started in les Baux-de-Province. There the art is projected onto the walls of caves. It is part of a much larger organization called Cultural Spaces. Bruno Monnier, the president of Cultural Spaces, wanted to bring the idea to Paris. He found an unused foundry from the 19th century called Chemin-Vert located in the 11th arrondissement. It was created in 1835 to meet the needs of the Navy and railways for high-quality castings. It closed in 1929 due to the International crisis. Monnier has taken the space, left it intact, and cleaned it up while fitting it for all the projectors. It opened in 2018 with a show of Klimpt’s famous paintings. It is hard to describe the show if you haven’t seen one. My photos are static but the images are constantly moving like a giant slide show. Music is chosen specifically for certain periods in an artist’s life. The result is captivating. It’s not a stretch to call it a completely immersive experience. Children often run around chasing the images on the floor and become part of the fun of the show.

After writing the above, I walked to Parc de Bagatelle to check on the peacocks and the cats. I couldn’t go on Sunday. I saw how fast the peacock tails were growing in. I thought of sitting in the Atelier watching these famous artists’ depictions of nature dancing on the walls. And, of being in Bagatelle week after week, looking at the trees turn colors, the roses die away, a few defying nature and hanging on to their stems, the peacocks strutting around, their tails growing so fast it just might be a slide show. There is no sign of the females. There aren’t even that many people even though it was a lovely autumn day. The cats were all out enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Gaston and Zoe (the cats from the circus) are lying on the bench.

The regular volunteer was just finishing up feeding time for the cats. I asked him how long it took the peacock tails to complete the circle to full growth. He said April. They molt in August. Four months is the short time they are full and probably the equivalent of mating season.

Two months worth of growth, the eyes are now clearly visible

I asked him about kittens. He said most are born between September and December. We never see them because the mothers hide them in the thick bushes on the periphery of the park. I had visions of bushwacking my way through those bushes until I found a litter. Then I’d steal one and raise it—much to the chagrin of Bijou who is the true Lady and Mistress of my small apartment. A girl can dream.

One rose, with a strong perfume, is hanging on. Because it is an entrant into the competition of 2023, it is not named.

Being at Bagatelle week after week is as immersive an experience as the digital art show at the Atelier. One shouldn’t compare apples and oranges but, if I were forced to choose…..

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A bientôt,

Sara

Toto, we aren’t in France anymore

Spain is so close yet so far away. It is a short plane ride or train ride but the culture is so different. Feelings about color are different, the art is different, the cities are different. Paris is considered the most beautiful city in the world. I don’t think any city in Spain would be on a list of the top ten. Going to Spain feels like a journey of a much greater distance.

I flew to Seville from Charles de Gaulle airport last Saturday in two hours. I am with two friends who have rented a timeshare in Marbella on the Costa del Sol. A quick exit through the airport and finding the rental car, off we went south-east to find the ocean. For the first hour, the landscape was not inviting. Arid land populated with what we think are olive trees and not much else. About two thirds of the way to our destination, the landscape became hilly with deep arroyos. This was much more interesting. There was nothing on this land. Nada. No people, no other roads, no structures. We made a mistake with our directions and had to go back the way we came for 30 minutes. There were no off-ramps, nowhere to go in this landscape of hills and ravines except forward. We finally were able to turn around and head back towards the ocean.

We are staying in Mijas, close to Marbella. The A7, a four lane highway, runs along the coast from Malaga to Algeciras. It is busy at all times of the day. There is no demarcation between towns (or cities–it’s confusing as to what they are) and reminds me of Route 1 on the East Coast where one city runs into another.

I can think of many words to describe the villages of France: quaint, piccaresque, charming, etc. None of these words apply to this part of Spain that you can see from the A7. No thought has been given to town-planning. Monstrous timeshares litter the sides of the large hills looking like cruise ships plastered against the golden brown background. Billboards of all sizes line the A7 giving a sense of a very large population. One has to know where to find the good walking beaches as many have stones galore and hurt your feet as you test the temperature of the water.

Homes high up in the hills of Mijas or Marbella

However, following streets upwards into the hills, one can see what attracted people to this part of the world before it became so popular. The houses are white, large, gated, with flowers everywhere. The hibiscus is the most popular this time of year. Views of the ocean pop up at many turns and there is no sign of the A7 or the hundreds of billboards,

On Sunday, we drove to the town of Estepona south of Mijas. My apple map on my iPhone took us to the port where we found a parking place. Our intention was to find the old town and wander the small streets where no present day car could possibly go. We stumbled on the closing of the Sunday outdoor market and my friend bought a skirt. We then asked directions to the old town. We strolled along a promenade that clearly had been thought out, had flowers planted along the side closest to the road and an overhang that balanced out the railing on the beach side. The beach, not crowded, was wide as a football field and people were lying under umbrellas. There were par courses along the way. Children were taking advantage of them, climbing on walls, swinging on foot machines. We never did make it to the Old Town so we have yet to see the tiny streets of old Spain.

South of Spain, a short ferry ride of 40 minutes from the town of Tarifa, lies Tangiers, a city that seems mystical. A city beloved by Kerouac and Matisse and many artists of the 20s through the 50s who spent time there. We couldn’t miss a trip to Tangiers! So we left the timeshare at 6am in order to catch the 9am ferry. After standing in a line to get tickets, a line for passport control, a line to go through security, we lined up to get on the ferry where we stood in another line to have our passports stamped by the Moroccon police. Only after every passenger had done that, did the ferry start to move and make the trip out of Europe towards Africa.

Every guide book will warn you of every thing that can go wrong in Morocco. I remember visiting the old city of Jerusalem my first year out of university. The Arab world is a culture shock. I wasn’t wise enough to be scared but I felt lost. I couldn’t speak the language, women were not encouraged to be traveling on their own, and small children begged constantly. Yet, I was mesmerized. Everything was colorful, I’d never seen goods hanging on doors, from the ceilings, baskets and baskets of spices or eggs or jewelry. I imagined Tangiers, the old city, would be much the same. Leaving the taxi that took us to a gate to enter the old city, we immediately came to a market. We wandered around not sure what we were doing, grown men begging to be our guide stopping us every ten minutes. We finally found our way into the Medina, the most interesting part of the old city and found a very old man, Salam, had attached himself to us. He spoke French. The streets were like a maze leading us deeper and deeper into a warren. The open air shops turned into regular shops where we would step inside and see beautiful tile work or men weaving rugs. The dirty streets changed into lovely white streets with houses surrounded by bougainvillia. We were headed to the Kasbah and were climbing. Salam pointed everything out to me, where a famous American lived and died and later the garage where he kept his Rolls Royce. After hundreds of steps, we arrived at a wall with an arch. Walking through the arch, we got a view of the port, new Tangiers and a huge expanse of ocean. It is breathtaking.

The Kasbah is a large living area with a mosque that is now a museum, shops and little alley ways that reminded me of Santorini. We had been on our feet for five hours at that point and we were all feeling it. We were planning on a 4pm ferry ride back to Spain but thought we’d go early in case of an earlier time. There wasn’t. We descended into the lower market areas that reek of poverty. It seems a small thing to give some man or student a couple of euros to guide us around and tell stories. But Americans are warned off.

We made it back to our car by 6:30pm CET (Morocco is an hour behind Spain) and drove the hour and a half back to the timeshare. All three of us made a salad, ate it silently, and went to bed.

One thing I haven’t mentioned is the cats of Tangiers. They are everywhere. They are gentle, clean, friendly, have no fear of people. Almost every store had a cat near it. The parks had cats, the cats took naps in the middle of sidewalks, the cats looked longingly at you if you held out a finger and said “Cou cou.” I asked one of our guides if people had cats as pets. He said yes some families do. Mostly the cats hung out in the Medina.

Cats, it seems, have been revered for centuries in Muslim culture. So much so, that one of Prophet Muhammad’s companions was known as Abu Hurairah (Father of the Kittens) for his attachment to cats. The Prophet himself was a great cat-lover– Muezza was the name of his favourite cat.–The Guardian.

As the days have gone by, the area around the timeshare seems to have gotten prettier! I think I am so spoiled by living in Paris that I’m far too hard on other areas in Europe. Next week, I’ll share about the white hill towns of Andalucia.

A bientôt,

Sara

While I’m waiting

It’s July 7, I have not yet heard from Stanford. I’m not holding my breath. I’m not anxious or letting the world pass by. In fact, the news of the world seems to be coming in fast and furious. Some bloggers I know are writing that their brains have gone on tilt-too much, too fast, too sad, too awful–and how hard it is to write at the moment. I absolutely concur. So I give you the things I’m focused on.

Today, Boris Johnson stepped down as Prime Minister. “It is clearly now the will of the parliamentary Conservative Party that there should be a new leader of that party and therefore, a new prime minister,” said Johnson. Ya think???? This morning I woke up to news that he was going to stick to it come hell or high water (my words). Four hours later, everyone who gets notifications on their phone got the same message as I did. CNN reported that Johnson is not planning to leave office immediately, however. “I’ve today appointed a Cabinet to serve, as I will, until a new leader is in place,” he said, in a televised speech outside 10 Downing Street. Hmmm. How much damage can he do between now and then?

British Prime Minister Boris Johnson walks at Downing Street in London, Britain July 6, 2022. REUTERS/Henry Nicholls

Everyone I know is getting Covid. Two friends came over, vaccinated and boostered, got Covid here (Europe) and I spent time on the phone with them helping them figure out what to do. Three friends were over here and tested positive after their return to the US. This virus will keep mutating and figure out how to get around all the vaccines. The great saving point is that it does make one sick but not so sick as to go into the hospital or die.

France Covid — From ‘Secrets of Paris’ blog

In French Politics, Macron was forced to shuffle his cabinet around. “France has entered a new political era; or has reverted to an old one. Parliament is divided and therefore parliament rules. The President can no longer treat the National Assembly as his rubber-stamp or echo chamber. We have returned to the France of the 1950s or the 1930s, before Charles de Gaulle invented the supposedly all-powerful presidency (but left the ultimate power in parliament).”–John Litchfield in The Local. For more of his analysis, go to: https://www.thelocal.fr/20220706/opinion-france-begins-a-new-political-era-and-its-going-to-get-messy/?tpcc=newsletter_member

And on a sweet note, on a walk in the Parc de Bagatelle this past Sunday, I learned about two of the sweetest cats there. Their names are Zoe and Gaston. They come from a circus. Once the pandemic hit 28 months ago, the circus approached the non-profit that feeds and cares for the cats in Bagatelle and asked if Zoe and Gaston could stay there. The volunteer assured me that there was no abuse, nothing like that. The circus felt strongly they would be better cared for by the wonderful volunteers who come everyday to feed the cats. I went over and petted Zoe who rolled over on her back to get her belly rubbed. No wonder I see the two of them sitting on benches with people reading or just hanging out in the sun.

Zoe (or Gaston) waiting for company to sit on the bench with them

There is supposition that France is in for a long heatwave. Last summer, we had rain all summer and no canicules (heatwave). So far, we have had two that have been called a canicule and more is yet to come. Depending on where you are in France, it can be fine. In Paris, where the pollution is terrible, heatwaves are awful to bear. In the south of France where many people live in stone houses, one keeps the shutters closed, the lights off, and one stays inside cool as a cucumber until evening. As long as there is no humidity, these heatwaves cannot be compared to NYC or Philly in summer. However, if you have porcelain, British skin, it is hard to get through a french summer. I have dark olive skin inherited from my Russian grandparents and I love the heat of summer.

A bientôt,

Sara

The Cats of Bagatelle

Parc de Bagatelle is one of the many gardens that graces the Bois de Boulogne, the large park on the west end of Paris. Paris is, in fact, sandwiched in between two huge wooded parks. Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes. Living in the 16th arrondissement, I am ten minutes walk from the Bois de Boulogne. Last summer, during a phone call with a friend, I learned about a formal rose garden within the boundaries of the Bois. The search for this rose garden led me to and introduced me to Parc de Bagatelle. This beautiful garden spans 59 acres (24 hectares) in the north-western part of the Bois. Hidden away, it is an idyllic and quiet place to discover, away from the noise and the crowd. Not only does it have a formal rose garden but an informal rose garden, an iris garden, a potager, and fields that are planted with bulbs and bloom with daffodils, tulips, hyacinths and most other bulbs from early February thru the end of April. May is the month of the Iris. You probably can get the idea that this garden shows off seasonal flowers. Something is blooming all year long.

There are also sentient beings in the parc. Cats. At last count I’ve found thirty of them. Depending on the day of the week and how many people are wandering around, one can see many of them…. or not. There are peacocks that talk all day long, are curious, and will walk right up to you. There are mallards that mostly stay in the ponds but on days when there aren’t many people, they wander the parc and plop themselves down wherever and make sure you understand that this is their parc and you are the guest.

I wanted to know more about the cats. There had to be a reason for all the cats–mousers, maybe? Grandchildren of a famous cat–think Hemingway’s cats. I googled and found one reference to an association “l’association La Féline Du Chlojolie” that feeds and cares for all the cats in the Bois de Boulogne. According to the association, there are about fifty in Bagatelle, another thirty at La Cascade, and the rest wander the trails and hide in the woods of the Bois.

Véronique est l’une des quatre bénévoles à s’occuper 365 jours sur 365 des 150 chats du bois de Boulogne, répartis notamment au parc de Bagatelle et à la Cascade. LP/Eric Le Mitouard.

“In 2008, Marie-France created her association La Féline du Chlojolie which has about thirty members, a few donors and four volunteers who don’t count their time devoted to these kitties.

“Every day, we prepare 10 kg of croquettes and 40 boxes of pâtés”.
Véronique (Photo above) is one of them. “Our paths have crossed. And for seven years I have been totally involved in this action”, assures this inhabitant of Clichy who comes three to four times a week to Bagatelle park, without any remuneration other than the affection of the cats that surround her. Two other people share the task at the Cascade or in the different sites of the wood.”

“Not only do we feed them, but we also monitor their health. All the cats are castrated, tattooed and followed by a veterinarian”, specifies Marie-France who herself adopted four cats, “desperate cases”, who came back to life. “It’s a colossal job,” she adds.” –le Parisien.

Marie-Claire’s personal adventure began with a walk with one of her granddaughters in Bagatelle park. “I then met Madame Dorfmann, the wife of the producer (Jacques, editor’s note), who had been taking care of the Bagatelle cats for years. Eight months before her death, she made me promise to take care of the cats in her place”… And the the rest is history.

And that’s it. That is all I found about the cats of Bagatelle. I really wanted a story, something folksy that’s passed down through families. But no, these cats are strays and if it weren’t for the good will of Marie-Claire and her volunteers, they’d be scrawny, mangy things carrying all sort of insects on them. The peacocks, mallards, and people would be keeping a great distance. As it is, people smile when they see the cats. They stop and watch them. Sometimes, they will walk up and pet them. I’ve walked by and seen a cat fast asleep on the lap of someone reading and relaxing. Something fascinating is that these beings seem to have territories. When I am walking towards the east end of the park, the cats all stay on the path or in the brush to the right. The peacocks all stay to the left of the path. Very few exceptions.

A bientôt,

Sara

The further adventures of Sara and Bijou

Perros Guirec is a village in the Cotes d’Amor department in Brittany. It has been a seaside resort since the end of the 19th century. Along with other villages along the coast, it is famous for the pink granite rocks which have been sculpted over the years by the sea and resemble animals and objects. In the winter, the population is around 7200 people. During the months of July and August, when Parisians and tourists alike descend on the many beaches, the population quadruples.

Men playing with mechanised sailboats in the port area

This is the part of Brittany that Bijou and I have landed and spent the last almost four weeks. From my window where I work, I look out on part of the English channel (Perros is directly south of Bournemouth). Today, though cold, the weather is magnificent. The sea is that turquoise blue with whips of white toped waves in the distance. The sail boats are out in force. There is hardly any Covid in this area. A boy at school reportedly was diagnosed with the virus last week but no one else has gotten sick. At the marché and along the streets in Centre Ville, everyone wears a mask. Walking along the sea, people have masks on their wrists or under their chins. They put them on if they pass another being. But one can walk for two or three miles and only pass a handful of people.

Along the shore walking towards the town of Louannec

Two weeks ago, Brittany suffered some of the coldest weather ever known in this area. It can be much like the Bay Area in California–warmer in winter and colder in the summer. But in early February, it snowed, stuck to the ground and one morning, I awoke to a huge patinoire (skating rink) that was the roads and driveways. Wednesday morning, as it was starting to warm up, I walked down to the marché at the port of Perros. There were twice as many stalls out as were out two weeks ago. People look forward to the three marchés in this area: Friday morning, there is one near the Poste in centre-ville, and Sunday morning the market is in La Clarté, high on a hill overlooking the beaches. Many people prefer the outdoor markets although most French have become habituated to American-style supermarkets. They can get eggs that were laid the same morning, vegetables with dirt still on them from being pulled the night before, Bretagne honey and Bretagne beer made in this region plus the hundreds of cheeses from all over France but the freshest are from this area.

Wednesday morning marche at the port of Perros

This was the area I was to visit over Christmas and due to the new variant from the United Kingdom, I chose not to deal with the train station and the rest of the places it would be hard to socially distance. When it seemed a good possibility that France might have a third lockdown, my friend, Roland who lives in Perros, said “Come stay with us.” “How long will you be gone?” some friends asked. “If there is a confinement, I’ll stay to the end. If not, probably two weeks.” Yet, here it is almost four weeks later, no confinement- although all of France still has a 6pm-6am curfew – and I am still here. There is so much air and there is no Covid. For some unknown reason, my friends have not gotten sick of me. They beg me to please stay longer. I’m not sure I would have that kind of tolerance!!

View from my bedroom window, looking out at the point of Perros Guirec and one of les sept îles

Prime Minister Jean Castex and health minister Oliver Véran have been holding press conferences as the health situation has deteriorated sharply in France over the past week. https://www.thelocal.fr/20210225/what-can-we-expect-from-the-french-prime-ministers-latest-announcement/ According to the French, they are the best at everything. Not true. There is still very little vaccine and what there is is not being given to the 65-74 year old group because “it hasn’t been proved that it is helpful for those over 65 years of age.”

So here I am in this beautiful area of Brittany where there is no Covid, contemplating going back to Paris where there is plenty. It is only because of the kindness of my friends that I even have a choice. Since I have Bijou with me, there is no reason to rush back. Each day, we watch the news wondering if Brittany will have the 6pm curfew lifted. As of yesterday, Friday, it seems they are thinking in terms of regions and not one size fits all. Dunquerque and Nice have been hit very badly. Both cities and areas around them are in a weekend lock-down. Paris was warned that if things didn’t improve, they will also be put in lockdown for as long as three weeks. All this will be decided Saturday, March 6. So I’ve accepted I’ll be here for awhile. My hortensias on my terrace may die from lack of care but I will probably be safe. And taking more long walks along the beautiful blue sea.

jonquils blooming along a walk down at the Port

Huge dice made out of pink granite, which is everywhere on the Côte de Granit Rose

A bientôt,

Sara

The Further Adventures of Bijou the Cat

Dear Reader

I apologise for the long absence. I have been flying back and forth from Paris to New Jersey in order to be of support to my Uncle Stan and my cousin, Joan. I say support because Joan has done the lion’s share of the work to get Stan moved into Skilled Nursing and packing up, cleaning out and closing up his 2 bedroom apartment. I was there for the final week of closing down the apartment. Anyone who flies a lot across the ‘pond’ knows that going up and down, crossing time zones really does take a lot out of you. So although I’ve had many ideas for my blog, I just didn’t have the energy to do anything with my ideas.

Until last night. When Bijou disappeared for about four hours. As the old Joni Mitchell song goes: “You don’t know what you have till it’s gone,” I thought my heart would stop a couple of times.

So I’ll back up. The sun has been shining in Paris. The temperature has gone up. For three days, it has felt Spring like–although many of us feel too superstitious to actually say Spring has come to Paris. As I’ve reported in an earlier blog, I have a huge terrace. It is a third room that is mostly accessible in warm weather. There are two large sliding glass doors in both the Living Room and the Bedroom. That is my access to my terrace. Yesterday, I had both doors completely open and was inspecting all the plants that I’d put on the terrace last summer and fall. Bijou followed me in and out. She is a very social cat and likes to be around people. Where I go she goes and makes herself comfortable. If there happen to be pigeons or other flying objects near the terrace, she will sit on the couch or perch herself on the outside table and chatter away as only a cat can do. This is not meowing for you non-cat people. This is a true chatter. The sound is like a far away typewriter going at full speed.

Bijou not sure she likes being photographed

After six plus months in this apartment, Bijou knows not to jump up on the terrace guardrail. When we first moved here, she would jump up and discovering it was six inches across, go walking along happy as can be. She would visit the next door neighbour’s terrace and come running back when she heard the fear in my voice as I called for her.

I don’t want her on the terrace guardrail. I don’t trust in her sense of balance and assume there is a reason for the saying “A cat has nine lives.” When I can’t find her, the first thing I do is look down eight flights to the courtyard below to see if there is cat splatted on the concrete.

Last night, I was catching up on e-mails (for some reason, I think it is actually possible to catch up! Silly me). I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen Bijou in an hour or two. I closed the living room doors and went from room to room looking for her. I couldn’t find her in any of her preferred sleeping places. I stood outside on the terrace and called her name. She usually comes running when I call her. She is under the impression I might feed her. Nothing, no sign of her. I told myself to calm down, she would show up. I turned on the TV and watched a BBC mystery in hopes that my mind would not obsess on where she wasn’t.

Thirty minutes went by. I did my rounds of the apartment again and stood on the terrace again calling her name. Nothing. I watched another half hour of TV. Did the rounds again, this time, I pulled out some wet food that she absolutely adores. I don’t give it to her as a rule because she then will go on strike and not eat her regular dry food. As I tore open the envelope of food, the smell seemed to fill the apartment and the terrace. I walked to the dividing wall between me and my neighbour, calling her name and holding the smelly wet food towards his terrace. Nothing.

I looked down into the courtyard again. It was dark. So I took the elevator to the RDC, went out into the courtyard, climbed up into the garden and called her name. Maybe it’s true. That cats can fall and land on their feet. I was walking on dirt not concrete so I guess anything is possible. Nothing. I peered into the next door courtyard trying to catch a glimpse of the concrete to see if there was a cat. Nothing.

Up the elevator I went trying not to cry. I was sure this time I had really lost her. Anyone who has followed the escapades of Bijou knows she was especially precocious as a kitten. When she turned 18 months old, she turned from her “monster” self into a very sweet kitten. When she stayed with my friend, Melinda, during my California trip and surgery, she gave that family some heart stopping moments. I haven’t had to worry about her since it turned cold in November and I have had the doors only cracked open for air.

I opened and shut every closet door calling her name. I closed all my bureau drawers, found my flashlight and looked three and four times in the exact same place. There are just moments when the mind will not take in information. I find myself repeating an action over and over until finally acceptance moves me to some other action.

Three hours went by while I tried not to give in to the thought that this time was really it. I had really lost her. While I tried to get interested in something else and give my mind a rest from it’s end of the world scenarios.

Around 11:30pm, I was stepping out onto the terrace from my bedroom when I heard a tiny ‘meow’ from far away. I ran to the dividing wall calling her name. Nothing. I came back to the doors one foot in and one foot out on the terrace. Where was the ‘meow’ coming from? Was I going to have to wake up a neighbour I’ve never met because somehow Bijou managed to get herself into another apartment. I heard the ‘meow’ again.

I pulled open one of the bureau drawers that I’d slammed shut while I was so nerve wracked. I saw a tail. I called her name but nothing happened. I took everything out of the drawer and out came Bijou. She didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. She had gotten stuck behind the chest of drawers when I shut the drawer. I was so happy to see her I gave her the entire envelope of wet food.

Jonquils: a sure sign that Spring has arrived

When a tourist comes to Paris, one of the first things they see are the millions of postcards, greeting cards, trinkets, etc of cats on Parisian roofs, cats in front of beautiful doors, cats with their tails wound into a heart. Parisian cats! It’s almost as emblematic as the Eiffel Tower. If I really wanted to scare myself, I could spend some time wondering how those cats got on the roofs, whose cat exactly is in front of the door. But I won’t do that. I do think I’m in for a long Spring/Summer wondering how many escapades I’m going to be dealing with as Bijou drums up more things for me to write about.

A bientôt,

Sara

The further adventures of Bijou, the cat

While I was in the United States, January through May, Bijou was living the life of Riley. She stayed with a friend who has quite a large apartment, consisting of three large bedrooms, a living room plus and a dining room plus. Bijou had the run of the place. And she literally could run in a circle going through almost every room. She loved hiding under my friend’s bed, she would go to sleep on the kids’ book bags, she would sit on the back of a sofa for hours making those funny kitty noises every time she saw a bird and she made herself at home wherever she could. She knew she was only a guest and never jumped up on a table or workspace as she did at my apartment.

Once Spring came, things started to get a bit dicey. The apartment is on the 6th floor. Each room has a minimum of two ceiling almost to the floor windows. And every window had a little balcony where healthy plants were waiting for the sun. The windows would be thrown open and Bijou, with tons of cat curiosity, would go exploring. Just sitting on the little balcony was not enough. She would jump up on the railing and when any of the family walked by, she would just look innocent. While the family member had a small heart attack terrified Bijou would fall to the pavement and use up all her nine lives at once.

One very hot in July night, my friend decided to leave all the windows open. She could see that Bijou was near the balcony but opted for taking care of herself first. The next morning, when she called Bijou, Bijou was nowhere to be found. She went looking everywhere and, after an hour, she was formulating a conversation with me to tell me that Bijou had disappeared. Just as she picked up her phone, she saw Bijou looking pathetic outside her son’s window. That window was not open the night before. Neither of us even wanted to think how Bijou managed to get to that balcony from the opposite side.

When I finally moved into my own apartment in early August, I came and got Bijou and, for the first time in eight months, we were living together. I have a large terrace with a railing. The top of the railing is 4″/10cm thick. I’m on the 7th floor. Each room has glass doors that open up on the south side of my building and it is necessary in warm weather to have them open. Bijou loves the terrace and spends a lot of her time there. At first, she would jump up on the railing and I was the one having a heart attack. If I screamed or did something panicky, I was afraid I would scare her and she’d fall. I would clap my hands very loud which has always been my signal to her that said “No”. She would jump down. As soon as I went inside, she’d jump up again and nonchalantly go walking over to the next door neighbor’s apartment.

Bijou always comes when I call her. She is basically a very good cat. She is learning not to jump up on the railing and does it rarely now. I’m still too nervous to leave the doors to the balcony open in the night when I’m sleeping or when I leave the apartment. I don’t know why. I truly don’t think anything would happen to her. Cats have such an innate sense of balance and perspective of distance. But……I don’t ever want to be in the position of saying “If only…..If only I’d done the right thing” So doors stay closed at night, open during the day. Sara, the police, periodically wanders the apartment looking for any cat trouble Bijou may have gotten in.

Bijou, who was bought off the streets of Paris 2 1/2 years ago, has grown into a sweet cat. I’m completely aware that the catcapades she gets into are completely in line with her job description. She also likes to be in the same room as people. She likes to sleep at the foot of the bed. When she was very little she discovered a teddy bear of mine and to this day treats the bear like the mother she never had. She will walk up slowly, sniff it then realizing it is mama bear, she will start kneeding the bear and collapse in pleasure while her front paws go in and out of the bears tummy. I’m always so grateful it’s not my tummy. My friend, Fatiha, adores Bijou and makes her toys out of whatever she finds lying around. She gets Bijou to jump 4 feet high then teases her by pretending to throw a ball. Bijou doesn’t care. She adores Fatiha back and if Fatiha wants to play, that’s what Bijou will do.

And now you are caught up with the adventures of the fur ball living with me!!!

A bientôt,

Sara

Banya the cat.

Before Banya was attacked by a raccoon, she was already overweight but she moved around rather spritely, going indoors and outdoors as she pleased. Then, three summers ago, I went out of town and a family stayed at my home in Oakland. For some reason, that I’ve never been able to figure out except that they must not like animals, they put Banya and her food outside on the deck. In California. Where wildlife is in everyone’s backyard. Five days later they called me to say Banya was hurt. I had a friend go get her and take her to the Vet. She had maggots growing in a huge wound. The only reason she wasn’t dead was that the raccoon bit her around her spine. Her spine protected her organs. I’ve never forgiven myself for that happening.

So I brought Banya to Paris. I thought I was the most trustworthy person for her to be with. She was and is a real trooper. She flew in cargo and when I picked her up, she looked quite pleased with herself. In Paris, Banya became an indoor cat. She became a city cat having to get used to city noises that she had never heard before. She hid under the bed a lot and seemed very lost. But she was still Banya. When I would sit next to her, she would purr as loudly as a car engine starting up. If I stopped, she would take one paw and wrap it around my hand and bring it back to her neck. She never meowed, she chirped always making me smile.

Then I did the unthinkable. I bought a kitten from an SDF (Sans Domicile Fixe/Homeless Person) on Blvd St. Germain. My only excuse was that this kitten was the spitting image of Samantha, my tortoiseshell, that died just before I came to Paris. Banya hated her. She didn’t just hate her, she made it clear that this was her territory and Bijou was not welcome. She pee’d on the couch, she pee’d on the bed. She pooped wherever she felt like except in the litter box. I, who pride myself on knowing cats and dogs well, was beside myself. I had no idea what was wrong. She was thirteen years old and I thought maybe she was deathly ill. So off we went to the Vet who explained the facts of cats’ lives and territory to me. So Banya wasn’t dying, she was just pissed as hell.

I set up the apartment so that each cat had her own space. But, in fact, Bijou had the run of the place and Banya was relegated to the bathroom. I made her a bed there, she had her litter box next to my toilet and she rarely moved. If she had been human, she would have wiped her brow with the back of her hand and uttered to anyone who would listen “See what I have to put up with!”

My friends, one in particular, scolded me rather regularly. She said: “Lock Bijou up in the little bedroom and bring Banya out and pet her, brush her hair. Be nice to her. After all, this apartment belonged to her before Bijou ever arrived.” I would agree. I would do exactly that for two or three nights then life would get busy and I’d forget.

In January, I had to return to California. I had to have hip replacement surgery and would be recovering there. I’d be away from Paris for 4 months. After a lengthy ping pong game in my head of “do this” “no, do that”, I settled on taking Banya back to the States and leaving Bijou in Paris with a friend. So, once more, Banya was in California, back on her home turf. She was a different cat however. She had gotten fat, really fat. When she walked, she didn’t so much waddle as limp along to wherever she was going. She didn’t seem upset by it. I was the one upset. Her spine wasn’t straight, it dipped. It finally dawned on me the damage that had probably been done by the raccoon. She seemed happy though, she went up and down the stairs, she slept in whichever room she pleased.

And I put off thinking about what I was going to do when it was time to return to Paris. I couldn’t bring her back. It seemed cruel. I wasn’t sure where I was staying and for how long. And eventually she’d have to be with Bijou.

Two weeks before I returned to Paris, I wrote a note to my neighborhood Listserve describing Banya who would be fifteen years old this August. I explained the circumstances and asked if there was anyone willing to take in an older cat. I included two photos. Banya is beautiful. She is a Birmin. Birmins are the sacred cats of Tibet. Her profile is magnificent. When I look at her, I think of the Lion King. It is such a proud profile. I thought “how can anyone resist this beauty?”

Within one hour, I got a response. I called the woman back and I was so afraid she would change her mind, I rushed through an idea. I was going to Yosemite for 4 days. What if I brought Banya over and this wonderful person could see if Banya would fit into the household? The woman thought that was a fine idea.

Banya is still there. I think she will live the life of Riley. I took her on one trip to the Vet to make sure she was healthy and that there were no surprises. She’d lost 2 pounds. The day before I returned to Paris, I visited her one last time taking all the extra food I had. She was seated on a window bench that looked out on the whole Bay Area. She didn’t chirp in recognition nor start purring when I petted her. I don’t know what felt worse. That I was a bad mom and couldn’t care for my animals or that she didn’t seem happy to see me or even recognize me.

Today, I received an e-mail from Banya’s new mom: “I am delighted to always have a feline that is willing to sit next to me while I read or watch the sunrise and then the sunset. She is a very sweet cat”

I can hear her chirp and picture her paw reaching out to keep my hand from leaving.

	Lisa on Reflections on AWP 23
	Alice Boatwright on Reflections on AWP 23
	Mary Roosevelt on Reflections on AWP 23
	Lisa on Spring Training, Arizona
	Dee on Spring Training, Arizona

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