De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

My Real”Amelie” Experience

Today I explored le Montmartre. I took the efficient little cards from my guidebook and rode the Metro to Blanche.

I hoped to find the cafe where Amelie was filmed. As you probably guessed… I’m a little obsessed with the film. As I saved for this trip, I watched it over and over again, just gather momentum and inspiration for my journey abroad. I used it to glean french along with the nightly broadcast of LE JOURNAL on my local cable station. I was a woman on a mission. This was the monument to my journey.

I walked up the steep hill of Rue Lepic. The cafe was on the left. I walked right by it. ‚”Tabac des deux Moulins‚” looked nothing like the classic French Cafe featured in the movie. It reminded me of a trashy, european disco. There was even a mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling. The floors were dirty, the tabac counter was gone, and the bistro bolsters were ripped and broken. I sat down at one table and was asked to move to another. I ordered ‚”un double cafe‚” and got my first really bad tasting, overpriced cup of coffee. I don’t even think it was espresso. Strike two—Much to my disappointment, it was not even worth filming. The only indication that this place was ever in the movie was the framed movie poster behind the bar.

I continued up the hill and did a little window shopping along the way, but nothing seemed worth the prices they were asking. So far Montmartre seems overcrowded and overpriced with that trendy edge that makes it a little annoying. There are places like Montmartre in New York. They are those areas of Brooklyn where the asking prices eclipse even Manhattan’s standards. Places like Williamsburg, Carroll Gardens, and Park Slope. I should know, I live there. The moment I saw an apartment in yet another realtor’s window advertised for $5000 a month, I knew my days in Brooklyn were coming to a close.

Found another cafe that was far more inviting. And it was here that I got a picture of how Parisians really live. An older woman sat next to me with her poodle in her lap. She was eating a hearty pork and rice meal with a glass of white wine at noon. The men were smoking and drinking their cafes and beers by the counter and they crushed out the butts on the floor. This is a common practice. They looked as if they were on a lunch time break from a construction job. I like the idea of bringing my dog to dinner with me though. And I have seen numerous dogs walking right in with their owners and taking their place on the floor next to their owner’s feet. Everyone is smoking and I am starting to sneeze.

I purchased a pack of cigarettes for my sister. If she is going to kill her lungs by smoking, it is best that she at least kills them with french cigarettes.

How I Almost Lost My Wallet Under the Eiffel Tower

2p.m.

I decided to go to the Eiffel Tower while the sun is still out. It is an unusually sunny day for December, and I didn’t want to miss the view of the city under such ideal circumstances. I took the train to ______ and quickly get in line. It was in this line ,where I stood with several other tourists, where I had my first experience with a pick pocket or so I suspect. A woman got in line behind me. She wore a fluffy white jacket with dangling strips of fabric hanging from it. She wore huge sunglasses and and her nails were manicured but yellowed underneath with the stains of cigarettes and age. She was a least in her mid to late forties, and had one of those really tan faces that could have only been so from over exposure to the sun or a tanning bed. This is December in Paris, everyone, no matter what your ethnic origin is slightly pasty or pale.

I knew that I needed to keep my purse with my camera very close to me. But I had placed my wallet in my jacket pocket. It bulged out in front in a very obvious way. but I didn’t want to have to rummage through my bag to get to it. The “thief” kept trying to get behind in very unnatural ways. Every time I turned around, she tried to get back behind me. Still I managed to lose her when our group loaded into the first elevator. I stayed behind and waited for another one to arrive after asking a ticket agent if my ticket permitted me to go all the way to the top. She was pushed inside the first elevator with the crowd. By the time my elevator arrived on the top floor of the Eiffel Tower, she was already on her way down.

How I was Almost Molested by a Waiter

In New York I always eat take out from the same restaurant every night. And I eat the same thing: a mexican salad with shredded beef, cheese, salsa and guacamole. There is safety in my routine. In Paris I was determined to do things differently. I had already developed the habit of eating my petit dejeuner at Le Petit Cardinal most every morning. By day two the waitress recognized me and knew exactly how I liked my cafe. And I took a bit of comfort in this familiarity.

This evening I walked past Le Petit Cardinal and resolved within myself to try a new bistro one more block down on Rue des Ecoles. Rue des Ecoles has it’s share of popular tourist hotels and overpriced cafes. I perused the outdoor menus decided on a bistro with a non threating chicken and frites for a reasonable price. I entered the bistro and was immediately greeted by an average and friendly looking waiter who seemed eager to serve.

However in the time it took him to lead me to my table and hand me my menu, he had already asked me a series of intrusive personal questions.” Where are you from.” “New York” “Oh really. That’s so great. Do you have a boyfriend.” “No.” I said a little uncomfortable. “Oh really. What are you doing tonight.?” “I don’t know. Probably go back to my hotel.” “You can’t do that. You have to go out. Do you want to meet me after work?”

I avoided all eye contact. How do I get out of this one without running the risk that he was going to spit into my food if I rejected him. Granted he had managed the nerve to asked me all of these questions in under thirty seconds. I smiled politely, looked up from my menu and said,”No thank you. You seem like a nice person but I don’t know you.” “But you just said that I seemed like a nice person” Clearly this one wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “I’m sorry…I just don’t go out with people I don’t know.”

I ordered my meal and prayed that it would come quickly. He came back to my table with my Coke Cola and said,”You know I’m from Denver Colorado.” “Really?” I said. “That’s great.” I said while wondering how this guy could have a full french accent and could have also grown up in the Midwest. “You have such beautiful eyes.” He continued. “Thank you.” I said as I continued to stare down at my journal. “Can I give you a kiss on the cheek?” It was then that I determined that this guy must have one of those serious psychological issues that causes people to flash strangers in public places. His lack of inhibition was not bravado but sheer determination to disregard any will but his own. “No.” I said plainly and seriously as I eyed the door.

He left me alone as a I ate. At the end of my meal, he charged me four euros for a coke and ten for dinner. I handed him a twenty for my check. He took my money, and didn’t return the change. By this time I knew that the gratuity was always included in the check. He looked at me as if he expected me to let him keep the change as if we were back in the states. “Oh you want your change.” He said not so innocently “Yes” I smiled politely. If American Amelie was going to be molested it ought to be by a real frenchman, not a balding American with a fake french accent. And she definitely was not going to tip him for the service.

I quickly left the bistro and escaped to the safety of Le Petit Cardinal for my post dinner cafe.

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