Hello: What We Talk About When Running in Paris. Acts 2 and 3.

Eating the juicy, dripping fresh white flesh from the peaches bought from our neighborhood green grocer is such a sensation it almost feels a bit obscene to be doing it in public. Like the plums of yore, French fruits and vegetables make me want to start banging the table in Harry and Sally’s late Eighties New York diner, yelling Yes! Yes! from the top of my lungs.

Because of the August heat, it is a good idea to pack not only pastries for our daily walkathons, and, indeed, in addition to the croissants and the pains-au-chocolat and the baguettes, we are always sure to have some fruits in our bags as well. In the beginning, we used to be all obsessed with bringing enough water from our apartment along when we left for the day, but the fresh water fountains found all throughout the city really make for light traveling, and the trick is to just learn to spot them and put them into good use.

In the scorching weather, we are constantly refilling our water bottles because dehydration is just as annoying in Paris as it is elsewhere. Fainting from the heat and drought in the middle of a Parisian street does not make it worthwhile, I am telling you the streets are just as dirty and disgusting, not to mention microbe-filled, as the streets of the rest of the world, they are just prettier. This is something I know, since my man had to devour one of his Travelin’ Bananas one night as we were returning home from a movie on the other side of the city, and it of course fell on the ground as he was hastily peeling it. His blood sugar level was alarmingly low just then, so he had no choice but to eat it, pebbles and small sticks and all. The next morning, he woke up violently ill, and proceeded to experience the first, and so far, only stomach flu of our many journeys to the city.

Shakespeare & Co. bookstore is situated in a sort of armpit of a street, right by Notre Dame and La Seine. We go there every time we go to Paris, one could almost say it is the most important destination of our visits. The doorman is nice and polite, but firm about not allowing too many people crowd the narrow aisles and historical floors at once, especially on a hot day, when one can easily become short of breath inside.

Since our Shakespeare days are always dedicated to just walking there and back again, we are in no hurry whatsoever, and if there is a line, we just pop into one of the many, many bistros and cafés and bars in the area. The further out one is willing to go, the I was going to say cheaper the prices, but that is just not true at all. The prices aren’t cheaper in the least, but it won’t be as excruciatingly exploitative an experience to have a drink further out as the service and the portions and the general attitude of the staff – the famous Paris Smirk, the Paris Snub, the Paris Arrogance, call it by any of its many, many names - in the very vicinity of the famous bookstore. The waiter may have a smile on his or her face, but make no mistake, it is the vicious smile of a native, watering and catering the sweaty idiots who can’t even say please after ordering, and when it is time to go, they just vanish from sight, not delivering the check as a form of slow torture or have added an extra ten euros to the prices for opening the damn wine bottle or whatever.

We find a lovely, tiny place with a proprietor who vaguely reminds us of the concierge Michel in Gilmore Girls, only this one seems to possess the sincerest fake smile so far, so in we go. He is even considerate enough to let us know that they will be stopping service for the next few hours, and if maybe we could pay right now for our bottle of white, s’il vous plait, merci beaucoup, but of course we can sit on the terrace for as long as we’d like. This is what I’m talking about! So we order and pay, and sit for the next hour or so, emptying our three quart bottle in the blazing sun, trying to remember to drink water as well.

But the day is so beautiful, we are in Paris, we are about to go book shopping, and there is happiness in our eyes and noses and mouths, so we get a little tipsy and laugh at nothing for a while. I am in the middle of the most marvelous story about something or other, and take the bottle in my hand to pour us both some more. As an unfortunate sign of our delirious state, or mine at least, I pour the wine right on the table, missing my man’s glass by about a kilometer. The wine splashes on the glass covered wicker, miles and miles away from either one of our wine glasses, I have never seen such crappy marksmanship in all my life, and unbelieving it was I, Ms. Hospital Corners, who was doing the half-assed pouring, we both explode into exhilarated laughter.

“Okay that’s it for the wine, if we have any more they won’t let us in at all. It’s four o’clock, let’s go, for crying out loud!”

We stumble out of our seats and head back, still giggling uncontrollably over the wine pouring disaster, a moment that will come to signify any act of missing a mark by such an incredible amount of clear space. Years later, as we are on a play field in Finland, playing catch, something we enjoy doing, and he misses my throw totally, I start laughing and yell at him how it was just like me pouring the wine that time. He is laughing right back at me and yells back that that was exactly what he was thinking, too.

When I was in my late teens, I was an anguished, overtly cerebral yet hopelessly romantic naïve woman, a regular young Werther, and Before Sunrise was one of my favorite films. I think every woman roughly my age became totally enamoured with the love story of Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke in the Mid-Nineties. I remember actually having a heated argument about it with one of my boyfriends at the time, raging and totally incredulous that anyone could possibly find the movie boring or untrue. I still get a little angry just thinking about it. I think the film has stood the test of time, and even more so, since now there are two more chapters to add to Céline and Jesse’s love story.

The second movie, as you know, is completely set in Paris, and begins inside Shakespeare and Co. Jesse, who is now a writer, is doing a promotional reading on his novel, a rendition of how he met Céline all those years ago in Vienna. Céline, of course, is also inside, standing behind a bookshelf, semi-hiding, a little half-smile on her face, not really believing it is him, that it is them, there, after all these years.

I guess I loved the second film even better than the first. For me, it is the ultimate Paris love story. The streets, the river, the gorgeous weather, the romantic ambiance, the suppressed feelings, the anticipation. I don’t watch it very often now so I won’t lose the magic that surrounds it. I always pictured meeting your lover inside Shakespeare and Co. in Paris, perusing the stacks of books, hand in hand, would be the epitome of all romance.

And, you know, it is.

The bookstore is still crowded, and marvelous. The kind doorman lets us in after checking the contents of our bags. We get lost inside for over an hour per visit, the natural history cul-de-sac, the tiny nook where the poetry books abide opposite the literature on cinema, the upstairs with the old piano and the reading room and the large library of old books not for sale. My man goes his way, to check out his favorite genres, I stay marveling at the section on Paris for a long time before venturing deeper inside. Someone is quietly playing the piano upstairs, just a few notes here and there, I think I recognize a jazz standard or two.

I see two American men in all-white summer linen clothing checking out the biography and memoir section. That’s where I am going, so I stop next to them to eye the most recent bios. The older of the two men picks out a book from the shelf. It’s Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.

“That’s a great book”, I say.

“Really?” The older man turns to me. He looks at me with friendly eyes as he turns the volume over to what I believe to be his adult son. “You’ve read it?”

“Yes. It is very inspirational, even if you are not a runner, like me.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?” the son asks, leafing the book while we talk.

“Well, there is a whole idea behind it that isn’t about running at all, although it is most definitely about that, too. It’s about doing something you find worthwhile in life, overcoming the obstacles. Did you know he used to own a jazz bar before he became a writer?”

“A jazz bar?”

“Yes. Apparently a very successful one, too. Everyone told him to stick to what he knew and not be silly, when he decided he wanted to be a writer, but he stuck with his own decision, sold the bar, and now look at him. But, you know, it’s also about how he is training for the marathon and why he runs and things like that. A fabulous read, really, so entertaining and, just, smart. Well, have a great one!”

“Okay thanks!”

I leave the gentlemen to their book browsing and climb upstairs.

About a half an hour later I’m coming back down, when the older man approaches me in Personal Growth.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, hi again.”

This is verbatim what he said, I’ll never forget it:

“I just wanted to tell you that you had us at hello. My son bought the book you recommended.”

“Really? Well, that’s just – That’s great! He won’t be sorry.”

“You were so kind to us. May I recommend something to you in return?”

“Of course!”

“Have you ever heard of a Swiss philosopher named Alain de Botton? I think you would really like his work.”

Afterwards, I make my man hilariously jealous by telling the story over dinner.

"'At hello'? 'At hello'? Jeez, who uses a cheesy line like that!?"

"What are you talking? I didn't find it cheesy at all. Besides, I'm really liking this book. Essays in Love? Come on, man, don't be a sour puss, or I'll keep telling it every night at dinner!"

Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, 2007

Rob Reiner, When Harry Met Sally… 1989

Richard Linklater, Before Sunset, 2004