Blog Prompt #6

I decided to try to write about the same place (Montmartre, Paris) from three different perspectives: child, tourist and native.

“Mom, can I get one of those pastry things?”
“In a minute. Your Dad and I want to look at the pretty pictures.”
Ugh. This is so pointless. We’ve been walking through Paris all day already and I haven’t been able to eat any yummy dessert yet. Until my parents get to look through all the art stuff in this square, I won’t get any dessert.
I follow behind them, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk and avoiding bird poop. Pictures are boring.
“Little girl, little girl! Over here. I draw picture of your cute face.”
I look up and see a small man pointing with his pencil for me to sit down in his chair. His fingers are black and smudgy. He looks odd. I look at Mom and Dad.
“How much?” my dad asks.
“For you, only 5 Euro,” the small man says. Maybe he’s not so scary.
I jump up into his chair.
“Sit still ma petite chou,” he says and turns to a large white piece of paper. People keep calling me that. Mom says it means ‘little cabbage.’ I don’t look like a cabbage. “What you want to be?” he asks.
“I want to be eating a chocolate pastry thing,” I mutter.
He laughs, “You want to be queen of pastry? That, I can do. All girls want to be queens or princesses. But you so cute, you a queen.” He talks funny, like everyone else here.
His smudged fingers fly over the canvas and he keeps telling me to sit still.
“Voila. Ici.” He flaps his arms toward the canvas like the pigeons that are all over.
Mom and Dad and I look.
“How come I have a chocolate pastry in the picture but not in real life?” I ask.
“Because you queen of pastry,” the man smiles proudly.
Dad hands him the money. Mom says, “Oh, you look so cute! Like Strawberry Shortcake!”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Something from my childhood. Let’s get you an éclair.”
“Yes!”

-

Melissa has always wanted to walk around with a baguette in Paris. She also has her nose to the ground for anything that smells like crepes. She’s currently striding ahead of me through Montmartre, head swiveling this way and that, looking for a crepe shop.
“Wait, Melissa, we have to look at the art.”
She slows her pace and turns to look.
I was here as a senior in high school and now, six years later, I’m back. I’m not about to miss this place.
“Oh yes, art.”
“Eat your baguette while you browse. Can I have a bite?”
She tears off a hunk for me. The baguette is warm and cooked to perfection.
“This is where van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec painted.”
It’s sunny and warm and artists are out in full force. There’s a row of caricature artists but the rest of the square is dedicated to painters. It’s not a large square, which gives it a homey feeling. The artists are surrounded by old buildings containing homes, shops, and cafes. The smell of baked sweets floats on the air from a creperie and a patisserie.
Bright colors leap from canvases in bold swirls and landscapes. I know what I’m looking for, but I take my time looking at each painting. These artists come in all shapes and sizes and have varying degrees of English and interpersonal skills. Some bend over their paintings as if they are the only two things in the world that matter. Others paint and chat with each other and with tourists like me.
“You like, eh?” asks the artist with the white beard.
I figured he’d notice me. I’ve been standing in front of the same painting for a few minutes.
“Oh yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Tres magnifique.”
“Ah, American. This is my favorite painting. Just like Paris is the city of love, this is the bridge of love. Perfect for a pretty lady like you.”
“How much?”
“100 Euro, just for you.” It’s like I’m supposed to feel special, like he gave me a unique price. But I want this painting. I finally get him down to 75 Euro, just for me, so I can give it to my fiancé as a wedding present.

-

There’s a chill in the breeze this morning. Fall is coming, just like it has for the last seventy years of my life.
I pull the old wooden door closed behind me. I rub my fingers over a long scratch in the wood, a memory from a younger time when my brother and I were kids.
“Bonjour, Jean-Claude,” I say as I set my bag of art supplies on the ground. “Bonjour, Henri. Ca va?”
“Bien. Et tu?” I say, just like I have every day for the last forty years.
“Bien. Mais mon arthrite...” he says with a shrug, just like he has for the last forty years. Although is arthritis has only factored into conversation in the last few years.
I tighten my scarf around my neck and begin setting out my canvases and paints. The leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. Perhaps I will paint them today.
“Bonjour messieurs,” says Elodie, our angel. She’s an art student at the university and she’s been coming here often to paint.
“Café?” She asks, even though she doesn’t have to. She hands us each a mug of espresso. “Une crepe pour Jean-Claude, et un éclair pour Henri.”
We take these things with grateful hearts and in return, we teach her what we know. I often wonder what it is I have to teach anyone. In seventy years of life, I feel as if I’ve just begun to learn, as if my painting is only now being perfected. Imagine what I could do with another seventy years.
I pull out a blank canvas and find a comfortable place on my stool. Today is only about me and those red leaves.