Day 185: Bad Lighting, Radiant Widsom

Paris, Day 14. After trying in vain to recreate and amplify several of my Paris Part 1 experiences, it was a serious gamble to venture back to visit the Harmonica Men. But really, is there a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than to be surrounded by old farts with sweater vests and mouth harps? I don't think so.

I get there on time, only the Parisian concept of time is a little different. A l'heure can mean anything from ten minutes past the scheduled time or, in this case, an hour and a half. I tuck into their plat du jour, a very yellow chicken tajine and "enjoy" a glass of red wine from a box while I wait.

Le Petit Ney bills itself as a cafe litteraire, but really, old folks home cafeteria would be more to the point. The place is all white walls, Brylcreem and support hose. I am the youngest by 30 or 40 years with the exception of the bored-looking waitress and the couple sharing my table.

The wife of this couple leans across the table towards me as soon as I snap my first photo. I instinctively cringe – I'm always ready to be yelled at in this town. Especially while wielding my camera.

"Excusez-moi," she begins. "Can you please take a photo of that painting and email it to me?" Sure, I say. "It's a mother and two daughters...I have two daughters." I smile. It reminds me of my dad, who buys paintings based on the presence of three of something for the same reason.

She asks what I'm doing in Paris and I tell her. "It is very special," she says smiling. She pauses and then clutches her heart rapturously. "Ah! I love Paris. I'm a girl in Paris!"

Her name is Eliane and I love her immediately. She used to be singer and now works in an environmental agency "to put milk in the refrigerator." Working at an environmental agency doesn't stop her from wearing sweaters with purple fur on them, though.

I'm here to see some old dudes play harmonica, but suddenly they seem incidental.

The show begins. Jean, the president of the Harmonica Federation of France, takes the stage. He rocks out to a bluesy number and then asks the gloomy butler guy presiding over the background music CDs to do something fancy for his second number.

"I can't," the butler guy says. "The machine is old. Like YOU."

The crowd laughs and Jean launches into the next song. This man kicks ass on the mouth organ. No two ways about it. He bends and bobs. He squints and flicks his fingers for different effects. He makes sure I get his good side for my photos. He's a total freaking PRO.

His final song is Georgia On My Mind, and I'm not going to lie to you, I think he was flirting with me. I'm blushing when he hits his final note.

I go back to sit with Eliane, who has an espresso waiting for me, the doll. Her husband, another Jean, is talking to a THIRD Jean, if you can believe it. "Jean, Jean et Jean," I say to Eliane. "Un trio," she says laughing. "Un trio de comedie."

She leans in and nods toward Jean #3, a dashing fellow with a peach coloured shirt and a big, shiny St. Christopher. "Where is a man when he is alone?" she whispers with a sympathetic smile. "Women, we have our children. But a man, he must find something else, like music."

I ask her what she means. "Women make a new life. We cry, yes, but we move on for the sake of our children. But what do they do?" She shrugs. "Harmonica."

She's talking about men and women in general, but I can tell she speaks of very specific losses. Jean #3's and her own.

While the old men play, Eliane tells me that life as a woman is like a train with two tracks. "One is your husband, your children," she says. "The other is your life – you are an artist – it is the life you choose. The husband and children may go, they may come back, but through it all...you have your life. It must keep going."