I knew it would be wet here, in Paris. And cool. But really, it’s neither very much. Just a little to remind me that the first days of summer in Paris can be a quirky mix of sun and cloud and oftentimes they require a sweater.
By the time we lug our two suitcases and the huge carpet bag with the Turkish rug up to our teeny tiny room it is very late. We need food.
This is the moment to try the small restaurant that Gault Millau (still my favorite food resource for France) likes so much. Why? Because it’s around the corner and it is a transition – a link to our last days in Turkey. (It’s called, aptly, La Mediterranee.)
And we pick tuna and gambas and sea bream but you can’t fool me. We are not in Turkey, we are in France. Take a look and count the ways in which this is so:
For dessert I choose my most evocative of childhood berries – the fraises de bois that are so beloved here, on this side of the ocean and hardly ever make an appearance in the States.
So now I know I am in Europe and not in North America or Asia.
And if I need further proof, I need only stroll down to the banks of the waters that run through this city. Nothing about them says Bosphorus. Everything about them says Paris.