Paris

When you're home, it's impossible to fully appreciate every small detail of your life. Your thought can only stay for so long on the pleasure of, say, putting on a foot cream you like. Or taking in the scent of a rose. You have to move on and consider what lies ahead of you. Where you need to go, what needs to be done. I find that when I travel alone, however, all that spinning about the next moment and the one after stops. You truly understand what it means to live in the moment. All your senses concentrate on what is happening right now. It is amazing really how grand the small stuff becomes, how magnified the small pleasures seem. The irritants are obliterated, the lists of must-do's disappear. Your senses pick up what is there right now.

I had stayed up until midnight. I dont know why. Enjoying the chocolate. editing the post, thinking about nothing important. And I slept very well after that. I finally zonked out thinking about my flowers. Two small worries: is there really going to be a light frost this week? And secondly -- is there really yet another rose coming my way? It appears so. The rosarians who sent me a rose with a broken main cane are now sending a replacement. But I had planted the one with the problem, and I think I can nurse it back to life. What do I do with the new one? I walked through my garden (in my mind) and considered each spot, rejecting it, moving on to another, and eventually I fell asleep.

This morning, I was late for breakfast. Though really, what does that even mean? Is there a time I need to be down in the breakfast room? Surely it doesn't matter (so long as it is before 10:30).

I ask for my usual. Muesli, croissants, yogurt. Fruit, juice, coffee. Perfection, all of it.

 

 

I listen to the conversation between tables. Two American couples, one older than me, the other a bit younger. My French is so rusty! I had a horrible high school French teacher... How did you find this hotel? I did extensive research! (did they read my reviews? I posted plenty...) It's wonderful, isn't it?! (It is.) 

 

Since I eat a late breakfast, I dont linger afterwards. I have an 11:00 ticket for the Musee d'Orsay for their Mary Cassatt special exhibition. I'm posting a link to her Wiki page in case you a unfamiliar with her paintings. 

Walk to the museum: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing is, I have always liked Cassatt's paintings (all those sweet children!), but have regarded her as less important than, say, Monet or any of the Impressionists I tend to favor. Why? Because historically she has been treated as the less important artist. And when all signs point to others, well, you tend to look to where the fingers are pointing. She is sidelined.  Something to do with gender... And now here we are, 2026, the 100th year anniversary of her death and what is everyone celebrating? The 100th year anniversary, also this year, of Monet's death instead. I write this even as I really do love the work of Monet.

I bow down in admiration to d'Orsay for giving her top billing this Fall. (I must add that d'Orsay is in partnership with the  Orangerie and they are celebrating Monet!) 

I was enthralled with the Cassatt exhibition and enraptured with the detail provided, linking her art to her life, her values, her passionate fight to stay independent. She was born in Pennsylvania, but moved to France early on, but she never forgot her American roots and worked hard to familiarize an American audience with this revolutionary at the time painting style of Impressionism. People thought (I thought) that she was rather tied to the concept of mother and child (she did so many of those!)  because, we think, she herself was a woman and probably had a soft spot for the bond between mom and babe. In fact, Cassatt never married and never had children, preferring to devote her entire life to painting. For her portraits of children, of women, she used mostly models, unless commissioned to do someone's important next of kin. I have many thoughts about all this, but it's late and I must move on to part two of my day, so let me run a stream of favorites. Few words, many photos.

(She wasn't really a painter of still life, preferring to insert nature into her paintings of people, but this one of lilacs to me is so beautiful, I cannot pass it by.)

(Perhaps the most well known of her pieces is the next one here. She had plenty of admiration and also advice from Degas on it)

 

 

I skipped the rest of d'Orsay. Deliberately. It's as if I wanted to atone for my neglect of Cassatt over the years. 

I shopped some Cassatt posters and such, and then walked over to Place de la Concorde (across the River Seine). 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's something to note about this day: Half a million Parisians joined the protest that is ongoing here right now. It has to do with schools and lack of funding for upkeep and staffing. I'm fully supportive of it, but though I knew it would take place and disrupt life in the city, I could not figure out where and when the protest would be. And I admit I didn't try very hard, as I had such a full day! Besides, I have plenty to protest about back home.

My goal was to take the metro to its last stop on line 1 at Chateau de Vincennes. 

The idea for this came from Madame Sylvia Harralut at the hotel. She had asked me if I ever visited the Parc Floral there, and I have to say, I never even thought about it as a possibility. Remarkable. Ocean tells me that in the last 21 years I have spent 274 days in Paris and I have never been to this particular park. Madame Sylvia told me that the roses would be faded by now, but that this is a good moment to see the dahlias.

It's a bit of an expedition: walk to metro, ride metro to the end, walk another 15 minutes to the park, and once there, find your way to the relevant flower beds (not easy to find them!). Still, I admit to being quite excited. But also thirsty and thinking somewhere in there I should grab a drink and a bite. And pick up a few cards, since the park's little shop is essentially a homage to the gardener.

(oh! It also has sweet little dolls! Millie would love this one! Way over budget, considering that her goal would be to rip it apart.)

 

(I pause for coffee, which is as awful as many French cafe coffees are, and a granola bar, which is wonderful) 

 

 

I stroll out rather randomly afterwards. The park, which charges a nice sum as an entrance fee, stops with the charges in October. Meaning it's free now. Is that why there was almost no one there? The quiet was incredible. A few older French people. No one else. I came across this flower planting -- they boasted that no fertilizers or pesticides were used here. Well of course! We don't need any of that for most perennials or annuals.

(So quiet...)

 

I then found their roses, indeed on their last breath. I think that has more to do with their awful summer here (heatwave after heatwave) than with the lateness of the season. Still, the last roses were pretty and I had to be amused with myself as I studied and photographed the names of each rose like never before. None of this would have been important to me even three months ago. Now? I'm enthralled with each bloom!

 

From there I wandered over to where a small sign read "dahlias." 

Oh my goodness!

Oh heavens, this is incredible!

I was absolutely stunned by the beauty of it all. (Again, where are all the Parisians? This place is amazing!)

This was my second surprise of the day -- I've always liked dahlias at the farmers market, but my one or two attempts at growing them resulted in meh flowers. Okay blooms, but never at the height that should have been majestically theirs. Why? Because I did not care enough to study their horticultural traits, needs, and habits. 

Next spring, I will plant dahlias (though heavens knows where! Steffi's gardening space is so small! But I will find room, I promise!

A walk back, a ride back, a stop at the post office, and since it's on the way (everything in paris seems to always be on the way...), I pause at Moustaches -- the dog store. People here dress their pups even when it's not freezing cold outside. That probably is not necessary nor especially good for them, but I have to say, Millie would sure look sweet in this shirt from Brittany...

 

 

 

And here's a more appropriate and less expensive pup doll for her! No hair to pull out, but I'm sure the life of those poodle ears will be very limited under her ownership!

 

 

 

And then home. I had an hour to breathe, to maybe write, review photos. I did none of that. My credit card was hacked (no I did not apply for a passport in India!). This isn't the first time that it has happened to me while traveling in France, but this time I do think it was my fault. Two of the hotels from this trip had their data stolen, and though my card info was not taken, I had actually fallen for a scam. Remarkable, because I am SO CAREFUL not to give out information over the internet. But a message requested card info from this hotel, and at the time they asked for it, I knew that I had yet to give them a credit card number, since when I book, the hotel often takes my word for it and requests card info upon arrival.  And so I thought -- well sure, they need it now, so here it is. Boom, a day later someone is using my card in India.

Taking care of this while abroad is a pain. I have learned to travel with more than one card and to keep the second one hidden away from the first. Still, I needed to delve into the immediate consequences of the theft, so I barely made it to dinner on time for my 7 pm reservation.

Where did I eat? At Seulement Sea. It was supposed to be a simple seafood dinner at a nearby restaurant that I have been going to since it opened (and to the one that was there before Seulement Sea took over!). It's not fancy, but it's solid.

Today it was not solid. The fish, a sturgeon, was undercooked. Now, I'm not shy about evaluating food quality, if mostly only to myself, but this time I wasn't sure if it was intentional. I mean, do I really know that this fish isn't supposed to be half raw? So I ate it, then googled it. AI tells me you should never eat it undercooked. Parasites, bacteria, you name it. The risks are obvious. A follow up discussion with AI reassured me that if eaten in Paris, my risks were small, since their rules about serving fish in restaurants pretty much eliminate the parasitic dangers normally present. Still, I was told to be vigilant for the next 24 hours. I am vigilant, and mad at Seulement Sea and especially at myself for not speaking up. It didn't taste right half raw (salmon, for example, tastes just fine that way). So, no restaurant photo. Not from tonight's meal anyway. Will I return? Oh I dont know... Maybe it's time to find another nearby seafood place. Every restaurant makes mistakes of course, but once you find yourself in the thick of one, you start noticing other things that are not great about a place. The blandness of the food. The rather indifferent attitude toward their diners... etc.

The walk home was lovely. People out and about, including at the tip of my quiet block. 

 

 

 

Students, or in that age category anyway. Lots of them. Maybe celebrating a successful manifestation? Greta Thunberg was here for it. How grand that you dont have to fear retribution for demonstrating! 

And yes, how grand it is to be in Paris!

with so much love... 

Paris

Millions of people love Paris. For the art, the architecture, the food, the style, the beauty of the layout, the richness of the markets, stores, window displays. For the cafe culture, the park culture, the pace, the vibe.

I don't think any of that is at the base of why I come here to Paris so often. It helps of course. But any number of places could boast the same or similar delights (albeit in different configurations). And though I like the architecture, layout, parks, cafes, shops, foods, etc. I think my constant returns have to do with something else. Paris came to me full force at a time when I was in search of a different environment and felt myself to be ready to plunge into one that brought me peace of mind. Sensual gratification. In my younger years, I'd been treating Paris like any other lovely place -- a nice city to visit, to show the kids, to learn about its foods, art. But some two dozen years ago, I found my most perfect hotel (Le Baume), and I walked a few times to the next door Jardins Luxembourg, and I felt the calm and the happiness of being in a place that offered so much and asked so little of me -- just that I pay attention to how I present myself to the public.

I'm so glad that I never had the money to buy a small apartment in France as my "second home." I wanted to, but I know now that I could not have sustained travel to it alone for more than a handful of years. On the other hand, at Le Baume, I return to familiar hallways, familiar rooms, familiar people who work there and I think -- this is so much better than I could have possibly imagined.

Before I step off the plane in other cities, I often wonder -- how will I feel here? With Paris, I don't wonder. I know. And knowing takes out the stress of facing the unfamiliar. I know so many details by now that the mystery is only in what weather I may have and how lazy/motivated I will be as I begin each day.

*.    *.    *

The departure yesterday from Chicago was trouble free in the areas I expected there to be issues (baggage check, security), but of course, if you are to take off during the rush hours, you should expect take off delays at the big airports. And there were, and my leisurely transfer in Amsterdam suddenly was not going to be so leisurely.

*.     *.     * 

One forgettable movie, one very forgettable meal. I was asked if I had any dietary preferences and I thought -- why not ask for low sodium... the meals in flight are always so salty (to bring out any flavors at all at high altitudes, with dry air, and low cabin pressure -- conditions that dull your sense of smell and your taste bud function).  Mistake. It was so bland that blindfolded, I would not have guessed what I was eating. 

We arrive in Amsterdam almost an hour late. The one benefit of this is that I am eligible to go to the "short connection" passport line. Given the length of wait for current entries into Europe, this was a blessing. I zipped through, after a very pleasant conversation with the passport agent: "why are you going to Paris?" Vacation. "you go there often?" I do. "You think they will have finished with the riots there?" I do not.  I'm always curious about the line of questioning, whether upon entry to the EU or return to the US. Do they look for a shifty gaze? A nervous movement? When do they flag you as "someone to keep an eye on?"

The walk from one gate to my next one is listed as taking 34 minutes. Dutch people are very tall. Should I assume it will take me longer? I hustle.

I needn't have done so. I even had time to grab a cup of coffee before boarding. (I am not a demanding airplane diner. I will eat even bland tasteless low sodium food. But I will not drink airplane coffee. Too acidic. I need the milk to soften the blow to the gut.)

 As I look at the murals of lovely Amsterdam, I have to smile. I have such fondness for this airport and the city attached to it. If you are a longtime Ocean reader, or perhaps a Like a Swallow reader, you'll know that I lived in New York as a child and then returned later to the United States on my own, to work as an au pair. My return to the U.S. was through Amsterdam and I was dazzled by everything -- the KLM flight, the airport, the city. Once I relocated to America permanently, my returns to visit Poland were almost always via Amsterdam. And then I married, the kids came and we were short on money (saving for college was top priority). The trips to Poland, to Europe, stopped. I made no ocean crossings and after about a dozen years -- very few ocean crossings. When they did resume, once again, Amsterdam was often the port of entry to Europe. After that period of no travel, I was overjoyed to get off a flight in Amsterdam. To see the familiar Illy Coffee stands. The fake tulips for you to buy. I suppose in both directions, Amsterdam was, for a long time, a sensory message purveyor. Home, I am going to a place I think of as home. The US, Europe. Interchangable at the time. A citizen of both, one foot in each. Eventually I switched to Paris as my port of entry, but Amsterdam never really went away. Today I am back, passing through, going to another place I now think of as almost home.

*.    *.    *

When I pack for Europe, I never forget the essentials anymore. My checklist is so ingrained in my brain that it would be hard to forget the standard items. But I always do forget something trivial and this time it's the metro card for Paris. Darn it! 

Instead of zipping to the commuter train, I have to negotiate the ticket machines and buy another metro card. It's early, and the added cost is only 2 Euros, so it hardly matters. The frustration is purely with the fact that I forgot something.

*.    *.    *

When I think about an upcoming trip to Paris, I always, always imagine the moment when I emerge from the RER commuter train station to the street. Before me -- Paris. To my left -- the Luxembourg Gardens. It's an overwhelming feeling of serenity. Of the same peace that I have sitting on the porch with my morning coffee, with Millie, and looking out at my flowers. Contentment. My own idea of joy. 

I haven't been to Paris since I got Millie (she came into my life on April 4th). On my last trip here though, I knew I was going to be picking up Millie right after my return. Snowdrop, my travel companion then, partnered with me in studying the mini doodle dogs we encountered in France. There were many! I wondered what my pup would be like...

Now, of course, I know my little girl well. Selfishly, I wonder how she would fare in Paris! I've brought every friend and family member here, but not Millie! Would she be properly well mannered in a cafe? Would she want to make friends with every Parisian dog she passed on the street? 

Of course I would never, ever bring her here. The flight would be torture. Transitions scare her. And, too, you have to be pretty darn rich to fly a pup to Europe. And still, I see myself here with her. Because something tells me she'd like it. Maybe not the narrow sidewalks. But the parks. Wait, do they allow dogs in the Jardins Luxembourg?

*.    *.    *

I get off the train, go up the escalator and enter the park. For this first real look at Paris.

They do allow dogs.

(puppies, it's not that cold yet)

Hello, Paris.

I like this open space quite a bit, but it's not my favorite area of the park. I love the western edges and especially the southwestern corner where things empty out considerably. 

Quiet spots are not hard to come by in this park, but people really love the central courtyard, with the chairs, the pond, and in the colder months -- the sunshine.

 

 

 

I turn aroun, leave the park, and head for my hotel.

 

 

*.    *.    *

The Baume. What can I say... It's role in my Parisian stays is huge: this is where I began to think that Paris is truly my second home. My place of contentment. Of spiked curiosity. Of a place that I know and love almost as much as my own backyard.

As always, everything is... well, perfect!

I grab a small croissant from the downstairs breakfast room and have it with a coffee. 

 

 

But I am tired. Is this what being 73 does to me? In the past, I'd throw my bags down and set out. Today, I unpack, wrap myself in a warm sweater and doze off on the couch, feeling very grateful that the room was ready early in the day.

*.    *.    *

But in the afternoon, I do set out. Where to? Well, you know how it goes: I think I'll stop at the cutlery store to get an orange fork for Sandpiper (dont ask: the story of the forks is long... and boring). Then, I remember that I need to pick up a night cream. I did not forget it -- I simply ran out. I'm told that I should go to one well loved cream store. I do that. Oh, and shouldn't I start checking out chocolate shops to see what's what? And now I'm so close to the Bon Marche food halls! What's new there? Maybe some buckwheat snacking crackers and French plums to bring back to the hotel? And so on.

It is a lovely walk. The kind you might do if you lived here. Though perhaps without the chocolate shop hopping.

 (Cezanne!)

 

 

((is this a specialty chocolate with roses? I am soooo into roses!)) 

 

 

(French plums)

(my demographic)

*.    *.    *

In the evening I try a new restaurant called Fellows. The name wants to suggest a neighborhood hangout place. It is in fact very informal. And youthful. Their food? All plant based. It's relatively inexpensive (3 courses for an all inclusive price of 25 Euros), and the food is good! Home made pastas with lots of interesting veggie choices. (mine with a mushroom ragu). A side of zucchini artfully prepared. Panna cotta with prune-plums. Really delicious stuff. I broke and added a glass of bubbly rose.

*.    *.    *

A short walk back to the hotel, a good, solid catch-up chat with the brilliant general manager of the Baume, Sylvia Harrault (she has been overseeing operations here for decades), and I am back in my room wondering if I should open one of my chocolate purchases. Surely that's required! It's been such a full day!

with so much love... 

leaving

Hard to grasp that I am in fact on the 10:30 bus out of Madison, headed for Chicago's O'Hare. It's not that I thought I wouldn't make it -- in the end I would drop everything and go for the bus no matter how many things still remained on a mental to-do list. But my thoughts have been so focused on the garden, on Millie, that it seems completely weird to now be thinking instead about the trip before me. I'm a little numb from the sudden switch. Turn off that, turn on this.

In essence, the morning was smooth. Perfect, rather warm weather, a Millie wake up at the usual 6:45. I've made a small pile of what to still throw into my half empty suitcase, and another pile of stuff that goes in my backpack. I put on ratty clothes and go downstairs with a watchful but not unhappy Millie. We eat breakfast -- she's first, I'm second.

Then comes the "get the house ready" part: put away dishes, pack up odd foods for Ed, line up Millie protocols -- her probiotics, her Psylium, her treats (I'd already typed up a thirty point instruction/information sheet for Millie's caretaker), finish packing suitcase, oh, let me stop already. You know all those million and one details that need your attention before a departure.

And now it's dangerously close to the time Julie (my house and dog sitter and Millie's true love) arrives and I still have those two perennials -- my midnight deliveries -- to plant. And I do it! And throw some water on the freshly planted handful of roses. (They really should be watered during the week, but I'm thinking one rainfall will take care of their moisture needs.) And finally, a shower, and a snuggle with my true love!

 

 

 

Julie comes promptly at 9:40 and Millie just cannot believe it -- her hero! Here, at home!

 

 

 

Dogs are funny that way and not unlike kids -- they love their mommies (or whoever takes care of them), their families, but they often have a crazy infatuation with someone who is not their primary person at all, but is instead the one who comes in for the cuddles and treats and games. This is the case with Millie. She definitely has a crush on Julie and she pretty much adores all the people at the doggie daycare. It's her happy place and expensive as it is, and distant as it is for me, I am so glad she has that and hero Julie in her life.

Ed, too, is punctual. There at 10, driving me to the downtown bus stop and at 10:30 I am off.

One last point before I post. Where to this time? Completely predictable and perhaps not too exciting for you, but so totally what I want (verging on need) right now: a week in France. (Actually only six nights once I get there tomorrow.)  And I'll be even more specific: four nights in Paris, followed by two nights in the countryside. And more (so rare for me to tell you what I expect from my travels): there are three art exibitions I want to see and I have tickets for them all. Food is less important to me this time around, though I am trying at least one new place in Paris. So now you know. I suppose the only confusing thing is that I am rushing to catch my KLM flight to Amsterdam (even though less than an hour later, there is a direct flight from Chicago to Paris). Why oh why go through the hassle of a connection, in one of the more chaotic airports no less? And why depart from Chicago? It's because I am using miles for this trip and this was the best deal I could find for these dates.

My last solo trip was in January, also to France. I have a whole half a year to process in my head. I'll break my alcohol abstinance on the flight, pick up a glass of white wine, or champagen if they insist, and sit back and think about it all.

with so much love... 

done done done done done!

The Great Rose Project is finished. (When I said this to my daughter, she laughed, noting that I often said "just six more" and then the next day amended it to "just eight more.") Truly though, it's done. I dug out and replanted a rose, I put in one last new one that needed to go in, I upped the soil and chips on some, and I watered them all. Ninety roses -- half of them in my side rose garden...

 

(partial view) 

The rest? Planted throughout, especially in and around Millie's yard. 

They should be set.

But here's the rub: my gardening work isn't done. Yes, there are the bulbs, waiting for my unenthusiastic planting. And I did not really think about this in years past -- I just ignored the garden after August/September -- but in fact, all the roses AND the perennials should be watered until several hard frosts freeze the soil. So, until the end of November. Not in great quantities, like in the summer, but sufficiently to keep the roots and soil moist. Wet soil, when frozen, is apparently warmer than dry soil. (My flowers at the farmette and in earlier gardens never complained when I stopped watering after August. But I should have helped them along with a good soak every now and then.)

(I've loved this combination of lavender and phlox right below the porch balcony.)

 

 

Too, I will have to rake up the rose leaves once they fall, and I will have to mulch, but I cannot do that until after the deep freeze. Them's the rules!

So, done indeed, even if only with respect to the planning and planting. Now I just help things along, to keep everyone of them strong, healthy, and happy (synonymous concepts for roses). Sort of like fixing fruit bowls each day for the grandkids and encouraging them to pick good books to read at the bookstore or library. They do the rest.

The day is insanely busy for me, and Millie has a bit of an upset tummy, but the noticeable thing about this October 10th, 2026 is that it is hot here, in south central Wisconsin. Shorts weather indeed! 84F/29C. And no, we haven't had even a light frost yet, which is good for my new plantings, though I don't know about the rest of the flora and fauna -- they expect cold. They're not getting it.

Breakfast...

And then to work, while Millie rests. Actually, she is back to complaining when I leave her alone in the crate. I do ignore her for about an hour, but she is persistent and so I find myself hurrying even more. Toward the end, I take her outside with me. 

 

 

 

A happy pup!

 

 

And all this allows me to say by 2 p.m. "I am done!" 

For afternoon errands, I want to take Millie with me. She does not like car rides, but I think she dislikes being left alone even more. Nonetheless she gives me a hard NO on a driving adventure, wedging herself in the crate instead. Too bad. I like having her with me.

In the late evening, after my supper of leftovers, I see that the last two perennials and bags of soil were delivered. 

 

(what's in those boxes??)

 

 

I would truly need a flashlight to put these in now. I'll have to find a handful of minutes tomorrow, before it's time to leave.

Have I packed yet? Minimally. For once, I do not care what clothes are most suitable for my week away. I have a standard set of pants and tops that I always use for travel. In they go. I'll worry about the rest tomorrow. Or not worry at all. More important is what I stuff in for my downtime -- my rose notebook. It's still empty and arguably I should work on it when I have the beds before me, But I have sketches and lists and I'll take those too. My roses, or at least notes on roses, are taking their first vacation!

with lots of love...