Taking pictures of them – now that’s another matter. Yesterday’s walk produced almost no good shots. Actually, in truth, it produced no shots at all.
But today taking out the camera was a joy. Most people did not mind (with one notable store-clerk exception…okay okay, just tell me nicely, I’ll put it away). The sun was out and even though the temps were nippy, it was well above freezing.
Walking, watching, daring to shoot, with an apologetic smile, a nod of thanks, to you, who let me take these:
woman in beret, crossing street
family walk
boules on Place des Invalides
in the sun: child in a scarf and pigeon
winter roses and men talking
From Paris: Brittany snails and goat droppings
Of course, I remain drawn to the foods here. They compete for my attention. And today I came across some foods that made yesterday’s loot seem like cold potatoes (though sweet potatoes they were).
My traveling companion (let’s call him ed – nice and easy to type) ventured out with me for the hike on the left bank. His slow pace (ankle problems) was compatible with my desire to stop, look, listen, photograph. I did wear him out. But not before the look of defeat became evident on his face.
He had come more to get away from work and to prove me wrong about Paris than to revel in the life of this great city. But I know better. I have traveled here with reluctant Americans before: people who are willing to give France a chance but hold back their favors with respect to Paris. People who love the quiet of the countryside, who hate noise and the anomic nature of big city life in the States.
Converts – I’ve made converts of all of them. To stay in a Parisian neighborhood that has several local cafés to choose from, where there is no traffic, to walk through the parks, the backways, the great squares, to turn your back to the Eiffel Tower and face the children’s playgrounds – it’ll do it every time. And when they are bewildered at the serenity of it all, the civilized manner of the waiters, the bon journé greeting at every shop, when their senses are thoroughly confused by it all, I take them, smugly, to be sure, inside the food shops.
Ed lapsed into acceptance at my favorite cheese store. I could not pull him out. They don’t like idle visitors here – it’s small and cramped, they want customers. But he wouldn’t budge. He smelled the butter content and the washed rind, he looked and finally said – this is the guy who never spends if he doesn’t have to – I’m going to have to take some of this stuff home.
But I already knew I had him inching toward Paris-adulation last night. As he dipped the freshly baked bread into the butter, garlic and herbs swimming around the Brittany snail, he said to me: please, tell the waiter to tell the chef how good this is. I did. Because it was.
crotin de chevre: literally -- goat dropping
a mountain of tommes
favorites: blues and yellows
the snails that broke the camel's back
Indulge me. A day cannot pass without this admissions: the pastries here knock me out every time.
the only pleasant aspect of "divorce" is the pastry named after it
a refreshing moment at the hotel: tarte de Normandie
