returning home

It will be a record high of 76F (24.5C) in Paris today. I'm not sure but that we didn't hit an equally ridiculously warm temperature yesterday. The outside eating tables, of which there are possibly a million, will be filled. The restauranteurs and cafe waitstaff will be pleased. Between the school vacation and the fantastic weather, time outside over a meal or a drink will have exploded into what you'd typically expect in a beach town at the height of summer.

I did not go to bed until significantly past midnight. A phone chat, photos to repair, stories to write -- this stuff takes time. And I do have to leave the hotel at 9:45 this morning. By cab. Though I have resumed life in Paris to almost pre-pandemic levels and activities, I am still not comfortable getting on a packed train (or metro or bus). It's my last holdout here. And I know the train for the airport can initially be very very crowded. So, I spend the money and book a cab.

The sun will rise at 8:32 a.m. Tomorrow it will rise an hour earlier here, but today the morning is dark, which is both good and not so good for putting into place the plan I made up in those wee hours of the night: I want to get up and greet the morning sun. So, I don't have to get up that early! And then I will stop for a croissant and grande creme, somewhere on the town.

I get up, get ready, zip up the suitcase (which is now fat and too heavy to take on board, so I will send it through) and go downstairs. Outside, the last of the night light is still gripping Paris. My hotel looks like a sweet little beacon of light on the otherwise still dark street.

I give it a good long look. The warm-hearted, well tended beloved Hotel Baume. In my chosen neighborhood, where it feels more like a village than a chunk of a great big city. Yesterday, I had stopped by the little shop around the corner to see if there was any small pendant that I could love (and buy). I almost always peek  into that shop. Once I bought a pair of little Parisian espresso cups, another time a bee pin, which immediately transformed my indifferent jacket into something fitting for Paris. Madame remembers me. She is chatty and she speaks remarkably easy French. I always understand her completely. Each time she forgets that I'm American (you're German, right? shush!) and this time is no different. She tries to interest me in a little pendant with a small strawberry on it. I love it, I do, despite the fact that she then tells me it's done by an American artist whom she personally knows and who lives in upstate New York.  (I could tell you how they met but that runs beyond the scope of any reader's tolerance for my digressions.)

She is the one who first draws the analogy to a village for our set of blocks: I know everyone here and they all greet me and talk to me. We are a small village.

This morning, the store is of course closed (though with a light glowing on the baubles and trinkets in the window).

She keeps quaint hours so it's often closed, but a morning fermerature is the norm here. At 8:15, the time I am out and about today, everything is closed! This is the quietest time in Paris. And on a weekend, a French vacation weekend no less! Utter silence! Well, except for the delivery trucks. Parked by the restaurants, which will be doing a monumental business today, I guarantee it.

(the quiet along the River Seine)

I walk to the Pont des Arts. The Bridge of Arts. A pedestrian bridge over the Seine. Those of us who care about such stuff, know that this is just about the best place to catch a Parisian sunrise. 

At this time of the year, the sun comes up over the northern section of the Pont Neuf. There is a patchy cloud cover today, but still, it is a calm and beautiful moment. We, the photographers, the lovers, the artists, the handful who have come here for this, all smile at one another. 

(first burst of light)

(looking at the entire Pont Neuf)

(a minute later, another pop of sunshine from behind a low cloud cover)

(looking toward the west)

And then we all disperse.

I walk back slowly, taking in as much as I can. And in doing this, I notice things I have never seen before. Like this small statue. With a lovely name. 

(I always notice the bread... A man on an errand. Do you suppose this is just for the family breakfast?)

I pass this cafe ("La Palette") and I almost stop, because it's so pretty, but the street is too empty, too quiet. (I ate lunch here with Snowdrop once and I knocked over a glass and it shattered. I felt so badly, because I'm sure that despite my explanation -- c'etait moi,  it was me! --  I'm certain the waiter still thought that it was the child. She was only two then.)

(the weekend morning stillness...)

I walk further, toward Les Editeurs. (This photo was taken on my way out; you can tell by the predawn shadows.)

At the end of the day (or more accurately at the beginning of the day), this place is the most comfortable for me and it has the best people watching in my neighborhood. So many sidewalks, so many possibilities!

(looking out...)

I sit down, order my coffee and croissant and I give a great big sigh, the kind that would make a meditation guru proud. 

I feel like I am in a story, unfolding before me. Here with my croissant, loving it with the milky brew, catching myself in any number of the narrow mirrors they have scattered throughout the cafe-restaurant, in between the books, because of course, there are a lot of books at Les Editeurs. (All three photos taken with the help of all those mirrors.)

I can't stay too long. These kinds of morning pleasures have to be fleeting because of course there is a day before you and you must get on with it. Me, I have a taxi to catch.

(My last photo from Paris just happens to be of baguettes. Still from Les Editeurs.)

The drive to CDG airport is unusually traffic free. I spend the ride first studying the receding city, then staring at my driver who is multitasking - steer with one hand, engage in WhatsApp conversations on his phone with the other. I tell myself that I will not tip him, but in the end I cave and hand over the extra five Euro. He got me to the airport safely. I'm not the police here.

At the airport, I have another coffee. Why? Is it because it's free? (A perk of being a frequent flyer.) No, because I want to relive that sweet combination of a morning pastry (an apple chausson this time) with a milky brew.

I purchase some Laduree macarons. 

Like croissants, you can get these anywhere in the world these days, but some are better than others and these are for sure great. Laduree was the first to hit on the artful combo of meringue and a thin dab of something to send your tastebuds soaring. Buying macarons is, to me, a sign that I am starting to think about what awaits me on my return: a family dinner, coming up. Kids at the farmhouse. An otherwise quiet farmhouse. Ed will have left for his Atlantic voyage.

I have a bit of a weird routing. First stop is Amsterdam. It was cheaper this way. At another time, I wouldn't have minded. I like listening to airport announcements in Dutch. I speak none of it and so it makes me feel like I am really traveling far. But the trip on the way to Toulouse was so full of Amsterdam airport that I take no great pleasure in being here again. Luckily, my layover is not long. 

By 3:30 p.m. I am on my (a little delayed but who cares) Delta flight to Detroit.

Another short layover, another short flight, this one to Madison. From there, I find my car and drive home.

Ed and I are certainly not tied at the hip. I travel a lot without him. (He's welcome to tag along, but he doesn't want to.) I go constantly for overnights to Chicago. Without him. A farmhouse without Nina in it is not at all strange. But a farmhouse without Ed is indeed weird simply because it is such a rare thing. I get out of the car and do a quick farmette walk through, to make sure no wild beast has shattered the calm in the coop (the cheepers had to be locked up all day because Ed left last night and I was coming in too late today to tend to the task of locking them up at dusk), and to feed the ever hungry cats.

I don't unpack fully. There's just no point in it. I'll return to all the chores, the cleanups, the plantings, the cooking tomorrow. Tonight I sink down on the couch and smile. I am home. Paris is just one more memory in the plethora of memories that I have stored, learned from, kept close to me, even after a return.

With so much love...