cold, but not North Pole cold

I really lucked out with being away for what turned out to be the coldest week -- one where temperatures were shockingly low even for Wisconsin. Long walks with Henry would have been impossible. Kennels held pop-up classes on how to deal with stir crazy dogs. Henry would surely have gone nuts in the apartment, especially on the weekend, when the doggie daycare is closed. 

Today, it's still well below freezing, but not so bad that we can't plan an outing. Perhaps not an extended one, but something that will give him a chance to run.

Slowly, Henry is returning to normal. He checked on me several times at night, and was up and ready to go at 6:30, but that's within his range of acceptable wake-up times.  We go out, albeit briefly.

 

I stick to our past routines. His breakfast, my breakfast... (things that make me smile: my coffee mug that says "home is where my dog is," and the still unused but oh so pretty candle from the store near the Jardin Luxembourg).

Lots of cuddling in between.

And at 9:30 we have the continuation of the class Henry started before I left -- Intermediate Obedience. 

An interesting hour! The training program is in the same facility as his doggie daycare and my doggie just wants to know why I won't take him off leash so that he can play! Not helped by the fact that one of the training assistants is one of his favorite daycare people! He wants to run, to meet and greet the other dogs and yes, even their owners. The instructor notices that his anxiety with people is significantly reduced. It could be any number of things: he's seeing a repeat of people he'd seen before. Or maybe my vet's medicine. Or his stay at camp. His age maybe? The weather! 

Today he is an extremely clever student with an extremely short attention span. He learns "go to mat" instantly and does it three times, then has enough. I'm glad we're back in training rotation, but I am also glad when the class comes to an end for my frisky boy.

A quick rest at home, and then an outing to the dog park near the farmette.  With Ed.

(on the run)

And it is at the park that I notice the big change in Henry's behavior. In the past, he'd avoid the people there. If someone approached him, he'd bark. If someone stuck out a hand to be sniffed, he would ignore the friendly gesture and bark some more. 

This time, he didn't bark once. And (this was absolutely shocking to see) -- he actually ran up to one or two dog owners and sniffed them of his own volition. 

Is my dear boy finally learning to trust others?

It is true that at the Edge, he is still his old self. He hugs the walls and looks apprehensively at the opening elevator doors. If he sees someone, he barks. I cannot wait for this problem to go away in 12 days. But out in the real world of people and cars and hands and strangers, he may be shedding his panic. Maybe.

In the dog park, he is exuberant! All the dogs are. It's the first reasonably warm day (just below freezing and very sunny) and the dog owners are all thrilled to finally let their pups loose.

Afterwards, the three of us go to the neighborhood coffee shop, Tati's. This Henry knows and understands. We walk in, he immediately goes to the couch and waits for us to join him. 

There is one other couple, sitting at a nearby table and as they watch us (as I do my camera thing...), they smile and comment -- your dog is so well behaved! Ours would be all over this place!

Henry! Your first "good behavior" compliment from strangers! I just beamed and mumbled some inconsequential modest nothings.

When we leave the cafe, I suggest we drive up a couple of blocks to look at the house I'll be moving to in 12 days. Ed is incredulous -- you mean you haven't even seen it?  I smile at that. Ed, tell me, what are the chances of me finding an empty house in this absolutely full neighborhood, available right now, willing to do a 6 month lease, more or less in my price range? It's nothing short of a miracle! Who cares how it looks or feels. Besides, I've seen pictures. 

Driving past it now, I recognize its downsides. It's bigger and more expensive than Steffi's House (where I'll be moving this summer -- just a few blocks away from this one). More rooms, bigger spaces. But I would never buy it, even if I could afford it. Steffi's House is small but sunny, with many big windows facing the south, the east, the west. This house (the Suelo one) has fewer windows and I can see that the living room will not have enough natural light for my taste. It is in very close proximity a neighboring house, and opening up to a construction site on the other side. Across the street, new homes are being built as well. Expect construction noise.

And still, I'm thrilled with it. A house for me and my dogs. A house where the kids can have ample space to play. And all this within walking distance to the farmette!

 

 

 

At home, there's not much I can do now in preparation for the move. I put together a few boxes, but there isn't room to really start in on that project. The kids will be coming here all next week and of course, I dont want to get Henry all nervous again. I look around and pick out things to discard, wishing that I were even braver with tossing out unused items. It's the kitchen that has the bulk of possibly irrelevant items. In cooking, you often don't need a tool for months on end and then suddenly you remember a recipe and boom! You wish you hadn't tossed that potato masher or pastry scraper. Toys are easier to give up. The kids are growing out of many of them rapidly. Books as well. We've carted boxes full to the library. And still, I wish I would just go bare bones on stuff. Well, I have two moves before me this year! An opportunity to really scale back.

Tomorrow, the winter Snow Moon will shine upon us here, in south-central Wisconsin. I'll look up, then lower my head in gratitude. For all that's still good and noble in this world.

with so much love... 

crazy times

A little more than a week ago, I was thinking that perhaps the trip to France was misplaced. That right now, staying home and reading endless novels (in the spare hours that sometimes pop up inbetween kid care and Henry worries) was what I needed, not an overseas adventure.

I was wrong. The trip did me a world of good. It cleared my head and allowed me to think carefully, without distraction, about what comes next. And, of course, Paris is my balm -- a great one for stormy days. And I think we would all agree that we are all living in crazy times, so for that reason alone, any relief from anxiety or stress should be sought out and applied liberally.

But now, here I am entering my period of self-inflicted chaos. A week and a half more in the apartment, dreading each elevator ride with poor terrified Henry, a week and a half of organizing myself, getting ready for the move (how did I do it in just one week back in September? It seems more daunting now, probably because of the added Henry factor), a week and a half of preparing for the arrival of the new dog, a week and a half to get over jet lag and put the trip behind me. 

Let's start with a quiet morning. Henry isn't here yet so I could linger in bed, just like in France. I had gone to bed so late, surely I could stand a few more hours of sleep! Easier said. I have such a flood of imperatives to write down on my many to-do lists, that it's silly to fret in bed about them. Best to get the day rolling. 

Breakfast. Good old granola once again. 

And then I start in on it. Not packing yet. But everything else. (The balcony cleaning alone will take a lifetime! Those birds! Whose idea was this anyway? In my next home, the feeder is going to stay away from any house surfaces.)

 

 

 

I'm glad that latest findings indicate that carrying heavy things is good for you. That it may preserve your muscle mass. That to a degree, it slows down the aging process. Because I think that in my retirement years, I have done a lot of lifting and carrying. Before, it was the grandkids. And soil and wood chips for the garden. Now? Groceries of course. From car to the apartment -- that's a big walk right there. And also boxes. The package delivery room here is a stroll down long corridors. But the big kahuna is all the moving. As I was lugging ten new bankers boxes (because of course I threw away the old ones), I realized that not only have I moved a lot in the last two decades, but I've also moved my mom a lot in the last half dozen years. All those clumsy heavy boxes of stuff -- hers, mine... My muscle mass must be delighted. Let's hope it doesn't let me down in the next couple of weeks.

 

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop at school. We cant really hang out at the Edge too long...

 

... 
 

 

... because I have to get Henry and it's quite the drive. She is in an especially chatty mood and by the time we reach Camp K9, I feel myself to be fully caught up on her school capers. 

 

Henry. Oh, has he been an interesting pup in his ten days at Camp K9! They wont soon forget him. At first, he destroyed his room furnishings (well, the bed... that's all that was in it). Then he got very nervous with people coming and going. Always though, he was a champ at playtime with other dogs. And eventually he learned to like some staff members enough that he let them nuzzle him. Sometimes. He was to have a bath, but he totally refused to cooperate for that, so they gave up. And now, here I am, ready to take him home.

I watch him come out. They've put a sweater on him. Small wonder -- it's bitter cold outside. He sees me, he sees Snowdrop, but he isn't sure about any of it. As if he can't quite comprehend this. She's back? They're back? Really? 

Within a minute it t sinks in.

He can't stop jumping and nuzzling and licking and being my greatest big pooch. The whole ride back. His nose is on my neck, my ear, my head. 

 (he's our navigator once again)

 

 

All this time I had been wondering -- what is going through his head? Does he think this Camp is his forever future? Does he feel abandoned? When he sees me again, will it fall into place for him? Once back, will the Edge noises and strangers scare him even more? Or maybe less?

Tonight, he is super-glued to me. Almost in a daze. His sad pleading eyes following my every move.

 

 

 

I've learned with Henry that he needs time before he can fully accept a new situation and mark it as an indisputably safe one. That if he turns away and then comes back, I will be there waiting for him.  For now, he is just seems so incredibly relieved to be home again. We will see how the next one and a half weeks will unfold. (I am not even going to think about what comes after!)

with so much love... 

leaving Paris

There are always two ways for me to leave Paris: either catch the early morning flight out, or the late afternoon one. There are benefits and drawbacks to each: leaving early means that you have to be up and out before breakfast. The benefit -- you arrive earlier and not what is, in effect, the middle of the night for you. The afternoon departure of course gives you a full morning in Paris. A leisurely breakfast. One last walk. The price? That late arrival. Usually the decision is easy: I base it on price. One connection is always cheaper. I take that one.

Today I got the late departure flights. And I'm glad! This trip has been all about an easy pace and the removal of constraints to my day. Not rushing this morning gives me that extra moment to let go, to feel the joy of being here.

Breakfast is relaxed. It takes me a whole hour to work through it:

I come toward the end of the breakfast time and I watch the lingerers, the late comers, and the incredibly efficient staff that is here to bring them the foods they want. If you ever read hotel reviews, complaints abound about the poky service in the morning. Many people are anxious to head out. To them, breakfast is just a meal to check off before they really get going. The Hotel Baume has worked hard over the years to perfect the breakfast experience. They've expanded tables to avoid any waiting. They've upped the staff. The whole operation is run so smoothly, though for me, their pace is irrelevant. I am among the lingerers, slowly easing into the day. The servers smile each time they pass my table. They know.

 *     *     *

I go for a walk. I really wanted to visit the chocolate shop called  Les Trois Chocolats. It's about a half hour walk and they are open only on certain days and today happens to be one of them. (For some reason I seem to be following them on Instagram and their photos are astonishingly good!) I've been meaning to stop there for the past three Parisian visits. And again I give myself a firm no, I show too little restraint when faced with excellent chocolate. My bags are full, my wallet is empty. Besides, I'd have to do a brisk walk. Nothing within me is calling for brisk. 

So I walk, at a leisurely pace really, and I almost get killed but for the Americans that I encounter along the way. Here's what happened: 

I'm in no hurry. I have no particular goal. I am meandering through the 5th district, in the direction of Notre Dame. It makes for a pleasant walk, one that I haven't done this time around.  The funny thing is I think about this very issue: how I should be careful, because I sure wouldn't like to wind up in a hospital today. 

Occasionally I pause to take a photo. I've done dangerous things before to frame a good picture. Remember running on the train station and ramming into a metal post? A hospital visit was required after that one. And once, in Paris, I stepped off the curb to get a better shot, right in the path of a careening bus. He saw me and stopped. And honked his horn very loudly. I deserved that!

Today, though, I wasn't in the mood for danger. I waited patiently while a trash van came down the single lane one-way road. I want him out of the picture. He passes behind me, I then step out and try to get a good angle. And then a group of Americans, standing nearby shouts very loudly, screams really: be careful, be careful!  I look around me. The van hadn't made a good turn so he was backing up to try again. He didn't see me right behind him and it was really only inches that separated his reear from me by the time I jumped out of the way. 

 The Americans then screamed at the driver -- you almost killed her! 

The lawyer in me wonders if it was really the driver's fault. Obviously he was going the wrong way. Obviously he should have looked carefully. But you can't really see what's in back unless you have a new car with all the new bells and whistles and screens. And from my perspective? Well, I couldn't possibly expect a car driving backwards. 

I thanked them profusely for saving my life -- in French so they'd think they had saved a French person, perhaps making them feel better about the way America is treating Europeans right now. 

In thinking about it, I dont know that I necessarily would have been killed. He was going slowly and presumably he would not have kept going once he hit me. But broken bones and a hospital visit were definitely in the cards.

The picture that almost broke the camel's back, with that narrow street clearly visible at the bottom: 

I walk back to the hotel. It's a misty day and the air quality isn't the best so I'm glad I didn't venture out far.

Note the audacity of some cyclists here. Headphones on, coat flying, no head protection, but oh that leg sure looks seductive!

 

From here, I'm just a hop skip to my hotel. 

 

I didn't eat a crepe this time. Maybe on my next visit...

And once more, the Baume, with its cheerful and helpful staff, ready to help, ready to say "see you soon."

 

(one more ride in the elevator...)

I have to cab it to the airport. There is now an elevator at the train station, but I can't count on it being functional. In Paris, if you can't carry something up or down  stairs, you should think twice about taking the metro. I am too old to lift and tote heavy stuff many flight of stairs. So I get a taxi. This is the one unfortunate thing about travel to Paris: the taxi ride is too long, too congested, too unpleasant. Ah well, it gives me the one thing to complain about. And yes, I realize it's my own fault. If I had traveled really lightly and purchased nothing, I could have taken the train.

 

*     *     * 

The flight from Paris is on time, which is good because my layover in Detroit is unusually short. Or at least was supposed to be short. As in the trip out, it's that last leg that turns out to be the troublemaker. Something about missing crew, overbooked flight... all unimportant details now because we did take off eventually and we did land in Madison and not in Marseille, though it was nearing midnight, or were I to think in French -- 7 in the morning.

Ed is waiting at the airport. We drive to the farmette, drop him off and I go home. My temporary home -- for the next 12 days. I try not to think about all that needs to be done in preparation for my move. I need to do it without giving any sign to my dog that anything is out of the ordinary. A challenge indeed! 

Good night, from one who is at the moment living at the Edge.

with so much love... 

one last day

This isn't the first time that I loaded a trip with hefty decisions, and spent time thinking not just about the pleasures of my surroundings. I think if you clear your head of the mundane stuff that keeps you busy at home, you open yourself up for weightier contemplation. Meaning of life (always that)! Should one remain married (thought about and discussed that one on a train ride from Krakow)! Should I respond to a Match.com email from Ed (decided in Vienna)! Should I sign off on a condo (Geneva)! And now -- should I move out and get a second dog. Decided and set in motion in Paris.

But all that notwithstanding, I still live and breathe this city. It is with me, it is within me. I take each moment here casually but seriously too. Every walk has meaning for me. Every encounter is special. When I am home and am waiting for my return visit here, I often think -- how will it feel to wake up in that bed by the window? How much pleasure will that walk down that block bring? Will I feel the serenity that I seem to always find in the Jardin Luxembourg? The souvenirs from Paris are those thoughts, those recollections that add fuel to my everyday back home.

Today, I have yet another perfect wake up. I open my eyes, check the time, smile, sink back into the pillows which always seem that much softer, more luxurious than those back home, and I doze off. Wake up again, doze off again until I feel ready to climb out of bed.

True to predictions, it's gray and a bit damp out there. Not bad. No heavy downpours, like the one a year ago that flooded the metro system. No paralyzing snow like that which grounded my daughter an me here one very cold December. No heat wave that turned the cheeks of my youngest grandchild red as beets one July afternoon. I'm good with clouds. Walking weather!

But first, breakfast. It's more crowded this morning, so I have to retreat to a different table. Same delicious stuff.

I return to my room. Down using stairs, but up in the elevator. It has a mirror which I always have to face, tempting me to do this:

 

 

 

My room: such a happy place. A spot on the couch, next to another window. There's never a reason to rush. I soak in the loveliness of my surroundings. That they always have such a hypnotic effect on me is in large part the work of the management here. Madame Sylvia who runs the place and whom I have known for decades now, is the real motor behind the hotel. Nothing escapes her. Honestly, the place is not in any way less perfect than a five star hotel. She sees to it. All with a warm smile. Every time I see her, it's like running into a very good friend.

It is Mme. Sylvia who suggested that I check out a fairly new shop on rue Madame. It's called Marin Montagut. How to describe it! You might get more of a sense if you click on the website. Hand crafted artifacts and souvenirs from this area of Paris? Maybe that.

It's a short stroll to the store. Familiar blocks for me, but as usual, the people, mostly Parisians, are what makes the walk so interesting. Here's something that I find curious: women and men, but especially women wrap themselves in thick scarves the minute the temperatures drop to autumnal cool. As if their throats would suffer without layers of wool around them. But come winter, they ignore caps and hats. Today is a mildly cold day -- just above freezing. Very few are wearing any head cover. Here, I'll show you:

 

 

Naturally, I have to shed mine as well. I'm not going to stand out!

On my way I pass something I never noticed before: right across the street from the Jardin Luxembourg there is a dog park. A real Parisian dog park. I'm not sure Henry would get the exercise he needs here, but at least he'd make friends. (Mme Sylvia suggested that I teach my dogs French commands. Great idea!)

 

  

 

The Marin Montagut store itself  is beautiful. 

 

 

 

Your perfect spot for browsing. For admiring all that is French. 

I limit myself, really I do. But wouldn't a second pillow cover be just the perfect thing?  Or maybe this plate?

 

 

 

From there, I meander along the streets of Paris. Less familiar ones, and some of the same ones I seem always to get to. 

(always the tight seating... you have to like the proximity of your neighbor)

(beautiful bouquets)

 

 (you know fruit pastries always catch my eye; these are especially original...)

 

 

I'm carrying stuff that's a bit awkward -- that's the excuse. But really, why should I even look for an excuse. As I reach Rue du Bac, I want to hop on the metro. The line here doesn't really take me any closer to the hotel, so I transfer to the next one.

And then I am where I want to be -- in my room. But not for long. I decided I would eat lunch, at Treize au Jardin. It's a funky place, right across the street from the Jardin Luxembourg, and I have always really liked their healthy food choices. A veggie soup and a kale salad today. As always, totally delicious.

But for coffee, I go elsewhere. To this place, L'Arbre a Cafe, on the other side of my hotel. I've always thought that espressos at cafe-bars here are worse than the average espressos you'll now find in the U.S. On the other hand, in these emerging real coffee shops here, their coffee is much lovelier, with a good selection of coffees with notes that don't get lost even for a latte drinker like myself.

Back at the Baume, I run into Mme Sylvia again. I tell her that her shopping suggestion lead me now to worry if I even have room in my suitcase for added items. That I added a bag, just in case. There's a lot of laughter among staff here. Mme Sylvia brings it out of me, of others. She, of course, knows all too well about Henry, and the new-about-to-arrive dog. She asks if I have checked out Moustaches, a pet store right on the Boulevard St Germain, maybe a five minute walk from where we are?

I have not! But I will now! 

(on the way there, I see this  woman, who does wear a cap, though I dont think it's for reasons of warmth)

 

 

 

I dont need any more sweaters for Henry and I figure that he can share the ones I have for him with his new sib, but what I find absolutely irresistible  are the toys and treats.Macarons? For dogs? (These are made with salmon...)

Ha! Even the poop bags here are pretty!

I return to the hotel with one more bag, and one big smile.

 

In the evening, I'm not really hungry for a big dinner. And so I go to Les Editeurs. I like the place for its atmosphere (full of bookish people!) and for its almost impersonal service. No one cares what you order. I dont feel I should be loading myself with food just because it's the dinner hour.

 

 

Te place is always full, for breakfast and for dinner. I think of it as a meet up place: colleagues, friends, parents with an older son maybe...

 

 

 

 

I order fish again. I'm really in the mood for it on this trip!

 

And now I am back in my room, in this lovely hotel...

 

 

... for one last evening of contemplation, reading, writing of course, and, unfortunately packing for my trip tomorrow.

My next post should be from the Edge.

with so much love... 

 

rain pleasures

People ask me all the time -- so what do you do when you're in Paris? I haven't an answer. "It depends" is most correct, but when someone is genuinely curious, you don't want to dismiss them with an "it depends." So I come up with an improvised summary of things I've done at one point or another, making it seem, I suppose, that I fill my days with exploration, engagement, art, and fabulous food. And of course, all this happens, though in a small way rather than with a thunderous bang. Walking is tantamount to exploring. (A couple of years ago, I walked all the way from Le Baume (my hotel of choice) to Versailles. I explored alright!) Engagement? If the opportunity presents itself -- sure, happy to speak French with anyone. No guarantee that I will fully understand their response, but I try. Art? Paris is synonymous with art. Museum, though helpful, not needed. Fabulous food? Hard to avoid.

But let's not glorify my travels here. I come mostly because being here always feels great to me. I love my hotel, my room in it, the staff that greets me. I look forward to waking up close to the window that looks out onto a quiet street. And I love to walk down the five flights to breakfast downstairs. And I love reviewing the choices before me as I think about my day. 

I am never, ever disappointed.

There was a time when shortfalls and snafus and calamities were part and parcel of travel for me. I coped and survived and felt grand afterwards. I was curious about new places. Waking up in a new city got me out of bed quickly, so that I could go out and get to see it all in person. Train trips were fun, even long ones. New hotels meant new possibilities of finding something intimate and special. New foods to try, new museums to visit. 

These days, I feel less drawn to all that. Travel is more of a bother, and it is expensive, so it better be worth it. I better feel good about the places I visit. 

More and more, I feel just okay. One walk through Bergan and I'd seen all I want to see there. It's not Bergen, it's me. And this is the way I approach almost any city now: a day and I'm done. I'm out. Or, at least I wish I were out, heading back to Paris and my corner of it on the Left Bank. 

Of course it's different if I'm traveling with family or friends. Then it becomes a trip about something else, other than just me visiting another city or country. But in traveling alone, I prefer now returning rather than exploring. Returning to places that I know I love.

*     *     * 

I wake up to rain. Not a downpour, but definitely a wet day. This kind of pitter patter in Paris is just fine with me. It means that I will choose some downtime and in this city, in my room, I love downtime! To read, to write. To grab a coffee (in the past, it would be a glass of wine) in some cozy space at a cafe-bar.

It never feels or looks drab to me. Beginning with my room, my flowers this time -- forsythias, roses, mimosa, because they know I was drawn to mimosas on this trip.

Downstairs, in the breakfast room, in my usual chair, I linger. No need for eggs today. I know I wont be climbing mountains or going on long hikes.

And I start out even later than yesterday. Out by noon. 

 

(if she can manage three, I can manage two!) 

 

 

Where to? Well, I have a strong tug to do a walk around the perimeter of the Jardin Luxembourg. It's only one and a half miles long, and at my more leisure pace, it takes me just 45 minutes. I'm not competing with the others who do this loop -- mostly joggers, dressed to run, oblivious to the rain, to the somewhat chilly weather (Paris has been stuck in the 40sF/around 7C this week). 

It is, for me, a glorious walk! The thing about winter in Paris is that the city stays green, even in January. Sure, the deciduous trees are bare, but there is so much else here! And of course, the grass stays green as well. 

I miss this in Wisconsin -- that color of peace and tranquility. A park walk here feels as happy and refreshing now as it does in other seasons. Indeed, I'd say that summer is when things can get rough in Paris. The recent heat waves here are not comfortable, especially in a country that refuses to give in to air conditioning. (I hate air conditioning too, but on a hot and humid day, it's a lifeline to sanity.) 

In the afternoon, I go out again -- briefly, for a coffee and a snack at Cafe d'Auteur. I love the place because the coffee is fabulous and their baked treats, though few in number, are also unusual and delicious.

It's also a good place to contemplate the life of others.

 

 

To feel grateful for every good piece of luck you've had, because, well, others may feel especially worried or sad.

And just as back home, one errand leads to another. I walk past a pastry shop and pause for a few minutes thinking -- I haven't photographed "cakes that I like" lately...

 

 

 

And I stop at a drugstore, because their face creams here are heavily regulated and many of the ingredients found in our creams are banned here. So, a nice basic face cream -- I go for one that has something to do with vineyards. If I can't drink it, I can at least slather it on my face. 

 

 

 

Next stop, this candy shop:

Why? Not for chocolate (though I'm offered a sample and I don't refuse it), but for a pack of hard candies. My cough, though better, is still with me and sucking a hard candy is often a nice balm. Yes, we have hard candies back home, but again, they have dyes and stuff that you wont find polluting their edibles here. So, a nice inexpensive sack of raspberry boiled sugar.

And finally -- home. 

Yes, were I in Paris for only two or three nights, this kind of approach to visiting the city would make little sense. But five night? It's perfect for me.

 

*     *     * 

In the evening  I head out to a restaurant again only a block from my hotel. I saw it on my walk down from the train station and it looked nice. A newly opened bistro. I booked a table.

The place has a very poetic name -- Bistro des Poemes -- and yes, I admit it, there's a certain charm to the name and that does appeal to me. Call it marketing, but at some point you do have to pick an eatery out of millions of acceptable ones. Might as well do it for its name. And really, this bistro does more than slap on a good name: it organizes poetry nights, where authors read their poems. Too, it invites guests to scribble a verse as they sit down for the evening. They select good ones to post on a blackboard. 

I am not a poet (though of course, everyone is a poet to a degree). But I love simple poetry of the type that Oliver or Szymborska wrote and there have been years when I found great comfort in reading such stuff. So here I am now, in a poets' bistro.

It's classic French fare. I order mushrooms with the usual spices, a bit of cheese and then for a main course -- sea bream, a Mediterranean fish. The portion is huge! This isn't the first time I've been given a big plate of fish on this trip. Are the French mimicking us in portion size? More likely a good preparation of this fish requires working with the entirety. 

 

 

It's tasty. Well prepared. They did not have a N/A beer or wine and I refuse to substitute that with a fruit juice, but it struck me that I could ask them to keep down the St Germain to just a drop in a Spritz. It worked! Almost no alcohol and an appropriate accompaniment to the dinner.

But would I return? Well, there seemed nothing "poetic" about the bistro, so I suppose there's a note of disappointment there. On the other hand, if I'm looking for simple good food and dont want to go far -- I'd come back. Maybe. 

And home once more. Two more nights in Paris, then home for real.

with so much love...