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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

 

 

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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.

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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)

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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.

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A short walk back to the hotel, a good, solid catch-up chat with the brilliant general manager of the Baume, Sylvia Herrault (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...