Last night, I did not go to sleep at 1a.m. (like the previous night). Instead, I turned off the light just before 2 a.m. I am thinking it may be the late afternoon coffee, or the dark chocolate I'm munching in the evenings, but really, probably it's neither. I just want to stay up late and get up late.
Breakfast at 10. Almost empty now. People are here for Paris. I'm here for the wonderful morning meal, leisurely taken, where even at 10:30, the kind waiter says prenez votre temps (please dont hurry). I gave him my biggest smile.
Yesterday, the breakfast room was not so empty. Two couples were engaged in a conversation a stone's throw from me. One said "we've been traveling for over a month. We're from Australia." The guy from the other couple said "I couldn't do that!" "Why?" "I already miss my dog!" I mumbled "I do too," but he didn't hear me. He was too lost in his thoughts about his pup. The wife said nothing. Doesn't she like their dog? Or is it that she doesn't like her husband missing their dog on what is their first trip to Paris?
I don't think I could leave Millie again for two weeks. I did that when I went to Poland and the Nordic countries back in June. Fifteen nights without Millie. Never again. (I have a nine nights away coming up in January and an eleven nighter in March -- all too long, but it couldn't be helped. She will be with people (and dogs!) she knows and who love her, but it's not her I'm worried about, it's me!
One more gorgeous (and warm) day. I've had nothing but gorgeous days. One day on a future trip it will be miserably wet and cold. Remind me how good I had it this October.
I decide to not go to the museum today. It was a Cezanne themed exhibition -- possibly interesting, but I want instead to not hurry anywhere at all. To walk at a slower pace. To look into shop windows, to make my way to the Trois Chocolats, a small chocolate and pastry shop on the Right Bank (yes, you heard right!). Why go there? Because for some reason that I cannot now remember, this shop is the only business that I follow on Instagram, even though I have never been to it. And why haven't I? Because they keep strange hours and I can never time my walks in that direction on the days and at the hours they are open. And every time I look at my Instagram account (which, admittedly, is not very often), I see a new display of their chocolates and I think -- WOW!
So instead of going to the Grands Palais museum, I turn toward the east, walk to the Île Saint-Louis, then turn north toward their shop.
The walk is wonderful and leisurely and I do things that normally I would regard as a waste of time, but today nothing is a waste of time. I am in Paris, the day is beautiful, let's see what I find on my way to the chocolatier.
(leaving my hotel: to the right is my hotel street with the Odean Theater visible at the end of it, to the left is the Sorbonne Medical School. Students again congregate at the pizzeria at the base of this uniquely shaped building)
(I walk a long way along the Boulevard St Germain. I come across this store: books on one level, stationary on the level below. Heaven! I try to ignore the books, all in French, knowing I have too many at home that I never get to, but the notebooks and such are an endless source of excitement for me. Really. I must have spent an hour in there.)
(Paris is one of the few European cities that still has lots of postcard stands. When they're good -- like here -- they are very very good. When they're bad -- they're awful.)
(turning toward the river, with the Notre Dame in the background)
(familiar stuff: a bouquiniste and his stand, with Notre Dame behind the plane trees, and of course the river)
(looking toward the Ile Saint-Louis)
(Now this is interesting: a piano player, plunking out a Chopin piece more or less well, though terribly fast; you have to wonder how he gets his piano there. I've seen him on previous trips to Paris. Must make this his job...Study the picture carefully!)
(I always assume most people on this island are tourists; I'm often wrong. These women and their child live here)
(the Berthillon ice cream on the Ile Saint-Louis is legendary!)
(the cat is not theirs, but it's following them nonetheless; maybe they're wearing fish perfume)
(a good place for a heart to heart)
(I stumble across this little park. Lots of morning glory and dahlias, stricken with powdery mildew)
(There are no big demonstrations scheduled for this day, but the high schools remain barricaded; people want more money for schools despite the fact that France spends more on education than most European countries. But it's not enough -- much of it has to go to the pensions of retired teachers.)
The chocolate shop itself is so small that I miss it, walking right past it on my way there. Emiko Sano, the chocolatier and shop owner is from Japan and the store is named after the fact that she is from a family of chocolatiers. Her grandfather, her father (both in Japan), and now the third generation -- Emiko. Chocolate lovers say it's French chocolate making methods, but with unique ganache flavors: smoked cherry blossoms, wasabi, Matcha infusion, Yuzu and Savoy honey. All are made with less sugar to accentuate the flavor of the chocolate and ganache.
I be taking a few small boxes home. One for my dog sitter, one for someone who will love the stuff, one for me!
Walk back... The heart to heart continues...
(The pianist is gone and the jazz musicians have taken over. I know them as well -- and I like the spirit that they always bring to this bridge that links the Île Saint-Louis with the Île-de-la-Cité.)
(clearly these guys like it too)
And then I stop for coffee, this time at "my local" coffee shop, L'Arbre a Cafe, where I have my "lunch" of pistachio cake along with another fabulous latte. (Hey, pistachios and milk have protein, no? And I've been chomping away at the plums I bought at La Grande Epicerie that first day. Veggies are always a problem when in Europe. Ah well. I shall survive with their minimalist appearance until next week.)
Back in my room I take stock. Apart from chocolate, I bought almost nothing for myself (well, I bought a sweet shirt for Millie, which I have to admit is more for myself because she doesn't care and indeed arguably she'd like it if I kept cute shirts off of her, and too, there are the Cassatt posters...), and just some chocolate, notebooks and trivial books for others. But suddenly I have a bunch of heavy bags that will need to be consolidated and packed into my one suitcase. I'm leaving Paris tomorrow.
I'll worry about it tomorrow.
I count my various chocolate purchases and decide I need to remember a couple of others and so I google the very best ganache chocolatiers in the area (because ganache filled chocolates are my favorites and I never give people stuff I dont especially like myself). I'm told by some French AI character that I should visit Patrick Roger over on Boulevard St Germain. I know what you're thinking -- that he is an Irish transplant here. After all, the name! Not so. Patrick Roger was born and lived in a tiny village in the Loire Valley. His parents were village bakers and gave him the name Patrick because it was incredibly popular in France in the 60s (when he was born). For being a poor student and a bored baker, he has become incredibly successful as a chocolatier, winning awards left and right for his creations. The shop is no small place where you pick out your own chocolates! It looks very posh.
(In buying the gift boxes, I got to sample one. So delicious!)
Eventually I make my way to the Jardins Luxembourg (just before it closes).
(cutting through on the way home from work...)
(and look: someone on my first visit here on Monday was not following the park rules!)
You could say I undervalued this park this time around, which is especially strange because the weather has been so good! (Though I do think that the park has suffered this summer. And in any case, in October, vibrant it is not. But still so pretty!)
(the fading light: the park closes in ten minutes)
(still pretty!)
I skirted it because it's been a while since I've been in Paris and I felt a pull toward other places. And of course toward the special exhibitions. Walking miles and miles each day is both pleasurable and time consuming. But I can't imagine treating Paris differently. The day I can't move out of my wheelchair is the day I stop coming to Paris. (Famous last words?)
(Outside the gates to the park...)
Yes, same guy, same piano, magically transported! And now the guy standing and watching, the one with the brown hat, hands his phone to the pianist and asks him to film him playing. And he does!
So did you really look closely at the photo of the pianist in my picture of him on the bridge? Interesting, isn't it?
Oh, here's someone else watching. I do not think the doodle will ask to play.
(Just next to Le Baume is a tea store. Now this cup does tempt me. For obvious reasons.)
In the evening I go to dinner to Le Prince Racine. Google will tell you it is a one minute walk from my hotel and yet I have never eaten there (and I have eaten in every single eatery within a FOUR minute walk, and there are many that belong to that club!). Why? Possibly because the menu is not unusual. Traditional French with some modern healthy items thrown in. But this is exactly what I want on this trip! I'd seen Madame Harrault (general boss here at Le Baume) eat lunch there once and that gave me pause, and when I asked her the other day where I should go for a simple French meal, she didn't hesitate. Le Prince it is.
And I'm sorry I passed it by up to now. It was relatively inexpensive, very pleasant, with a serious but funny staff (you know what I mean! all serious until something funny happens! like, Nina leaves behind her credit card and has to be chased down the block after the meal). And the food was good! It does lean heavily toward beef dishes. Their only fish was a seared tuna and you know how I feel about undercooked fish on this trip, but on the other hand we are talking about tuna, and everybody expects tuna these days to be basically raw inside the sear, so you know they will use only fish that permits that kind of consumption. I liked it! And they came up with a salad for me -- something I have missed quite a bit. No NA beers, so I suffered through a kir vin blanc!
I ate at 7, which is on the early side for the French. The first French speaking couples drifted in when I was on my way out already. However, right next to me there was a family from Poland. The parents were my age, and they were there with their daughter and her husband. I felt sorry for the daughter. The mom was a grump, the dad was looking for a sweet red wine (Poles like fruity wines), everyone seemed tired and no one spoke French. No one seemed happy. I listened as the young woman tried to navigate the landscape, working to find ways to make everyone pleased to be there. How does this happen with families -- where one person takes on the burden of keeping things alive and happy? Surely others could step in and help her, but no, they were, for the most part, silent and the mom spoke as if she were burdened with being there rather than pleased to be sharing a meal with these three. (Of course, I know nothing about any of them, but from the way the young woman was trying, I inferred that this was a role she played frequently, and their attitude, too, was not an uncommon thing For whatever reason.)
I spoke French to the waiter (he quickly switched to it realizing that I am one of those who tries to hide her otherwise obvious American nationality), and since the Polish family spoke no French at all (they communicated with the waiter in English), they likely assumed that I was French. My accent has always been better than my grammar. But I thought I'd give them something to talk about and so when I left, I asked, in French of course -- you're Polish, aren't you? Polonaise? They nodded vigorously, understanding the query. Perhaps apprehensively. Polish people aren't arrogant. They assume they're low on the totem pole of nationalities (Americans assume the opposite, though these years, maybe we've finally understood that we were never at the top and now are hovering toward the mud at the very bottom). They seemed worried. So I merely said "smacznego" -- which means bon appetit, but wanting to preserve the mystery, I said it with a French accent. Then left, smiling. That was my (and hopefully their) entertainment for the evening.
Now, I leave Paris tomorrow in the very early afternoon. Let me not stay up tonight nor sleep in tomorrow, okay? Thank you.
with so much love...
