what's Parisian?

Well now, don't hold your breath for a mouthwatering photo of a classic Parisian breakfast. By the time I stumbled down to the hotel breakfast room, all that was left was a baguette. And so I had a classic tartine -- bread with butter and jam. (Don't tell me about early birds catching worms -- I was down at 9:15 -- that's plenty early! Unfortunately, breakfast is included in the price of the room so I did not seek a better meal at a cafe. But I will if, by the end of my four days here, I'll have eaten only bread, butter and jam.)






Well, that's okay. I want a big lunch today. I'll surely have the appetite for it.

I want to warn you, too, that my walk and therefore my photography are all rather random. Some people may do great things when in Paris, but my day consisted of only three tasks: walking, shopping and eating. I had my camera around my neck, as always, but the photos are my own personal statement on what it means to be in Paris.






You could argue that there are many more Parises out there and that the people and things I tend to photograph are surely not representative of the entirety. But for me, the people I see who cause me to pull up my camera are the ones whom I firmly believe are proud to be Parisian. They present themselves as part of the city. There are many others whose national or even city identity is a mystery to me, but what you see here, on Ocean, are people who would not hesitate in their answers if asked "where are you from."

I wanted to remind you, too, that I love this city. It's not that I am a francophile who gets excited by anything that comes from this country. I like other parts of France just fine, but it's Paris that endures for me as the city that I think works magic on my soul.



(A delivery of bread to a restaurant)


Of course, I know that what I see here is a bit of a fiction. I see what I want to see. Things that don't fit my image of the city, I probably don't even notice. (Except these two young men with the baby stroller. It is so weird to see men on a weekday, without the rest of the family, with a baby stroller. It's probably the only time I have come across this here.)






But we all do that, no? We are sensitive to some signals and not others. I suppose if I had to generalize, I'd say that to me, Paris sends off signals of pleasure and artistry.

Where else would you pass a random candy store and see this kind of beauty? All made out of chocolate and sugar?






Or yule logs that are this unusual and this boldly beautiful?






I said I did some shopping today. Not for me. Though in waiting for a clerk to look up something, I did find myself facing a mirror. Selfie time!






I should mention that the weather here is warmer than in Parma. Sure, there is the morning mist, but the temps after sunset are perhaps 10 degrees warmer than in Italy. But I couldn't resist taking a photo of the Tower of Montparnasse in the fog, since this weather pattern has been so much part of my itinerary on this trip. (Note the brave woman who cuts in front of a bunch of cars to make a left turn.)






(...and the older gentleman who does the same -- on a scooter. Do they all believe in an afterlife?)






The sun comes out in the afternoon. Mildly, but unmistakably.






For a few minutes, you could see a totally blue sky. This picture was taken actually not for the blue sky but for the shot of Cafe la Varenne, where I had lunch. If ever you feel anxious about safety in Paris, you can come here to eat. Even in the calmest of times, there are police and guards with weapons all around. (The presidential something or other is just up the block and so security here has always been very tight.)






The cafe has two things going for it: excellent home cooking and phenomenally skilled and friendly waiters. (I order the day's special -- sea bream. It's completely excellent.)






For these reasons it is always extremely crowded at lunchtime.






Outside again, walking, walking... And again comes the question -- what does it mean to be Parisian? Wearing clothes that make a statement with their color or style wise comes to mind. (I was shopping for my sons-in-law and I kept telling the clerk in one favorite spot -- no no, more conservative please! Men in the States don't like to stand out in the way they dress! I really believe that's true. Except for Ed, who likes, deliberately I think, looking ragged and unadorned.)






Okay, one street scene that is more about the street than the people on it:






I also do some Snowdrop browsing. Here's one item that caught my attention. Holiday clothes for girls are all about skirts that have sparkle to them. An example:






And just down the block, I came across love. It comes in many shapes, at many stages in life...






And back again to the face of Paris: well dressed men and women with longer rather than shorter hair and carefully chosen scarves.






I'm back in my own set of blocks to deposit my purchases in my hotel room.






And then I head off to the Luxembourg Gardens. Here are three generations of strollers:






And now, finally, I am in my favorite Parisian park.






And this is where I notice that Paris has, in fact, changed a little since the last time I was here toward the end of October. When I see cafes that aren't quite as packed as before, I think -- well, it's December. It's twenty degrees colder than a month ago. But when I see the Luxembourg Gardens in the way I saw them today, I know it's not just about the weather.

Oh, sure, there are people. Tourists. Visitors. Tennis players. Missing are the regulars. The fixtures. The children with grandparents. The lovers here on a break from school.






The sections of the park around the Senate House are entirely closed off to the public. I loved the park anyway, but I felt that if I had been seeing it for the first time, I might have asked -- what's all the fuss? It's just a park.

Outside again, I passed a group of school children, walking in pairs. Some passerby commented on the wetness of their hair (Parisians notice these things!). Her friend said -- they're obviously returning from a swimming class.











And I come again to the shots of mommies and their babes.






Because they're everywhere. And they make me smile.






In the evening, I pass the cafes, with red faced patrons (from the heat lamps) and twinkling holiday lights...






One more shop to admire (with Snowdrop in mind)...






... and then it's the witching hour (7p.m.) and (nearly) all stores close.

I head over to the tiny L'Antre d'Eaux for supper.

Here's a question: do nice people deserve an extra plug for their work, or should we, in a true free market fashion, judge the services and products we buy only based on the merits of those items?

If your answer is that you are drawn toward stores, restaurants, places where the people are at least as nice as the things they sell (and perhaps even nicer), then I cannot recommend this restaurant highly enough. It's a neighborhood joint and there is a touch of England in it (the place is owned and run by a young couple where the guy (the cook) hails from England. Note adorable Ann-Sophie to the right and the photo of the red bus on wall).





The meal was quite fine,  in a casually home cooked sort of way.

And now it's time to feel sleepy all over again. I'll leave you with the photo of the Senate at night. With the occasional cyclist passing by and the two Christmas trees artfully positioned at each side.

from Parma to Paris

Parma's fog lifted for my departure. It wasn't a wholesale unveiling, but it was enough to remind me that no morning is the same, that no city hides completely behind its reputation.

Patrizia thought I might have time for one last walk -- perhaps to the museum whose interior is renowned and splendid -- but I decided not to rush. My train was to leave at 10:10 and I had yet to figure out how to pack the gifts, the cheeses, the vinegars -- beautifully packaged in boxes that could not be left behind.

Breakfast was as perfect as always -- well, perhaps more so, for two reasons: Patrizia added a persimmon to my tray (which honestly, I may have eaten just once in my life)...






... and secondly, after conducting a conversation in the Italian way -- of shouting for her up the stairs with one comment or another (Patrizia!), I asked if she would like to join me for a breakfast coffee and she readily agreed.





That was almost a mistake. Neither of us wears a watch and we launched a conversation that may well have continued for hours. How do you attack the topic of life's choices when your clothes remain scattered and your train is to leave in less than an hour?

And how do you say a proper thank you in the space of minutes? (Patrizia came down bearing gifts -- not as the inn keeper, but as someone who knows how to beautifully solidify the friendship that had taken hold in the last few days. There is also the nonna in her that packed me four Prosciutto di Parma panini for the road -- yes, four! -- because, you know, what you get in those food stands along the way? Junk compared to the real thing!)

We pushed it, we really did and she felt remorseful and offered to drive me to the station but I stubbornly refused, thinking that I should pay for my own follies and so I ran the distance, even pausing for that last Parma photo...






... and a second:






I made it to the station just in time.



(the clock is off, but the train is on time)


Misty landscapes float outside the train window while heavily armed police patrol the inside. I'm reentering the real world, where beauty lives with the fear of loss.






And then it's just a slow reversal of course. A flight to Paris (why fly -- Ricarda had asked, why Paris -- Patrizia had asked. Ah, the practicalities of life and the heartstrings that play to their own song! There are never good answers to those perplexing questions, even though we never fail to ask them and then agonize when we cannot find the proper answer the proper answer.). Over the Alps again...





Then into the (misty, of course!) Paris airport.

I catch the commuter train into the city. Yes, that city that made you and me cry in anger and sadness, for all that we are capable of doing to each other there and elsewhere, for the sake of fictions that we adhere to as naked truths.

But, this is not the place for such reflections. If Ocean has a mission, it is, as you well know, that it should strive to find a good way to proceed forward, despite the tedium, the disappointment, the anger, the regret that threatens to throw us all off balance.

In Paris, finding reason to smile is not hard.

I am back at my hotel Le Baume, taking advantage of the always great rates of early December. And that's a good thing. I want the familiar sounds and smells of my tiny room that looks over the quiet street.

Well, not so tiny.






After being probably their most repeat customer for decades, the hotel finally did a sweet thing and put me in one of their grand rooms. It feels strangely unParisian, as I have rarely stayed in a room where you can walk without tripping over a corner of the bed. I do not intend to get used to such unexpected luxury, but I am deeply appreciative of the gesture. There are a bunch of other sweet gestures that the hotel has put in this month for all guests, with a "thanks for coming this month" message behind them. Me, I'm just very glad to be returning. It's Paris, after all.






Same old, same old...






It's evening now and I need to find food. I go to Semilla. I read about this 6th arrondissement restaurant a few years  back (thanks, Mr. Bittman!). Here's a quote from the NYTimes article: Semilla is not quite a bistro, not quite fine dining, not quite Parisian-feeling, but very nearly all of those.

I think that's accurate. And the food is so great that I will struggle in future trips as to where I should eat, when I only have a night or two in Paris.

It's particularly easy  for me to judge since I do not have a reservation and so I am given one of the only available spots: at the counter (there's just one one such seat!)  facing the open kitchen. Can I take photos? -- I ask. The cooks are really a pebble's throw from where I am and so I feel I ought to be somewhat more respectful of them and their work.
But of course! -- the very cool waiter responds.






(They're all cool here: I think it must be part of the job description.)






Still, I'm just going to post a few photos. I am Paris sleepy -- a state that befalls me after a wonderful meal here (typically I switch to posting in the morning; we'll see if I'm forced to do that during this trip as well).

Perhaps more interesting (from a reader's perspective) were the kitchen dynamics. Semilla is extremely popular among Parisians and so the place was packed toward the end of my evening. And I had a front row seat, allowing me to see how the kitchen was handling the steady rush of orders.

They did well! The chef is young and yet he only lost his cool twice in the two hours I was there. And the demands on him and his staff were extraordinary.



the fantastically talented chef



I was terribly undecided as to what I should order and so I asked for the short (4 course) tasting menu. It was such a good decision! (Especially since they threw in a fifth course, just because.) Here, I'm about to begin on a fantastic fish dish, one that would make you reconsider the claim that fish is bland and boring. In the background, two cooks are scrambling to fill an appetizer order.






My only regret is that the tasting menus dessert was a chocolate dish. This one:






Oh, it was very good, but I would have loved to have eaten the rose pavlova with the yogurt ice cream on the side (a dessert choice on the a la carte menu)!


Paris, especially the food culture here, always reminds me that in life, it's easy to give up. But it's much more satisfying to keep on truckin'.

letting the locals take the lead, continued

Well, I will surely always remember this day in Parma. First of all, it tried valiantly to fight off the fog each day and for a period of a few hours, it succeeded, before giving in again to the winter clouds.

Secondly and more importantly, I will remember the time I spent with the Parmigiani.

And so again I am up early, wondering if my eyes will learn to shake that pinkness associated with too little sleep (I blame Ocean). I eat the same delicious breakfast, artfully presented by Patrizia.





And then, at 9, Patrizia and I set out.

She had invited me to go to the market with her and I was happy to tag along. It's twice a week, she says. And it's very interesting. Full of Parma flavor. Are you thinking maybe of taking some good dried mushrooms back with you? I'll show you where to get them.

And lo, the sun comes out again.






We turn to the blocks where the market stalls spread out. I tend to bypass the European stalls with clothes and goods of a material nature, concentrating on the foods instead, but Patrizia isn't so dismissive.

Take a look here: crazy, but beautiful, no? She points to a lovely little undergarment, then to a hat, a shawl...
They're good brands, discarded by the big stores. Look!
I tell her that in my retirement, I haven't the need for special clothing.
She looks at me blankly. We're speaking in English and I think she must not have understood my words. I repeat it, using other formulations.
She remains truly puzzled. Here, we're taught from early on to always look after our outside and our inside. To dress well, look well, eat well, talk well. It's important for the whole person, no?

I have no argument, except to say that perhaps in the States we've neglected lately the "look well dress well" part.

I buy my dried mushrooms. She banters with the seller. It's as if they were friends. Maybe they are friends. She knows this market inside out.





And then she walks me to another set of blocks, where she has arranged for me to spend many hours with her friend's wife, Ricarda (her friend restores old painting in Parma and, too, he is a painter whose paintings adorn some of the walls at the b&b).
Listen, Ricarda is older and she speaks no English, but I think your Italian is good. You will manage. I know you will.

Patrizia exudes confidence in me. About herself -- she is self deprecating, even though I'm pretty darn sure that she really likes who she is in life. My parents, they are much younger than me... she'll say vehemently. You cannot walk many paces with her without cracking a smile.

What Ricarda knows is perhaps not English, but she knows and loves Italian cooking. She and I will be cooking together this morning. But no meat dishes please -- I tell my co-conspirator, Patrizia. I can't bring back recipes for veal, it just wont work at the farmhouse!

I enter Ricarda's home on the top floor of an ancient building. The walls are filled with art...






... and I mean filled with art.






Ricarda herself is lovely and genteel, dressed as if she were to cook, but also to host a grand feast.

We enter her spacious kitchen which, due to the sloping roof, has the feel of a secret attic.

I got ingredients for three pasta dishes, she tells me. Tortelli with potatoes, torelli with chard, and lasagna Genovese -- with pesto and potatoes. No meat! -- she grins a full-faced grin.

This is, to me, a wonderful set of dishes. Not only might I make them at home, but, too, it is what people eat here. It is what she knows. It's what a person from Parma would have been raised on.

I ask her who taught her to cook.
No one! She says. But when pressed, she admits to using recipes passed down from her own nonna (grandma). Of course. It starts somewhere.

We make the potato stuffing (which, predictably has much more than just "potato" in it).



(I'd never considered cooking potatoes in a steamer before)








We make the ricotta and chard stuffing. We make the pesto and the bechamel sauce for the lasagna.

And finally, we make the pasta -- eggy and soft -- by hand.  


 
such orange yolks!



Dig in those palms, she tells me, watching my too gentle a touch.







When I go to rinse my hands, she reaches into her drawer to get me a fresh towel.






I cannot believe it! You iron all your dish towels? I ask, rather bluntly. She laughs. A complete waste of time, isn't it? Yet somehow I feel she doesn't really think it's a waste of time.

We're ready to throw it all together. Well, she's ready. I find that making the pockets out of the thin bands of pasta, so that no air bubbles remain inside is tricky. Push out the air first! -- she says again and again. By the sixth time, I get it right and after that we work in tandem, producing very many very wonderful looking tortelli.
















... to the background of a CD. She hums bits of a melody and I say -- you're a romantic! She answers -- it's not just any music, it's Francesco de Gregori. I tell her I taught my daughters to love Italian pop when they were very young. She reaches for the two-CD set that had been playing. I want you to have this. I offer no protest.

Ricarda wants to send all the food we make together home with me but of course, this wont do. We decide to gift it to Patrizia.

After sampling the tortelli ourselves.






Delicious!!

She walks me back to the b&b and we side-step a little across the river... (could it be fog again?)






... because she wants to show me an out of the way little shop with all sorts of Italian cooking tools.
You need a tortelli wheel, she says. You don't have one?
I don't have one. They're cheap and I know I can get one in the States, but somehow it seems right to be looking for one with Ricarda. And she finds it, right there at the market, as the cooking tools guy is packing to go.
She is taking it to America -- Ricarda tells him.
Well now, maybe you want the professional one for 14 Euro?
This, this is perfect -- she picks up the cheap one for 3E. My kind of shopping.

At the b&b, Patrizia is thrilled with the food. You know I hate to cook, she reminds me.
Ricarda claims I managed well with her rapid Italian. Indeed -- in addition to the cooking tips, the recipes, her thoughts on food, I learned about her family and of course she knows all about my two daughters with their very Italian sounding names and, too, about Snowdrop. I show off a photo of the littlest one on my iPhone. Snowdrop is grinning impishly at my camera.
She is so smart looking! Patrizia tells me. I beam.


The thick fog rolls in on this, my last evening in Italy. I go for my last longer walk. No museums today. No visits to the ten sights I have on my "must see" list from Patrizia. I have to put off the visual beauty of Parma. I am, tonight, focused on her people.

And here's a surprise, though maybe it should not be a surprise: the streets are packed! Not hundreds out there, but thousands -- weaving in and out of the dense fog.






The joy of a stroll together on the weekend before a holiday -- no, this is not something you can stay away from.






(A kids clothing shop? Let me look inside...)






And the Duomo is suddenly experiencing a busy spurt as well. Families come, they go in they go out. Why? Is there a service? I open the doors.






No service -- they all come to take a peek at the Nativity scene. It's not much, by the standards of the really flashy and elaborate Nativity scenes, but they come nonetheless and they look, and the kids, being Italian, run around the vast spaces of the church and then they leave.


At home again (how weirdly comfortable it is to call it that), I sort through notes and photos. Patrizia comes down and we talk about websites, Ed, friends. Will you come back -- she asks. It's a question with a very easy answer.






I eat dinner at another Patrizia favorite -- the Angiel d'Or. She worries that I wouldn't like it -- it's a little proper, she tells me.
I look at the prices. Not bad at all!
It's fine. I have a skirt I can wear. I'll look proper.

In fact, it's not at all staid. Tables are filled with families -- some with misbehaved children, others with perfectly behaved children, couples, young groups of friends -- this place has it all.

And the food is incredible.

I overeat. I mean, it's my last night for the Prosciutto di Parma and though I asked for a half portion, I got charged for a half but given a full. Then the tortelli con zucca (pumpkin). But someone messes up here and they bring the tortelli con something else, definitely with a meat component. I decide not to protest, because it's plenty good, but the proprietor notices and comes over and insists on bringing a few of the pumpkin pasta tortelli. Of course I eat those as well.






And then there's the house specialty which I have yet to figure out, even as I ate the whole thing. (It's a veal roll and I am guessing, based on taste and all the other rolls they favor in this part of the world, that there was plenty of bread, butter and cheese in the stuffing.)

So it was a superb meal. I'll have to admit -- the best of the best from my trip here.


And then I rush home -- a short walk down heavily fogged over streets...






... and I call Ed, expecting and in fact hearing the inevitable: Isie boy has passed on to another cat life. We knew it was coming. He truly was the oldest cat I have ever known: all rickety and bony and with hallowed eyes. I'd not been photographing him because I am sure that he would wish you would remember him from how he was when life seemed infinitely warm and never ending, out there on the porch with us (and especially his beloved Ed) at summer time.






It's the only time that I am so very glad that Ed hadn't traveled with me to Europe. He could be there in the final hours with sweet sweet Isie boy.


Tomorrow I leave for Paris.