Paris in December, continued

I open one of the three large windows of my beautiful room to a blue sky and a slowly receding moon.





It's going to be a fine day in Paris!

How should I begin? With the usual cafe breakfast? Or a hotel breakfast? Both are fine, but maybe I should venture out further?

Off I go, chasing what I hope is more than just the moon...


 


Lovely as that moon is!






There is a tea room that is appended to a bakery and in the recent decades both have earned a lot of local hand clapping. I'd always wanted to stop in for lunch, but I was never there at the right time. Now's the time to branch out and try it. For breakfast. Or call it brunch!

The name of the place is "Bread and Roses," which sort of makes you think of England, but in fact, when you enter, there isn't much that reminds you of England except perhaps for the roses.

(The corner building...)






(The table, the rose, and a time release selfie...)






And the food? Well, you can just have your croissant and call it a day, but I'm thinking that one doesn't have to wed oneself to the idea that every morning in Paris deserves a croissant. Indeed, fairly good croissants can now be found in spots all across the U.S.  But great brioche? Now that's special!  And let me go on record as saying that the brioche here (served with a slab of butter and a bowl of home made organic strawberry jam ) is out of this world! It's late, it's brunch and so eggs are a nice addition. And they're good eggs, with a lovely salad, but really, the star of the show is the brioche. (You can be sure I'll be experimenting with brioche at home.)





Had I been ravenously hungry, I surely would have added a pastry to my meal. Like form their window display of all cakes raspberry. Another time!






I am on Rue Madame -- just a skip away from the Luxembourg Gardens. Time to give it my smile again.






Oh that sunshine! It makes kids of us all!





 
Wonderful sunshine, against a pale blue winter sky...





On the streets of the city again, I once again come across a Christmas tree market.





No, you don't have to carry that tree home! Have a stroller? Use it!





The sun brings the French men and women out to the sidewalk cafes. It's just barely above freezing, but sunshine makes all the difference. (I'm sure you'll have noted the woman with a cigarette. The French still do permit outside smoking, but I have to say the number of smokers has gone down considerably. Which is such a good thing.)






Passing a local green grocer, I am tempted. Around the bend he has berries. They are yummy looking berries. But I'm decked out in my warmest coat, hood, mittens, parcels. And so I just look.






I walk down to the river. I don't have a firm destination in mind. I stroll along this ribbon of blue against a sky of blue all the way down to the Musee d'Orsay (on the opposite bank, you'll see the Tuileries Gardens).





That's the museum with the Impressionists and the special exhibition on Degas and his dancers. And I see that there is no line! Well, must be fate. I approach the revolving doors and then boom! A guard blocks my entrance (and that of the people lining up behind me). An announcement is made: someone left a suspicious package inside. Everyone must stay away until this is resolved.

Yes, it must be fate. No museum for me today. I walk on.

Past stores that remind me of little ones...





And now I am close to the Place des Invalides and I see scores of buses and hundreds of people getting out and walking across the bridge to... what? Where have these crowds come from? I've never seen Paris like this! As I start to cross the river, I ask someone -- what's happening here?

Oh, it's France, paying homage to Johnny Hallyday.

Well, I've been here enough times to know that he was this country's beloved pop artist. A colorful guy (see the link above). I hadn't known he died. Oh, I read online news when I travel, but right now, we're all rather fixated with the political spectacle going on within our own borders.

I never quite make it across to the other side of the river. One pause, to acknowledge the beauty of the Tower and then I turn back.





This will have been yet another trip to Paris where I never quite make it to the Right Bank.

(Here's a Hallyday fan, taking a break to eat lunch...)






Yet another bakery. They're really starting to tempt me.





I am now in the 7th Arondissement -- where my family and I had gathered for Snowdrop's first visit to Paris. I still think of it as her neighborhood.

And what's this? Music. Hundreds of people taking to the street... Is it part of the Hallyday tribute? No. These concerned citizens are marching on behalf of people with rare illnesses. It is at once moving and sad and hopeful and inspiring, all at the same time.






But how did it get to be so late? The sun sinks, the colors are deeper now.





And by the time I reach my hotel, it is completely dark. I had paused to pick up a raspberry financier (sort of like an individual pound cake). I have it now with a cup of tea.





And after I text with this family member and talk to that guy back at the farmhouse, it's time to head out to dinner.

I don't mess with Saturdays here: I book in advance. I had reserved a spot at the Breizh Cafe before I knew I'd be landing a spot there on my first night in Paris. Now that I have eaten here just the day before yesterday, you'd think I would want to cancel and go elsewhere.

Not so. I tell myself I don't have to eat buckwheat crepes. I can splurge on their Brittany oysters and munch on their pate, or smoked fishes, or fill myself with their wonderful North Sea langoustines (scampi).

But, the buckwheat crepe is just too tempting. I eat a half dozen oysters and then I devour this buckwheat guy, filled with mushrooms, cheese, smoked duck and an egg.





I'm seated at the counter and so I have a full view of the open kitchen. I know this guy is the chef. You're thinking  -- Japanese?

Indeed. Breizh Cafe has a big foot in Japan. Amazing how sharing cultures and foods can so often enrich us all.





This will have been my last day in Europe. Tomorrow I leave all of it behind -- all this (Poland, France...) that I wrote about with, I hope, the true amount of curiosity, admiration and love.

I'll be returning home. My next post should be from the other side of the ocean.

Paris in December

When you lived a good bit of your life in Poland and then even longer in Wisconsin, you don't associate December with green grass and spring-like cloudbursts. But Paris is not like Poland or Wisconsin. It's milder. Oh, the French don't think it's mild at the moment. I know that because they're bundled up as if heading for the Arctic. But for me, 5C (about 41F) is pretty good for now. Walking along the streets of Paris, I sometimes get the sense that the streets and sidewalks are heated, because the same temperature in Warsaw can feel pretty nippy, whereas here -- well, I think it's mild.

I'm late to start the day. You know how it is: no appointments, no commitments. So I move slowly. I read that extra article. I pause a lot.

By the time I finally get myself to my local breakfast place, Les Editeurs, I'm thinking they may well be out of croissants and pain au chocolat. These are the worries of a solo traveler: am I too late for the croissant???

They're not out. I have both. (And I begin a day of time released selfies, much to the amusement of the clientele in the establishments where I do this!)






Okay. Breakfast behind me, now what? So far, I'm avoiding the special exhibitions. Portraits painted by Rubens at the Musee du Luxembourg? Nah. Then there is a Degas retrospective at the Musee d'Orsay and normally I would consider it, but this one ties him thematically to a writer and friend, so there most certainly is a lot of reading that accompanies the viewing. And it will be crowded. I don't like a lot of museum reading or jostling with crowds, so nah. Oh how good it feels to be here often enough that occasionally you just can say -- nah.

Instead, I do what I love best. (Which, oh so predictably starts at the Luxembourg Gardens -- empty now, wet, but dappled by the occasional burst of sunlight...)






Inhale, exhale. Several times.






I walk, window shop, shop for my family. (Fine, I also pick up a pair of sparkly socks for me, but truly, I enjoy shopping for them far more than I enjoy shopping for me. So in I go, to this shop and that...)





Walk, look, admire, try to understand.

Here's one wee difference between Madison and Paris: in my home town at this time, you see a lot of cars with trees strapped to the roof. In Paris, you either carry your own, or have it delivered. Like here:






I'm in a store. There is a full length mirror. I take the photo to show Snowdrop that Gaga does wear dresses and skirts. This is proof!






It's getting to be the tail end of the French lunch hour. The perpetual dilemma: what to do?? I'm going on just morning bread product. I should pause to eat something.

When in doubt, go to the Cafe Varenne.

A mini portion of homemade truffle ravioli and a salad and waiters that are your best friends (at least for the duration of the meal). Can it be more perfect?

The food:






Ocean author, toward the end, doing her selfie thing:






I leave, as always -- satiated and content.

And now the weather turns insane. I thought I had waited out a cloudburst during lunch. Yeah! Looks wet and gorgeous!






I step inside a store. I linger there perhaps too long. I come out. Phew! Where did this come from?!





I pause in a doorway to wait out the worst of it. Is that hail? I mean, a gentle kind of hail, but still -- bits of frozen ice! I watch children hurry home from school with parents and grandparents and nannies. I watch people go into this entryway to glance over the tree offerings.





All fine, but the rain/sleet have not let up. I may as well just do that urban hop skip, where you're hugging the edifice hoping that some meager overhang or awning will keep you dry.

It sort of works and in any case, soon into the walk back, the skies more or less clear. Here's my approach to the St Sulpice Square. Wet, but beautiful!





And now I am back at my hotel. Here, I pause for the essentials of my travel these days: contact with those back home. Skype, text, email -- take your pick. I need it.

How different it is to be away from home now than say forty, thirty, twenty, or even ten years ago! In the past, it was a one way street: I wrote letters and postcards and heard nothing back until I stepped off the plane at home. Phone calls were expensive. Computers and email were someone else's futuristic dream. No more.

I cannot imagine being away so often and so far without these added tools of contact.

And now it is late and I have a dinner reservation to attend to. These days, my favorite "nice restaurant in Paris" is Semilla. It helps that it's only a five or ten minute walk from my hotel. But I liked it even when it was a forty minute walk. (It helps, too, that Ed always agrees to pick up the tab for one of my dinners away from home. So this is his night. Thank you, Ed!)

The vibe at Semilla is superb. The food is exceptional. The prices are reasonable. When alone, I choose to sit at the counter. The waiters chat when they have a sec, and it gives me a good vantage point onto the rest of the crowded eatery.

(Recently they've converted to a two week reservation system on line. Meaning you can't book ahead of that.  But I swear, if you come early (say at 7:30) and you promise them you'll not linger for too long after your meal, they'll try to find a spot for you.)

Eventually I get the question from the waiter -- so, where are you from? I mean, people catch on quickly enough that I am not a native French speaker. There comes a word that I do not understand, or a vowel that I mispronounce or, as at Semilla, a menu term that just befuddles me.
The U.S., just north of Chicago. Wisconsin. I tease then: have you heard of it?  
A touch of embarrassement: Well no, but our sous chef -- see him there? (He points to a young man feverishly preparing a plate. Semilla has an open kitchen.) He's from Los Angeles!
I have to laugh. I mean, a real hearty laugh. All America is alike: Chicago, Wisconsin, Los Angeles. For once, our country has been scaled down to the size of an outsider's imagination!

We are all born on the same planet.

It's too crowded to play around with my camera over dinner. And yes, the food was exquisite: unfussy, original, perfectly presented. I would not keep coming were it not so.

I walk back through the crowded Bucci street. People at cafes, in restaurants spilling out onto the sidewalk even though it's barely above freezing. In moments like this I always think that the French live by the motto of "together, over food."

I'll leave you with a random photo -- of a couple, young, in love (I'd like to believe that), animated, hopeful.





Yes, hopeful. Definitely that. And I wish that for all of us.

from Warsaw to Paris

You can tell it's time to move on when your flowers on the table where you eat breakfast are starting to fade...





The apartment is clean and ready for my return, even as I know that my travels here will be minimal this year -- or at least very very short, short even than this mini-stay in Warsaw.

Small suitcase packed (travel light and you can get packing down to less than five minutes), trash taken downstairs, radiators turned down, shades lowered. I'm getting to know this routine well.

There are many reasons to stop in Paris on my way back and the one that comes to mind today is that I do not have to catch the horribly early 6 a.m. flight out of Warsaw (a necessity if you want to cross the Atlantic in the same day). I'm not exactly rested, as bedtime was awfully late, but still, it's no longer dark outside when I set out to my bus stop.

Again -- familiar routes! Past the university (the building to the left once housed the economics department where I studied)...






And you certainly recognize this next street. I join the people waiting for the bus.






Most everyone in Warsaw uses public transportation to get around. Commuting to work, or just attending to life's tasks. Young (very young!) and old (very old...).










As we pass the Palace of Culture, I remember that it had come up in last night's discussion: Warsaw has had a flurry of street name changes lately and sometimes the decision to rename a street comes significantly before the sign is replaced with the new name, so that if you google an address using an old name (you might not even know that the name has changed), you'll be automatically directed to the new street, but if you walk there, you'll still have the old placards.

As so many things in life that repeat themselves in one way or another over time and over cultures, the street name change prompts similar questions as the removal of monuments has prompted in the U.S. It seems to me that in Warsaw, the decision to erase ties to an unpopular past has been rather extreme. A poet who reflected sympathetically about communism will be replaced by one who did not. You can take this to the next level (and many in Poland wish to do so) and ask: should the Palace of Culture be torn down, as it was built as a gift from Stalin? Yes? Well what if instead, he had built the subway system in the city (as some say was then under contemplation)? Many people in the west have watched the (sometimes rather violent) removal of monuments to unpopular now leaders in the former Eastern Bloc, but the Palace of Culture has never been regarded as a monument. It is a rather splendid (at least on the inside) building with many public spaces and architecturally interesting elements to it. Moreover, the tall buildings that sprung up around it since Poland's entry into market capitalism are arguably even less attractive than the Palace itself. They were built with haste, pride, and without much attention to the integrity of the city skyline.

For now, I notice a form of real progress (in my mind)! A sign on this bus stop tells people that smoking at bus stops is prohibited!






I catch my flight to Paris and in a few hours I am there.


It's warmer in France than it is Poland. My winter jacket suddenly feels very unnecessary. Still, it is drizzling. I have yet to see the sun in Europe (except in flight). A little rain, then a pause. A little rain, then a pause. Half the people keep umbrellas out, half don't bother.

Paris, just after a rain is quite lovely. The wet sidewalks reflect the street lights.






The cafe tables collect puddles and droplets...






It's all just lovely.

I don't have far to walk from the airport train. My old hotel Baume. Same old. The little place on the Left Bank, steps from the Luxembourg Gardens.





The staff there used to have that polite indifference to even the most loyal guests (me, for example), but in recent years they've completely flipped. They are warm, friendly and best of all, in the Christmas season, they give me a free upgrade to their best room.






It's late. Stores are closing. But unlike Poland, where the magic switch has not yet been flipped on city Christmas lights (silly people haven't quite realized that early lights and early shopping go hand in hand; you don't fully get how to stoke the benefits of capitalism when you're fresh to it), In Paris the lights are ablaze!






(And the people are eating and drinking, inside, outside, oh, you know -- it's Paris. This is what they do here.)





I shop a little. I do. I'm a grandma, no?

And then I sit down to eat at the Breizh Cafe -- my new go-to place here. It's a restaurant born in Brittany, specializing in savory buckwheat crepes, though not only. It's beloved by all and it's hard to get a table, even in the dead of winter, but I have found that just stopping by and chatting amicably with the seating guy may carve you out a spot after all.

Eating alone in Paris makes some people anxious. There are very few tables (if any) set just for one. You look so... well, alone.

Bet tell me: does this selfie look like it's photographing a scared and/or lonely person? (I have a jug of cider, I have a book, I have my iPhone.)





Still, I have come from filling my days with family and especially Snowdrop, to filling my days with my sister and Warsaw friends, to being by myself. It's a jarring change.

Time to pick up the mystery story I've been meaning to finish for so long and more importantly -- time to catch up on sleep. Not exactly what you'd expect to hear from a person who has just arrived in Paris, but indeed, this is my Parisian moment: in a comfortable bed, hearing the muffled street sounds outside, munching on candies brought over from Warsaw, reading a book.

Warsaw days, cont'd

It's raining outside. This is predictable, yet a bit unfortunate because no one wants to walk long miles in the rain. So I'm thinking that perhaps I should come up with a more clever idea for my last full day in Warsaw.

I needn't have worried. The day runs away from me. A late breakfast at home...






... segues into a meeting and a second breakfast with my architect-designer extraordinaire, the wonderful Karolina, who reworked my apartment to be what it is today.





Karolina is one of those rare people whom you meet in a professional capacity but who morphs easily and completely into the category of very good friend (despite our age difference: I am older than her mother, though granted, her mother was young when her kids were born). The kind of friend where a multi-hour second breakfast meeting slips by quickly.






A lovely start to the day. Afterwards, I step outside in what is now mid afternoon. Were it a sunny day, we'd be nearing the hour of sunset.






I meander toward my home, passing several groups of young children.





This is not surprising. Excursions, I'm told, are very common for school kids. And, too, there is a candy making factory close to where I live. Many of the groups head straight for this land of sweets. (I have to think that in the U.S., teachers would not be in a hurry to take classes to places where the kids can spike a sugar high, but then, maybe these kids are capable of showing some restraint.)

Right next door, there is a place called the Labour Cafe...





...and I spy in their display case a sour cherry meringue cake (baked on the premises by cooks who honestly look like you'd want them for grandmothers). In Polish, it's called a beza -- there is no dough involved, just meringue, mascarpone and whipped cream and in this case, the wonderful Polish sour cherry. Talk about a sugar rush! Still, quite perfect for the Tamka (that's the name of my street) get together this evening.





I drop off the cake at home, but then head out again and now it is both dark and raining. And I'm just a few hours shy of the time my friends are to drop by for supper and photo sharing. Time to hop on the bus to speed things up a bit. I'm going to my favorite glass and ceramics store. Most of the stuff there is not special and not expensive, but if you have a need for a specific glass or dish - you'll find it there. I'm looking for a few tumblers that will serve as Scotch glasses, because lo! I found a Lagavulin scotch whisky at the supermarket yesterday and memories of the isle of Islay came flooding back! I didn't go to Islay this summer and I wont go next summer either, but the Scottish island is still sacred in my catalogue of solo travels and I bought the bottle, thinking it would be memorable to combine the social gathering with the introduction of Islay's most smokey peaty drink to my friends. So I look now for suitable glasses, which is tough, because in Poland, Islay whiskey is not uppermost in anyone's mind.

I'm not fussy. I find something that is beautiful and made in Poland and because this is Poland, the prices are as always fantastic to an American pocket book ($2 per exquisite glass).

I write all this because it's one of those moments when many memories collide. And they continue to collide as I rush to the bus stop with my purchase. I pass the lesser park and glance inside. I gathered chestnuts here as a little kid... Right now, it's wet, dark, quiet, and very beautiful...





... and now I am waiting for the bus at the very stop where I waited when I lived in this neighborhood and made my way daily to the university. (The bus numbers are the same! The demise of Communism upended many things in Warsaw, but it did not rename the older bus routes in the city.)

And when I look up, I see the old apartment building where I once lived. My deceased dad's girlfriend lives there now, but the place is dark tonight.





It's raining again. Well, I have to tough it out. I still need a trip to the green grocer for garlic and lemon and baby spinach. And a trip to the Italian deli for cheese. And the corner shop for paper towels. Am I finally a local, or what???

And now I am home. Right now, this apartment building feels more like home than any other place in Warsaw. Mine is the blue window. Blue from the Christmas lights...




When I came up with the supper idea, I knew I could not do a full dinner, what with little time at the forefront and even less time to clean up after, as tomorrow morning I must catch the bus to the airport. But it struck me that I could offer to build a supper around a take out from the newest place less than a block from my home here: a "shrimp house." Indeed, they call themselves the very first shrimp house in all of Poland and I don't think that's hyperbole.






Poland, of course, is not a place where you'll find shrimp. When I asked the very enthusiastic sales person where the shrimp come from, he said -- honestly, Amsterdam. But I'm thinking Vietnam before that. It's a long journey!

I order many portions of garlic shrimp and many more of curry shrimp. Add a large salad with veggies thrown in it, and you have yourself a fine supper.

My sister helps and by the time the doorbell rings, I am ready!





One guest comes with an additional salad made of beets, which makes my sister very happy as she is nearly a complete vegetarian...






(They discuss the ingredients...)






And now comes one of those beautiful times when all feels right with the world. Sharing a meal with friends does that to you.






And as always, there is a lot of light banter -- of the type where we voice our opinions on whether the English language offers words or even the concept of pre- travel angst. They almost can't believe that it does not, but I assure them that it is familiar to Swedes (resfeber) and Germans (reisefieber) but completely unknown to Americans.

But mainly we eat and laugh and toward the end of the night, look at photos from the honeymoon trip of our summer newlyweds.

I have a flight tomorrow, true, but these guys face their own early morning work and family obligations (indeed, my sister had to dash off to be fresh and ready to hop onto her next project bright and early). And so it's time to wrap it up. A time release group selfie!





I have a kitchen to clean up but not really, because my sister said a million times -- leave it alone, I'll do it tomorrow or the next day. I cleaned it anyway, but with her message in my head. Knowing that I did not have to do it,  made it pleasant and, well, kind of special.

Special: definitely life piled a lot into this week for some of us. That we came together anyway speaks to the power of our grand friendship. I love you, take care. Words that rang back to me in the hallway as they made their way out.

Tomorrow, I'll be in Paris.