a day or two in Paris

For me, Paris poses no pressure. I rarely have an agenda. The last several visits have been spontaneous and very unstructured. Apart from Snowdrop shopping, I just wanted to walk and on the last day, eat at Pouic Pouic. Everything else evolved in the course of a day. If my imagination inspired me to do nothing special -- no exhibition to catch, no museum to get to -- then I walked, either to the Eiffel Tower and back or, on the right bank, to Bastille and back. Two days, right there!

But, as in everything in life, I've come to spin away from the extreme (in this case extreme open endedness). Take food: picking a place to eat as I go along means that I waste precious hours on something I can do at home. I already give up time to Ocean posting. I don't need to relinquish even more for restaurant searches. [Some would say -- be spontaneous! Walk in and discover something new! I think that that kind of spontaneity in Paris is overrated. This city offers no guarantee of quality cooking. Researching your options means that you'll at least eat from a kitchen where the cook is trying for the fresh and honest.]

And so early in the day, I set a plan for myself: a morning of grandchild shopping with my friend, followed by time in the park and then more shopping, just by myself -- of the kind where I cover a lot of ground, but do not necessarily buy much. Lunch on Rue du Bac. Dinner? I'm going back to yesterday's neighborhood bistro (or, as they refer to themselves -- a place that follows a bistronomique trend) -- L'Antre d'Eux.

If I'm going to be organized in my approach to this day, let me be equally organized in my posting about it. And if some of the themes that emerge remind you of St. Petersburg, well now, with good reason!

Breakfast first though. The healthy component (muesli and yogurt) is well hidden behind the bread product, which for me, rules my French morning meal!







Shopping:

Oh, but there's still plenty of indecision! Initially my friend and I share the burden of selecting something perfect.






Yes, but does the sweater match the dress??






And as I continue to pop into stores throughout the day, I ask myself again and again -- which one? Which one??















All of the above? None of the above??

No, not stressful at all. Just happy images of a happy little girl.



Families:

I'm surprised how many young families have returned to Paris from their (presumed) vacations. Since it's a fine and warm weekend day, they're out and about, enjoying the last bits of summer sunshine.

It's dad time in Paris too!




(a squirmy little one)





(why limit it to just one...)





(pick up the pace, little guy!)





(hot chocolate for an afternoon snack)


And here's a grandma that would stand out were she in St Petersburg or Madison. Here, she's like wallpaper.






Finally, let's not neglect the mothers...







Park time:

No trip here is complete without a walk in the park and in the summer, this is something truly special. It's like looking at the farmette yard in the summer and winter. Each may hold a distinct beauty, but man oh man, it's hard to say that they are of equal worth! So too here, the summer adds a layer of sparkle that is palpable!

No words needed. Just gentle images from the Jardin Luxembourg.































Rue du Bac:

When my girls were younger, we used to stay in the neighborhood of this street and it has remained a special place for me. It's grown a tad more posh, but the cafes remain very local -- with solid lunch selections. So I start with meandering through the department store Bon Marche) at the helm of the street and then I migrate to the food halls across the street, where I admire the red fruit pastries and buy one macaron (which in price translates to five macarons from St. Petersburg)...






My preferred cafe on this street is further down...



(such blue skies!)


It's closed for vacation, but Flore, the second fiddle, is open and bustling!






I have a fine salad and the people watching is grand. As is the waiter watching. Few of us can move with such grace and purpose.






Love blossoms at the table next to mine.






I settle for writing my very loving postcards!






... While the postcard that is life continues to unfold before me.







My neighborhood and L'Antre d'Eux:


It's evening by the time I am back in the neighborhood I'll call home. The stores close at 7, with few exceptions. I've walked enough to feel ready for a quieter set of hours.







I've booked a table for myself at L'Antre d'Eux and it's a good thing that I do this, because the place is buzzing with a crowd that's here for an early evening snack of cheeses and charcouterie plates. With wine.

It's interesting to me that the French all speak a third language that I would call restaurant talk -- it's very quiet, very subdued -- words that float up and down like bubbles in a champagne glass. But at outside cafes, the norms change. Here's where joviality reigns. As Jeremy, the chef and co-owner of the place (along with his wonderful fiancee, Anne Sophie) brings out extra tables (it's such a gorgeous evening!), I see why this is called a local hangout. We tourists come for the food. Others come for the food plus something else.






I order their specialty -- the foie gras which, served with toasted spice bread, is heavenly.






Then razor clams with chanterelles, all in a spicy broth...






No room for dessert today. Besides, I have a macaron waiting for me...

I walk back to my street that leads up to the Odeon Theater.. The hotel is just ahead, to the left. The moon, half covered with a layer of misty cloud, shines ever so faintly over us tonight...

from St. Petersburg to Paris

A shorter post for you today. Much of my time is devoted to travel and our last days of the trip are moving ahead too quickly for a lengthy contemplation here.

A last morning in St. Petersburg. A breakfast that has settled into a routine...






... then a troubling packing hour (fitting largish and fragile items into a carry-on? What was I thinking!) and a sigh of relief as the suitcase manages to zip shut. I even have time for an hour-long walk before the cab picks us up for the airport.

Where to go? I'm feeling somewhat wistful -- there is so much I still hadn't seen! Should I fit in a museum? There are two completely empty ones around the corner -- one dedicated to the history of the Siege of Leningrad, the other to modern design. Or should I go back to the food halls and get a marzipan pickle for Ed?

No, I wont rush my last walk. I'll just take myself through the neighborhood...



(I passed her fruit stand every day)


... along the embankment that is now so familiar that I know every tilt and crack in the sidewalk (and there are many).



(you know the bridge, the cathedral, the Neva River...)


I veer into the Summer Garden. This is where Diane and I started our exploration of the city last Saturday. It's fitting that I should end with it now.

Oh, but how empty it feels on a weekday morning!






Only the regulars make it here now, enjoying the unusually beautiful weather. Regulars -- what do I know about regulars?! All I see are the patterns and I make guesses based on them. Well, let's end with those patterns and I'll let you do the guesses. Familiar themes now to all of us.
























One last look at the beautiful domes -- with the trolley lines to remind us that the city is home to many.






We leave this beautiful place and catch our flight for a three night stopover in Paris.

Paris. Dreamy, hazy Paris. It takes real Waldo talent to identify the Eiffel Tower as we fly over it (hint: look for the Montparnasse Tower to the left and work your eyes due right from it).






It's early evening by the time we're on the ground. I have a race with my friends who want to take a cab to town: I'll take the commuter train, you take your cab, we'll see who gets to the hotel first.

My train ride into the city feels summery. It's a warm set of days here -- I see that even now the thermometer is registering 31 degrees C (that's close to 90F). Moreover, even though it's Friday eve, there are no rush hour crowds. The city always feels less frenzied in August. So many people are away on vacation!

I alight at the Luxembourg Gardens.  I have my suitcase, I'm racing my friends, but it all doesn't matter -- I want my few minutes in this glorious park!






My travels here in the cold months make me long for that moment when the park is awash with flowers and chestnuts and all the trimmings of a summer evening.






So you could say I started my day in a park and ended it in one too. How fitting for me!






Now onto my familiar hotel and a familiar tiny room (and yes, I got to it first!)...






And now all we have left for the day is our evening meal. I opt for a neighborhood place that's a twelve minute walk from us -- L'Antre d'Eux (how would you translate that -- "our lair?" Something like that).






It's a tiny eatery, run energetically by a young couple -- the kind of place that you remember for the proprietors as much as for the food (both make you feel really good!).






My dining companions aren't hungry (silly them: who eats a bad tray of airplane food when you know you'll have a dinner in Paris!), but I make up for their weak appetites. We all have the eggs with chanterelles, then I go on to a chard gratin, finishing off with a strawberry verrine.












It is a beautiful evening in Paris -- perfect for outdoor dining. There is a hush in the air now -- partly because it's August, but, too, because we are in a quiet neighborhood.






Perhaps because I want that Parisian balance, I leave my friends after dinner and go on to walk through the Bucci neighborhood -- just a few blocks away. This is a place that reminds you that Paris really does not close down any time of the year. There are a number of restaurants and cafes packed into a couple of blocks (including this newbie!)...






... and they are always spilling out with people, especially in the evenings, whether it's winter (with heating lamps warming the patrons outside) or summer (no lamps needed! Air Conditioning? Eh! An American habit!).

When you travel to contrasting places, you have to make peace with yourself as you make abrupt changes from one to the other. In this familiar, crowded neighborhood I find my own peace.

I'm ready for Paris now.

The moon shines brightly...


 

Thursday in St. Petersburg

My friend and I had set aside this morning for shopping. Neither of us would have been disappointed if no buying resulted, but we have similar interests in things we might take home (small plates or items for the kitchen for us or for our daughters) and so our shopping compatibility levels are very high.

But first, there is the morning meal -- I'm looking at her as I come down in the glassed elevator.






Oatmeal!






Next, we go around the corner to the post office to buy stamps. Here's the sign -- it says "Russian Post." We go in. Nope. Not here. A few doors down. Okay. We try again a few doors down.





The post office turns out to be a quiet place. Just one woman behind the counter.  She regards us with some curiously and her Monalisa smile hovers, just at the surface. [It strikes me that I assume incorrectly that everyone knows we're American, because even when I ask a question in Russian, I get an answer in English whenever the person speaks our language. But of course, English is the universal "other" language here. When I'm asked -- where are you from, I see that the assumption simply is that I'm foreign.]



Errand accomplished. We head for Gostiny Dvor -- that "shopping mall" where I spied the countless shops of folk items -- arranged mostly by place of origin and type of item.

This time we pause at the ceramics from Uzbekistan. The vendor here is so shy, so unassuming! She speaks no English, but when we get stuck in our conversation, she calls for help from another vendor (who happens to be my very delightful seller of Matryoshka dolls). It is such an agreeable few minutes and I hope very much that she works on commission because both Diane and I buy little somethings and honestly, not many vendors have customers this morning.






And now we are back at the lacquered artifacts section. My preferred items are there, taunting me (I didn't buy them last time because of the demeanor of the sales clerk). And guess what? There is another seller by the cash register today and this one is quite delightful -- she reminds me of a strict teacher you're likely to have in school: the kind that you find out down the road has a stern facade and a heart of gold. We accomplish the purchases and leave quite pleased with the whole expedition.






I point us then to Kupetz Eliseevs (the food halls). The point is to just look at and admire, but after seeing the pastries, Diane suggests we sit down for a delectable break.






The cafe area is small -- it fans out in a circle -- but we find a spot...






And our attentive waiter hovers in a most helpful way. I try Russian again, but he wants to practice his English so I gladly switch. (His English is strong. He's a university student and his ambitions veer toward business.) He asks which states we're from and is visibly happy when Diane admits to being from Florida and I tell him I'm from Wisconsin. He's collecting states: so far he has served only customers from California and Washington. We enriched his coffer!

He does a splendid job, too, of pouring us glasses of Russian champagne.






I smile at that. When I was growing up in Poland, bubbly wine from the Soviet Union or Bulgaria was considered a lesser beverage, based not at all on the taste but on the country of origin. We admired the western stuff and though no one could afford it, we were convinced it had the taste of heaven. Our champagne now, at Eliseevs is quite inexpensive (you could not get a glass of anything in an American eatery for its price of $2) and quite good. Our pastries are impeccably decorated.

Diane and I are happy to sit back and talk (we are always quite happy to sit back and talk), but it is not to be. The seat to my right is suddenly occupied by a man our age (perhaps a tad older) and his (younger) guide. The man hears our English and boom! We're suddenly not a table of two, but a table of four.

He's a friendly, booming and not unpleasant American traveler and he hails from New York (I asked, but I didn't have to). Right away we learn what brings him to St Petersburg. His (young) wife is an Olympic figure skating coach -- she coached Sarah Hughes and I didn't have to ask to find this out, as he was very happy to share with us his (young) wife's accomplishments.  I do happen to follow Winter Olympics and I recall that Sarah Hughes won the gold in 2002. Our cafe companion and his wife come to St. Petersburg regularly to visit the counterpart (and now their friend here): the coach of the Russian skating women.
You know, the Russian coach was made an honorary citizen of St. Petersburg -- he tells us. Only thirty people have that honor. Putin is one of them! Well now, we are impressed, though come to think of it, I'm not sure how this honor trickles down to his wife or to him. Never mind. We find out about his accomplishments as well: he went to Law School with a future Supreme Court Justice. [To give him credit, he was quite pleasant to talk to and he listened attentively as we identified our own educational credentials which, to an extent, matched his. Minus the future Supreme Court classmate.]

Let's not leave by the wayside the equally affable tour guide that accompanied our guy (I suppose even accomplished Americans need help navigating Russia). He spoke perfect Polish! No, no, not from Poland. But his wife is from there and so he picked up her native language. He was delighted to learn that it is possible to travel from America to Russia because he thought it was perhaps too difficult for most. I have to think that the absence of Americans here is partly responsible for his views on this.

Diane and I leave and once again we follow different paths. She is joining her husband for their last bit of sightseeing and me, once again I want to walk. One last glance at Nevsky Prospect and the Anichkov Bridge, the one with the corner statues of men struggling with horses (think: people fighting the forces of nature)...






... and at a girl with braids, perhaps imagining herself in the photo opportunity created by some enterprising soul (you want to appear to be taming horses? Put your face here!)...






...and I turn in toward my neighborhood again. I'm aiming for the Hope Shop -- the place where I had first spotted the frocks, some of them sewn by aspiring designers right here in St. Petersburg. Might there be a Christmas present on the racks? I spend a while browsing and contemplating the possibilities and the very friendly clerks treat me to lots of lemonade and sweets, which I think is delightfully kind, though not very helpful to customers who may want to fit into their dresses' waistlines.






On the street again, I think how easily you can form themes in your head and how quickly images and street scenes begin to fit in with what you've identified early on. My themes are simple: dads caring for young children...






Girls with braids...






And I don't look for examples: they throw themselves at me! But again I think back to a time when friends of mine visited Poland. This was some thirty years back and unquestionably, a walk through Warsaw would have revealed a less than adequate commercial scene. My friends (well, they are no longer my friends, though I suppose for other reasons) showed pictures from their Warsaw visit upon their return tot he States. The photos included many from their theme: a broken down infrastructure. Benches with peeling paint. Leaning lamp posts. That kind of thing.  After they left, I burst out crying. Was it true that my country presented itself this way to others? That there was no joy to be had in visiting it?

Well, I've seen no jarring or sad themes in St. Petersburg. The city smiles her gentle smile and I respond in kind -- smiling at the fathers, smiling at the prettiness of braids.







Alright. I leave my various packages in the hotel (see photo above) and I turn again toward the islands. I had cut off Vasilyevski Island the other day. I have a handful of hours now. Let me return to it now.

I walk along the Neva embankment. Now here's a family that exudes joie de vivre! I think how utterly sweet the girls' caps are -- all decked with cherries -- but I refrain from asking where they purchased them. I am not that bold.






Another bridal party, in front of the typical wedding car here. Are they aiming for a shot with the Church on the Spilled Blood in the background?






If I had to make one generalization from this walk it would be that people like to hold hands. Lovers, friends, mothers and daughters -- all touching the heart of the other through this very simple gesture.






Meanwhile, on the Neva River, the boats are out full force.






Here's a grandma with her grandson watching the boats, telling him perhaps that someday he, too, can go out on a boat. And it strikes me how remarkably common this bond is between the helpful grandparent and the little one. These grandmas, they're all as thrilled with theirs as I am with my little Snowdrop. They hold their grandchild just as tightly, they show them cheepers or boats. The love, the dedication to this young life is just as powerful -- I do nothing that a grandma here doesn't do for her grandchild.






And now I am on Vasilyevsky Island. Had I time, I might have checked out various museums here, but I'm really more interested today in the street scene. The island has a very nice pedestrian street with a few cafes and restaurants and this is what pulls me in. On this warm day, people tend to linger outdoors and I come away thinking that the island is both young in attitude and simple in demeanor.












Oh, another grandma... Is she worried? Pensive? Tired? Content? I cannot tell.






The island is crisscrossed by trams. Polish cities are crisscrossed by trams as well. This tram car seems just that much older. I have a nostalgic moment as I recall the older ones of Warsaw. Ours now are plastered with ads and they seem sleek and efficient, though of course, they do the same thing: zip through the middle of the street and spit out people at the stops. (For all the warnings I've picked up about ruthless drivers in this city, I felt 100% confident crossing on white stripes. Without exception, cars stopped. Just like here, they stop behind the tram car, to let the people walk safely to the curb.)






Ah, but it's late again. I make my way to the metro -- it's the fastest way to get home. It's rush hour and I mostly ignore my camera. Mostly.  Tired me, tired moms, tired children. But the trains come promptly, the mass of humanity moves in an orderly fashion. I get to my destination efficiently and without issues.






I join my friends for dinner at the hotel. We have free drinks (offered to those who book directly at the hotel's website) and this would be the perfect time to have that shot of vodka. It goes well with Baltic herring and potatoes!






But at the last minute I change my mind. Russian bubbly seems more fitting. We're toasting our travels together, not slugging potent shots with the locals.

After, I offer to do a run to the Bize Bakery. A few marons in the room would be so heavenly.






As I walk back along the busy Liteyny Street, I really have to smile. The sun has set. People are walking home. (Honestly, I did not look for this. And yet, the last (or next to last) photo taken by me in the course of my stay here always happened to have a watermelon in it.)






I go to the top (just seventh) floor of the hotel to deliver the macarons to my friends. There is a window in the hallway, looking out toward the historic heart of the city.

The moon shines brightly over St. Petersburg tonight.