meanwhile, back at the farmette...

On the upside, it's pretty warm outside!

I start with this flash weather bulletin, because it really is a dismally gray and somber day out there. You can't help but think about it when you look out over the slightly shrouded brown terrain. A dense fog advisory is issued for later and I am so glad that it's not affecting my travels.

The trip yesterday was long but delightfully uneventful. Perhaps the most shocking thing for me was to be asked something by my American seatmate on the long flight over and to stumble in my response. It hadn't taken long for me to become unused to responding in English. I smiled to myself at the effortless way a conversation could proceed again. When speaking in French, there will always come a point where the person I'm talking to will assume that I know more than I do. When I say then -- sorry, I didn't understand that, I get that surprised look, as if the person wants to ask -- why not? I'm just speaking normal French, for God's sake. Yes but...

Still, I was a tired beast by evening, so much so that for the first time ever, I did not even open my suitcase (to see, for example, if there was any damage to the bottle of poppy petal syrup I lugged back). I fixed a light supper of cheeper eggs and quickly after, followed Isie the cat upstairs, leaving Ed to his computer work.


This morning, as I write out all that I have to do in the next week, I ask myself why I always choose to go away just before the holidays. Well, never mind. I put on good music and get to work.

And there is, of course, breakfast. Hi Ed, across the table again!






We go out to check up on the cheepers together. I want protection in case of an Oreo attack, but in fact, the attack never comes. In September, I had been gone three weeks. I came back to a raging rooster! This time, I was away only twelve days. I'm learning that a rooster's memory is good for twelve days!












Grocery shopping, errand running -- that takes up the better part of the daylight hours. One very pleasant errand is to take over some of the small purchased items to the expectant parents. I'm less than four weeks from becoming a grandmother. It feels very close!

(Yes, this is the place where I get to visit, too, with their very playful cats. Playful, but respectful of their beautiful Christmas tree, thank goodness!)











At home, the cheepers, noting that I am back at the farmhouse and remembering that I often give them treats just outside the farmhouse door, make the long trudge over and surprise me with their happy faces.






Inside, I put up our "tree" -- it takesonly five minutes!





And as I sit down to do some writing, I think for the millionth time how much I love being home and how strange it is that I really do have a burning urge to cross the ocean again and again. Even as these days and evenings at home fill me with such total peace and happiness.

In the evening I make broccoli veloute -- a smooth soup that tries to imitate one I had in France.







Within just these few hours, I'm fully immersed in my life back here,  but little bits of travel creep into the everyday. The best souvenirs are the ideas that I bring back home to try out here, in my own foggy corner of the world.

returning home

In the evening of my last day in Paris, I leave the warmth of my little apartment and head out to Pouic Pouic for dinner. It's only a five minute stroll, but I take a circuitous route, through the Bucci intersections where the cafes always, even in winter, spill out onto the streets, giving the impression of a canvas of the good life.





It never fails to make me smile. This neighborhood is on the young side (I think of thirties as being young) and the energy level is high.

And when I then walk into Pouic Pouic, there, too, the energy level is high.

It's a good way to end a trip. For me, the familiarity of it all counts. At the restaurant, I know the informal tables that sometimes rock just a tiny bit. I know the chef (Nicolas), with his pony tail just so -- here he is, working the small open  kitchen, training the next generation of cooks:






And the proprietors know me. I'm not a great guest -- I don't buy bottles of wine, I occupy a table with only one cover, but the French like familiarity too and so they make a point of greeting me as if I lived just around the corner rather than thousands of miles away. And this feels especially warm at the end of a trip when I've gone too long without friends or family or Ed.

They say -- Ah, here you are, always furiously writing something between courses! And with your camera! Yes, my date is my notebook, my friend is my camera.

The meal is excellent -- pumpkin soup, scallops, fruits and chocolate something or other. The price never varies. There are no surprises.

I leave happy.


I wake up an hour before my alarm goes off. I take care of some nonsense with online reservations -- that takes a good bit of time! -- and then I'm off, checking to make sure the apartment is in good shape, taking out the garbage to the bins in the back. (For my efforts here I get a huge reprimand from the building manager who comes out and reminds me (as if I knew) that you are not to throw garbage away before 8. Oops. It's only 6.)

The street is feel empty now, but only as compared to Paris at other times.






There is always traffic, there are always a few people rushing somewhere. Still, it feels quiet.

I walk by the Luxembourg Palace that abuts the Gardens...






...and then it's just a hop and a skip to the RER commuter rail, where I wait for my train to the airport.






Here's my last photo from Paris. Predictable. I am that.





In the air now. Over the ocean. Quite literally. Delta has received permission to put thingamajigies on top of the plane (that's how the flight attendant describes it to me) that allow it to pick up signals and give us WiFi in flight. I wont always splurge for this service (it's the price of a lunch in Paris), but I have nine hours worth of online work and so you get this post sent from way up high.

the last day

It seems to me that men in France (if employed) are a content lot. I'm not saying that women are not. I really am at a loss in making generalizations about women here. Yes, studies show that working moms are fairly content, or at least more content than working moms in the U.S., but overall, as a nation, France doesn't rank in the happiest top 10 (neither does the U.S. -- see last year's report here) and I'm guessing that the women here are pulling the numbers down.


Why do I assign a higher level of contentedness to French men? Obviously not based on scientific data. But do, please look around you when you're in France. The men here are socially connected. They have important things to say to their friends, to their colleagues, to the bar tender. And to the women in their lives.

Take this scene from breakfast: he told her stories with animation and passion the whole time I was at the cafe. She barely said a word. But she did nod and smile and give signs that she was listening and that she cared.





For better or worse (in my opinion - probably worse), women still do appear to want to please men. They want to look good for them, for instance. You can tell (and literature confirms this). Whereas I can't really recall the last time I dressed with care for Ed's benefit. Women I know back home like to look good for themselves and not necessarily for some guy's approving glance.

Add to the male plate of goodies a promise of a long vacation, a good meal at work and at home and things are looking fine, aren't they?

I have read though, that Parisians are overall more angst filled than their fellow country men and women. I am reminded of this each time I walk down the steps of my apartment building here, because I pass a flat that serves as a psychologist's consulting office. I suppose if I lived here year round, I could run down and knock on her door with my crisis du jour. I think living in Paris, some of the angst my rub off.


I am on my last full day in France. I'm posting now, before the day is done and will finish off my French blogging tomorrow, sometime in the course of my travels.

The morning has clouds, but they move fast and occasionally reveal a patch of sky.






I should be extravagant in my walking today, but I can tell I'm winding down because I mostly hover in the neighborhood. I go to breakfast, for example, to Les Editeurs -- an old favorite just a few blocks down -- where I eat too much bread products once again.






After, I walk. Rather randomly. Past the pastry shop. To the park. Out again.



(school girls, on the way to the park; young girls all have long hair, almost without exception)





(meringue and raspberry and rose petals, at my favorite pastry shop)





(an even more artistic creation at another shop)





(Luxembourg Gardens once more)





(high school girls jogging; she might be happier if she shed her scarf...)





(Luxembourg Palace -- now housing the Senate -- under a beautiful sky)


Up one street, down another. I'm still curious about what I see and this tells me I'm far from having my fill of this city. But my curiosity stays close to home.



(those chimneys!)





(still collecting leaves in December: will she grow up to be content?)





(is he content but anxious?)


I want a small lunch and so I enter a very very busy little bistro and tell myself that I can skip the dessert and just stick with two small appetizers. The plan fails completely as my little plate of herring turns out to be a big pot filled with herring and my salad with a warm cheese has indeed a whole melted Camembert on it. When did portions start being large in France?

I walk some more, resisting the urge to take a nap. Walking is a form of saying good bye to a city -- a city of content if somewhat anxious men and less anxious but maybe less content women.




(to be continued tomorrow, on the other side of the ocean)

Wednesday

It is a day without a plan. The only items that had forethought to it were dinner and breakfast. The rest evolved, responding in turn to changes in the weather and changes in my level of energy.

Breakfast -- on the late side. Ocean kept me up until 2. It was with great difficulty that I stretched my arm out of bed and picked up the laptop at 8 and I stuck to reading stuff on it until well after 9.

The clouds outside came back and though there's talk of later clearings, it's only talk. Still, I leave behind the umbrella.  I may live to regret this recklessness, but then, Paris invites a degree of recklessness: eat butter, walk alone at midnight, drink wine with lunch, ride a bike without helmet (not me, but everyone else), leave umbrella behind.

For breakfast, I step outside and note that there is what might be called a drizzle by some. On the other hand, people are funny: here, it is not unusual to see someone take her dog out for a walk in a bag.






I scoff at the umbrellas and walk over to the Rue Madame without one. To this cafe bar:






With a very serious, this morning, client base.






Well, except for me...






They serve Poilane bread here  (arguably Paris's best) and that's reason enough to order it for the morning meal: a tartine (which is a slice of baguette with heavenly butter slathered on top), some jam, and a coffee with milk. I worry that I'll regret passing on the croissant and so I order that as well.






Yes, piggish. What can I say. I left behind a little of each. Maybe they have cheepers out back who will appreciate it.

I then cut through the Luxembourg Gardens again.





And I buy the commuter rail ticket for Friday's ride to the airport at the Luxembourg Gardens RER stop. It's close enough in time for me to be thinking about it. And for me to fret:  I must fill these last days in Paris, I must! Alright, I'm motivated to walk to the Right Bank Marais neighborhood. I want to span the corners of Paris and not remain glued to the neighborhood that I inevitably call home.

I leave behind the area of the Sorbonne University... (These are surely Sorbonne types. I'm almost certain one of them is an American. Want to guess which one and why?)






Over the river. First thing I see is a guy toting his Christmas tree home without the bother of a car.






And this gentleman -- I think he is quintessentially a Marais neighborhood guy. It's always dangerous to stereotype, but in Paris, may I remind you, we live dangerously.






Step aside now! This woman's in a hurry!






And this gentleman is protectively moving his girlfriend out of harm's way:






And this one? Well, she smokes and she wears black. That pretty much makes her a French woman through and through.





Close to the Place des Vosges, there is the Credit Municipal de Paris -- a bank that offers small, low-interest loans against inexpensive valuables (it celebrated its 375 birthday a couple of years ago by forgiving the debt of its poorest customers, making headlines around the world for this gesture). I see that they have a small exhibition in its gallery rooms. You could say it's the French counterpart to yesterday's Garry Winogrand exhibit. Here, they're displaying the photos of Jean-Philippe Charbonnier and the title of the exposition is "An Eye on Paris." So of course, there's no one in the gallery. The French are all ogling Texas and LA and NY (the French faves in America!) over at the Jeu de Paume. Paris, through the lens of a French photographer? Yawn.

For me, it's gold! Not even silver -- pure gold. (In case you think that this is just the usual excessive enthusiasm I seem to reserve for this city, I want to remind you that I visited three photographic exhibits in Paris last March and remembered/liked none of them especially much.) 

To celebrate my successful day thus far, I again shop for my little granddaughter (the one that hasn't been born yet), prompting Ed to later mutter something about babies and grandmothers and the ridiculousness behind it all, but I can tell that he is not altogether being serious.

It's now nearly 2 in the afternoon and I just want to ride the metro back to my apartment and put my feet up. Too many hours of walking.

And I do ride the metro back.
















But my plan to pick up some quiche or sandwich at the bakery and take it home gets knocked down when I pass the Danton Cafe by the Odeon Metro stop. So many happy looking people inside! Wouldn't it be nice just to sit among among them and order, say, a croque-madame? (That's the French term for a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, with a fried egg on top. At the Danton Cafe, it's actually called a Croque Mademoiselle, which is the first time I've come across that sweet diminutive.)






I finish with a coffee.






This really is one of Paris's surefire hits for cafe food, for nimble waiters and for terrific people watching.






And by now the sun is trying to assert itself in wisps here and there, but I'm not fooled. There is rain in that sky (I tell myself) and I do not have an umbrella so wouldn't it be just fine to retreat to my little apartment on the 6th floor and rest? 





I walk home and finish the afternoon by working on my photos.

As for the evening? Read on only if you are interested in food. I know how terribly boring it is to post descriptions of what went into your gut. We do it far too often and readers rarely like it. Indeed, I consider myself to be in the upper percentiles of those interested in food and even I tend to skim blogs that detail every ingredient of a beautiful dinner.

But I'm going to make an exception here because some of you may go to Paris and you will wonder -- where oh where should I eat? And for the Left bankers among you, I'll say -- Pouic Pouic is my favorite and Le Procope is reliable and then there is this and then there is that... And I'll wave my hand and say -- listen, just go and have fun and don't fret too much if the beef happens to be too tough for your liking that night.

But after tonight, I may also say -- make a reservation at Terroir Parisiene. (It's very casual. Don't dress up.)

I have considered going to this (5th arrondissement) restaurant for a long time now, but I thought it to be a touch smug in the description: it attempts to use, when it can, Parisian ingredients. Like, cheese from this area. Mushrooms, spinach, pears too. Mustard made here. Honey. Cherries that grow just outside the city. The list is long. 

And I thought -- why is this important? Isn't it just the French bragging about how they can respect local in ways that no one else can?

But I read yet again quite recently how this restaurant is no joke. It's just damn good. So I reserved and I went and I have to say that a couple of the dishes there were over the top good. Over the top! 

I actually bought a bottle of something there.





I had the affable waiter drag it down from a storage shelf. It's a syrup made from the poppies that grow in the area. They used it to flavor an aperitif (kir), but I thought it may have a million uses and I never saw or tasted anything like it. (Step aside, granddaughter  -- I need to fit in a bottle of poppy syrup!)

And now we're accelerating the speed of time (or so it always seems to toward the end of a trip). I have one more day left on this side of the ocean. To use it well, I must go to sleep before midnight! I must! 





 

Tuesday

To paraphrase Adam Gopnik -- a writer who lived in Paris for a number of years -- it's the everyday that's so beautiful here. I so agree. The parks. The boulangeries. The cafes where people eat lunch or merely pick up a quick espresso. These are the pieces that make up a day in Paris and you could bypass all the art and ignore the architecture and you would still walk away satisfied.

But I didn't ignore the art or architecture today. I packed it in. The sun made me do it!


Morning

Just as predicted, Paris wakes up to a beautiful, sunlit day.



(St Sulpice, as seen outside my window)


That does put a bit of pressure though. I can tell you right now, I'm not going to waste the morning reading the NYTimes on line.

I'm thinking, too, that I need to free myself to go out at night for dinners. Too many evenings of eating bits and pieces of stuff at home. On the one hand, it saves money, but on the other hand, I'm missing Paris at night. So, dinner out tonight and henceforth.

But that has consequences. I can't hang in there on one croissant until the ungodly hour the French open up the kitchens for their night time meal.  Maybe it's time to have a quintessential lunch omelet to tide me over. I google where in heavens I can get an excellent, best ever omelet here.

You may find this to be a ridiculous exercise!  But it's not a given that this classic French dish should be good. I've had many that were not. At the same time, I do think that when it's good, the French omelet is the best of the best.

The initial search points me to expensive hotels. No. I wont do that. But I then find an interview with Ina Garten (do you know her? The Silver Palate cook book person). She appears to have an apartment in Paris (don't they all...) and she proclaims that an exquisite omelet can be had at Cafe de Flore, which, coincidentally is a block from where I am staying.

Working backwards, breakfast will have to be cheap. How about here -- standing,  at a brass bar along with the locals?






It's the Cafe Raspail, right next to the Tuesday farmers market on the Blvd Raspail. It's a fine market, an interesting market, but I think I've given you enough market photos to last a while. You don't need to see more chanterelle mushrooms and root vegetables. I read somewhere that Catherine Deneuve is a regular at this particular market, but I can only remember her face from the movie The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which dates back to1964. She's probably changed some. In any case, if she was there, I did not know it. I'll post, instead, a photo of this happy couple, going shopping together, hand in hand.






After, I allow myself another poke into the Luxembourg Gardens, from the southern end...





And then I take a peaceful little walk along the Rue Madame. I regard the street name as particularly lovely. It's the street of the Mrs. (I believe this particular mrs. was the wife of one of the Louis kings, but I'm not sure which one.)

I do encounter two animated madames.






And, too, I pass a preschool joined to an elementary school. So I pause to look at the posted lunches for the week. Here they are:






I wont translate the whole thing, but the ministry has proclaimed that today, for example ("Mardi"), children from age 3 through 10 shall eat: a salad of chopped endive for starters, along with chinese cabbage with an herbal vinaigrette, then they will proceed to roast veal with a puree of butternut squash (which shall be organic), this will be followed by two cheeses -- emmental and mimolette (the latter, btw, was banned by our FDA because of the way it is manufactured -- the rind depends on some mite activity and the FDA appears not to like that), and finally, there seems to be a choice of two desserts -- a flan, either chocolate, or vanilla with caramel sauce. This is the main meal of the day for French kids. Supper at home is a light and simple affair.

As I make my way home, I pass my beloved bakery. Which pastry do you think I picked for myself for tonight?






Ha, it's a trick question! None of the above! As I'll be eating out, I limit myself to a few choice macarons. Four, to be precise. Selected from this bunch:






Afternoon

Well now, how about my own lunch? At the Flore, I really have to stick to just the omelet. It's expensive enough.






And it is excellent. Thin, rolled, with fresh herbs. And I have a first row seat allowing me to admire the comings and goings of the waitstaff which here is 100% male. (This is not unusual: the higher you go in the price category, the fewer women you'll find in the kitchen and among the waitstaff, both here and in the States.)



(a bevy of waiters)





(my waiter)


Okay, but lunch is not the sole afternoon activity. Today, I want to visit the second (and last) museum exhibition on my "I absolutely want to do this" list. It's a bit of a walk, so follow along, taking in some of the street scenes.


















The exhibit is at the Jeu de Paume -- right at the corner of Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries Gardens. So I am on the Right Bank of Paris now.











And you may regard this exhibition as an odd choice. But I'll say it right up front: I loved it! If you're in Paris between now and February 8th, do not hesitate!

But here's the real oddity: the exhibit is of an American photographer (Garry Winogrand) who took photos of people in street scenes, all around the U.S. (Well, actually in select cities: New York and L.A., but deliberately not San Francisco. He explains, in a documentary I watched at the exhibit -- people in S.F. are too obsessed with being regarded as cultured. In NY, LA -- they go about their business and do their own thing, not worrying about how they may appear.)

One consequence of going to an exhibition of an American is that the audience will be entirely French. The museum was quite crowded and it surely was fascinating to listen to the comments by the French on the depictions of America in the the 60s and 70s.

There is so much that I want say about both the photographer and his work! But I do understand that I can't raise your enthusiasm with words alone and unfortunately, this was the more common exhibit where I am not allowed to use my camera inside the museum walls.

I do sneak one photo, feeling that I didn't dishonor the exhibition, as the photo does not include any of the displayed art. Here it is -- a group of school kids. Maybe 14 yrs old. Their leader asks questions on what's different about the period in the photographs (the 60s) and now.


 


The kids throw out possibilities (car models! more cigarettes! hair styles! no cell phones!) and those of us who lived through those times have to smile at the way we appear to kids, looking back.

After, I walk back to my Left Bank apartment just as the sun sets to the west of the Eiffel Tower.






Evening


It took a lot of self prodding, convincing and chastising to get myself out yet again in the evening. Too, I had picked a place to eat that is easily a 45 minute walk from where I'm staying. (Though it is a pretty walk.)






But I need to branch out beyond my neighborhood in terms of eating choices. So I select a place that has a reputation for being market driven and affordable. The food here (Au Bon Accueil) is very good. It's seems odd that it should be so -- the eatery is right at the toes of the Tour Eiffel -- but it's tucked away from full view and it clearly does care a lot about ingredients and preparation so I'm very glad to have made the effort.

I am way too tired to give you more detail. Nor do I think you need it. I'll leave you with just a couple of nighttime classics, from my walk back home. On a day to day basis, I don't really think of Paris as the "city of lights." In my quiet neighborhoods, nighttime comes and the street lamps are illuminated as they would be anywhere else -- enough to keep you safe. But along the Champs Elysees, at this holiday season, all hell breaks loose and Paris does, indeed, sparkle over and beyond what you would regard as reasonable or conventional. Here we go then -- Paris, city of lights: