When I held the torn piece of warm croissant between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, it turned to butter. Brilliant. There is a book called le Guide de Vin in our appartment in the 13th, so I've been brushing up on my knowledge of the world of french wines. Its daunting. The book is thick enough that I wouldn't be able to break if an old woman with a baby stroller darted unannounced in front of my car, assuming the book was wedged maliciously under the pedal. You can see through the pages, as if you were reading the bible secretly by candlelight. Actually, the bible comes to mind, complete with red mottled cover and the string page holder. My head is now full of romantic sounding wines, like Pouilly-Fuisse and Cotes du Roussillon Villages. Sorta makes me want to drink a lot of it. Mom and I are avoiding the crowds and lines of the Eiffel Tour, the Musee D'Orsay, Champs Elysee and the like, for stranger, more bizarre neighborhoods. We did find ourselves on the Pont Neuf between the impossibly micro-managing Alliance Francaise and the curly Louvre protecting its pointy pyramid, and I gotta tell you, those areas are touristy for a reason. Thousands of locks were clamped down on the chicken fence under the railings preventing curious dogs from fatal curiosity. Each lock had names of young lovers separated by the ever-promising heart, and the key, I assume, launched into the Seine. To hit the point home, there were lots, LOTS, of couples sucking face on the benches, sometimes so many crammed on to one point I kept expecting one young woman to caress the back of another mans neck. Here's mom.
Wow, how can I follow that? On a more pragmatic, motherly note, I'll report on the mundane fact that this morning we were UP and OUT of the apartment BEFORE 11 AM.........this is remarkable because yesterday morning we got up (well, Paige got up, finally) at 10:25. Yep. On vacation, or something. Of course, jet lag, 3 flights in one day and colds for both of us- all contributing factors. We have been covering neighborhoods previously unexplored by either of us and are enjoying the lack of crowds and the variety. Today we spent 90 minutes going through Chinatown (we are on the edge of it), returned for lunch, then out again to the right bank for a scripted tour of les passages. Our good friend Stephane ( who we will be dining with tomorrow night) introduced us to the this wonderful side of Paris about 11 years ago and we have been eager to return to them ever since. Quaint and picturesque- I don't know how the shops stay open as the prices are high, the items obscure and the serious buyers few. Still, we loved it.
And if Paige hasn't covered it as yet, we are staying in an apartment in the 13th...on the 18th floor of a complex that has a pool on the roof. Our place is fine: usable kitchen, bath with a SHOWER CURTAIN, balcony, washer (but no dryer.....???) and that ever popular, can-we-plug-this-into-the-search-engine item, a piano. A piano. Now mind you- the bedroom does not have a closet. None. And the best part of the piano that takes up more than it's fair share of the living area? You can't play it. Because as it so succinctly says in the handy renters book left for us to read and use--------if you play the piano, the police will come. Evidently our neighbors are NOT music lovers.
P- The large French woman who lives inside me head took over the diminutive Spanish gentleman ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. I couldn't even say Torres Del Paine without sounding like a Spanish one French student. Everyone seems to get me, everyone thinks I'm English (cause, you know, Americans don't speak another language), and since there is a new onslaught of foreigners in Paris, the odd accent here or there doesn't seem to throw even the Parisians, nowadays. I guess since the last time I spent any time in France was when I was living in the south in 2005, I was a bit sheltered to the facts of living in the big city, i.e. a smattering of skin tones, languages, greeting techniques, volume of voices, heights, overt friendliness/immediate disdain that I have grown to see as my people in the years I have been travelling. Trust me, I am NOT complaining. I don't remember the last time I saw some of these weird Asian dishes I loved and have since forgotten about. And the couscous. Oh my. I have decided that my little adventure for this time spent in Paris will be semi- dedicated to weird foods, specifically, weird meats. Oh, and the internship, I suppose. Unidentifiable body parts never did scare me, and I am now curious about those meats I see whose names don't even bother including the animal it originated from. In the deepest parts of the meat counter, you can't find a "beef" or "pork". We've jumped straight on over into "tripe", "head", "brains". I will keep you posted, vein by bloody vein. (Got a little Marquis on you, sorry.)
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