Final thoughts on France

As our train slowly sways its way out of Gare du Nord before picking up speed bound for Cologne, I can’t help but reflect on the past 10 days we’ve spent in France. Several impressions stand out in recent memory:

For me, the food is the best thing about France, bar none. Ah, the food. I’ve already covered my love for the street markets in a prior entry, but this affection also extends to so many other items as well. I think I could eat croissants for breakfast every morning for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy about it. Perhaps a pain au chocolat thrown in here and there for a little variety. And crepes…

I almost enjoy watching crepes being made more than I do eating them. Well, almost. The way these vendors know how to pour the perfect amount of batter onto the steaming greased griddle and use their little sandbox toy-contraption to spread it out, then wiggle a long flat spatula under the whole thing, fold it and flip it to the other side without tearing the delicate golden brown crepe… it’s half master skill, half art form. My go-to crepe is one spread with a layer of melting drippy Nutella, but I also had a delicious savory version that was stuffed with ham, cheese, olives and mushrooms. The crepe master managed to position the cheese so that as it melted, it oozed out the sides, turning all crunchy and brown on the grill. He then folded the whole thing a couple times like origami, and handed it over. I was in raptures nibbling the crusty cheese away to get to the actual crepe-wrapped goodness inside.

A short list of the best things I’ve had to eat while in France would have to include the salads I made with my street market produce purchases; the breads, pastries and preserves at a place called Le Pain Quotient during our first Paris breakfast with hubby’s mom, thyme-scented rotisserie chicken from a Parisian butcher shop, a chocolate macaron with ganache filling, Brie-smeared baguettes, and the steak dinner I prepared in our Aix hotel room kitchenette.

Second thing worth mentioning: I do a hell of a lot of walking here, without even thinking about it. Contrary to popular belief, some French women DO get fat, but they’re few and far between. With the amount of passive exercise they get, it’s not difficult to see why this is so.

Since neither hubby nor I like being cooped up in a cramped hotel room, we make a big effort to get out and about on foot as much as possible. I always come home from our European adventures with looser-fitting pants and, in the words of my dear hubby, feeling fit as a racing snake. I’m blessed to have good genes that keep me fairly thin to begin with, but I walk my ass off when we’re abroad. Literally. I keep intending to bring a pedometer with me on these trips to see just how much ground I’m covering, but never manage to remember to buy one beforehand. No joke, we walk for MILES, and that doesn’t even include stairclimbing. Take it from someone who struggles with a perpetually flat-as-a-pancake booty — my butt has never looked better than it does right now. I may just have hubby take a photo of it for me to post, I’m so proud.

Not to mention, my European travel diet consists of often spotty meal planning. For example, we might arrive at a hotel late and not get to eat a decent dinner. Or, say, we sleep in and miss breakfast. Whatever the case, I rarely eat three full meals a day here. I know I’m definitely burning off way more calories than I’m taking in, so I don’t feel bad about allowing myself an extra croissant, real cream in my coffee, or a big honking chunk of bleu cheese. Which is cool, because the French don’t do low-fat. Why would they when food tastes this good? The closest I’ve seen to diet anything is Coca Light (Diet Coke), but no one seems to order it.

On the far end of the continuum, many of the pale waifish teenagers and early twenty-somethings in France are impossibly skinny, seeming to exist solely on cigarettes and espresso. They look nearly vampirish. It’s unnatural. I want to rip the smokes out of their mouths, hold them down in the bright sunlight and forcefeed them creme fraiche.

Which brings me to my next point: smoking. Still compulsory in these parts. It’s a minor victory that smoking has been banned inside restaurants and cafes, but anywhere al fresco, it’s still fair game. Bummer, because the best part of the whole café experience is sitting at one of the outdoor tables, sipping your coffee and simply watching the world go by. A little hard to do when you’re worrying about your toddler inhaling loads of second-hand smoke from the oblivious mademoiselle sitting two feet away. And the second you step off a train or out of a hotel lobby, you’re walking straight into the heart of darkness that is the unofficial smoking section. I grew irritated with seeing young women galore pushing baby strollers around, butts aglow and hanging out of the corners of their mouths. Alas… let’s move on.

I wholeheartedly admit, fashion is not my forte. Just ask the two gal-pals who came to my home and staged a wardrobe intervention earlier this year, dismissing nearly half the items in my closet as “Spongebob Squareshirts” and “grannywear.” It’s no surprise that I feel like a fish out of water in France. Paris, especially. The younger French women wear some crazy-ass stuff that I wouldn’t even attempt to get away with (or want to) back home – think bubble skirts and leggings, or jean shorts with black tights and knee boots in the dead of winter. I saw one guy wearing a pair of pants that were slung so low in the middle, even M.C. Hammer would have passed on them. Honestly. It looked like he took a dump in them and forgot to change.

However, with age comes wisdom. Many of the more mature women dress impeccably. I can’t even recall any actual outfits, but they all just seem put together in a way that appears simultaneously effortless and tres chic at the same time. A jaunty scarf (I’m telling you, these women know more creative knots than a sailor), fabulous footwear, a classic bob haircut, a swipe of red lipstick… they know how to pull it all off.

Fashion isn’t restricted to humans here, either. I’ve seen some seriously pampered pooches out and about, dressed in sweaters, raincoats and hats that probably cost more than I spend on my own clothes. The French LOVE their dogs. I just wish they would do a better job of cleaning up after them. Everywhere you look — poop. You really have to watch your step closely, lest you wind up with a soleful. To make matters worse, the piles are all but camouflaged this time of year by the brown leaves on the ground. Taking a stroll down the street is like walking through a minefield.

I somehow managed to tread in a big smear and didn’t even know it until I got back to the hotel room and started wondering where that awful shit smell was coming from. After deducing that the toddler’s diaper wasn’t to blame, I realized the bottom of my boot was caked. Even trouncing through puddles and shuffling through the grass didn’t get rid of it. I ultimately managed to scrape the merde out of all the tiny grooves with a twig. Ugh. The very next day, the toddler and I were playing in the expanse of grass across from our hotel when some woman’s yappy furry friend came bounding over to us. As he/she/it enthusiastically jumped all over me, I saw that this dog had apparently stepped in its own mess and with each bounce, was now transferring it onto the tops of my only remaining pair of clean shoes.

I certainly can’t wrap up my summation of one of the most beautiful and vibrant countries in the world talking about crap, so I’ll change the subject to a happier theme. I have this theory that cities are like people, and you can have relationships with them just like you would other human beings. To that end, I’ll attempt a little word association game to describe my impressions of the places we’ve been and seen:

Paris = Majestic. Magical. Cultural. Stylish. Feast of the senses. Out of my league.

Aix en Provence = Graceful. Friendly. Fashionable. Laid-back. Intelligent.

Marseille = Scrappy. Persevering. History. Tough talking, but with a soft side. Surprising.

And with that, I bid France adieu and au revoir, looking forward the rest of the week in Germany.

Aix-rated

Day one in Provence and so far, so good! Much of yesterday was spent just getting here. We took a taxi to Charles de Gaulle to bid my mother-in-law a fond farewell before she caught a flight back to Ireland, then cabbed back into town to Gare du Lyon train station to await our carriage south. The weather, still rainy, took a turn for the colder and we had to really bundle up to ward off the chill.

Boarded our train due south and settled into our luxuriously large first-class seats (thanks, honey! I hereby defer all responsibility of booking train tickets to you from now on.) Soon, we were underway, looking forward to an uneventful three-hour express ride straight into Aix-en-Provence. Halfway there, the train came to a screeching halt and I feared our travel plans were going off the rails yet again. Turns out there was a problem with one of the exterior doors coming open, which required the attention of a mechanic before we could continue. Being stopped in the middle of nowhere meant the best solution was to travel backward to the closest train station. With our being on a busy track such as this, we had to just sit there and wait for the traffic to clear enough for us to make the return. So wait we did.

An older woman sitting in the seat across the aisle spent the entire trip wheezing and struggling for breath, making me question whether she really should have been traveling at all. I couldn’t determine whether the constant grunting, gasping and throat clearing was really a serious medical condition or just a nervous tic. This woman sounded like she REALLY needed some oxygen; I nearly leaned over and offered her the toddler’s inhaler at one point, the poor gal.

Finally, we backtracked, the problem was fixed and we went on our way. We arrived in Aix about an hour and a half later than anticipated, well after dark and starving. The next hiccup to be addressed — taxi after taxi refused to pick us up, the drivers taking one look at our collection of bags, stroller and baby and pleading not enough room in their cars. It was no problem for the cabbies in Paris, but here, our accoutrement was providing a problem. A kind soul eventually agreed to give us a lift to our hotel.

We’re staying in the Citadines, a hotel/apartment-type setup with locations throughout Europe. Our digs are basically a glorified dorm room – lino floor, a tiny kitchenette and a fold-out sofa. It’s not as bad as it sounds, though, we have a balcony overlooking some lovely mountainous scenery and the location is far enough outside the main drag to be fairly quiet, but only a 10-minute bus ride away from the center of town. There’s actually a full swimming pool under our balcony, but I can’t imagine anyone having the balls enough to face that chilly water this time of year.

By the time we got checked in, it was getting on to 8 p.m. and we hadn’t eaten since a lunchtime snack at the airport. Our rations for the little guy were running dangerously low and there aren’t any restaurants within quick walking distance, so hubby set off to find something to tide us over until morning as I stayed behind and unpacked. The toddler was NOT happy after falling asleep in the cab and then being unceremoniously woken up to unload. About 45 minutes later, hubby reappeared with pizzas and wine and we relaxed with slices of cheesy pepperoni, olive and mushroom pie and some delicious local red. After waging yet another nerve-jangling bedtime battle with the toddler, we all finally drifted off to sleep around 11:30 p.m.

This morning dawned bright and sunny, at long last! Whereas Milan made a scrappy first impression on me, I must say, Aix-en-Provence is proving impressive from the get-go. For starters, the climate here is fantastic. Hubby has spent a little time here before and described the area to me as vaguely northern California-ish. And he’s right – the mountainous scenery sort of calls to mind the California wine country region where we used to live. Of course, this is also a wine-producing area with the same kinds of indigenous vegetation. The sight of wild-growing rosemary and lavender brings a smile to my face.

Having no food in the room apart from the tuna-and-olive-topped pizza we didn’t touch cooling on the balcony, we hurried through our morning preparations and headed into town on foot as soon as we could after getting up. The section where we are staying is filled with nice-looking, well-kept apartment buildings sporting balconies filled with lovely plants, miniature bushes and trees.

After a short while, we came into the center of town. The city seems to radiate out from Le Rotunde, a roundabout distinguished with an impressive large fountain. Aix is known as the “City of Fountains;” to be fair, there are a lot of water features, but many are not all that. A trickle of water squirting up through a large bush does not a fountain make, but whatever.

Le Rotunde

The main thoroughfare is called Cours Mirabeau and shoots off directly from the rotunde — a large, mainly pedestrian street full of shops, banks and quaint restaurants. The whole joint is beautiful really, very clean and well maintained. The crowds aren’t too bad; then again, we are here during low season. The city population hovers around 125,000 normally, and it’s a university town. I can’t imagine how crazy busy it must be during the summer. Paris is hectic and churning all the time; in Provence, the pace of life seems a little slower and more forgiving. People actually stop their cars here to let us cross the street. In Paris, you have to hold onto your ass and run like hell.

We settled on a café right on the rotunde for breakfast/lunch — Nutella crepes, coffees and fruit salad. Slightly overpriced, but delicious. The gooey chocolately crepes were a huge hit with the toddler, as evidenced by the little brown fingerprints he left all over my cream-colored turtleneck. After fortifying ourselves, we took a stroll down the Cours Mirabeau checking things out. I’ve made contact with an English-speaking ex-pat group and found out they have a weekly coffee chat on Thursday mornings, so we sorted out the location — a beautiful tiny restaurant/café on a side street off the Cours Mirabeau. Also nearby, an English bookstore with a great vibe and hearty selection of tomes in my native tongue. Score!

Cours Mirabeau

The rest of the afternoon was spent stocking groceries for the room, first at Aldi and later at the charming market shops downtown. Trying to save a little money, we’ve decided to eat in the room when we can this week and I needed to prepare. For dinner tonight, I was in the mood for pasta and therefore, bought macaroni noodles and ingredients for a pseudo-ratatouille with salad and baguette. Unfortunately, the cooking equipment in the room leaves something to be desired… I tried to view the whole experience as a Top-Chef challenge, and after hubby finally figured out how to get the two-burner electric cooktop going, we were off and running. The finished product? Not one of my best efforts, but it was nice to dine Chez Nous as opposed to taking turns simultaneously subduing the toddler and trying to wolf down our dinners as we’ve been doing in restaurants for the past week.

Hubby is flying off to Wales tomorrow for a few days of professional networking at Rally Britain, so the toddler and I will be making our appearance at the first of two ex-pat coffee klatches tomorrow morning and hopefully gain some ideas for fun things to keep ourselves occupied. I’d love to get down to take a look at Marseilles while we’re here, maybe check out some of the countryside and taste some local wine, olive oil, what have you. A bientot!

Irish eyes are smiling

I’m sad and embarrassed to admit I’ve neglected my blog so much these past few months, but let’s get jumpstarted back into the entries with my current trip to Ireland!

Hubby is doing a bunch of business in Europe this summer, so instead of a series of trips back and forth over the pond, the toddler and I came along for an extended stay. We’ve settled into my mother-in-law’s house in Millstreet, County Cork as our home base for about six weeks. We’re currently halfway through the trip, and with all the side jaunts we’ve been doing to see various and sundry relatives, the time is flying by.

This is my sixth trip to Ireland, and the weather this time around by far blows away any other visit. Warm, sunny and barely a hint of rain in the past three weeks. Unbelievable for a country where you are likely to experience, as they say, four seasons in one day. I’ve packed horribly wrong by bringing jeans, long-sleeved shirts and even a sweater or two when I could have gotten away with shorts, sandals and sundresses. Who knew? Oddly enough, from what we can tell, Indianapolis has been plagued by terrible thunderstorms and tornado watches since we’ve been away. Talk about a role reversal…

Although Ireland is still full of the same gorgeous green ancient scenery as it has been in the six years I’ve been visiting, I do see some changes happening in my two most recent trips. First of all, the younger generation (and by younger, I mean mine) seems to be moving away from drinking tea into a coffee culture. Cafes and coffee shop/bakeries have been springing up like weeds, serving all manner of hot beverages including fancy flavored lattes. Starbucks hasn’t yet taken over; there was a location next door to the hotel where we stayed in Dublin, but it’s been the only one I’ve seen so far. Sadly, most of the coffee is mediocre at best. Lots of instant powdered, and lots of not-expertly prepared versions. Of course, hubby and I are coffee snobs, having sampled the really good java in France and Italy where baristas really know what they’re doing. Still, I imagine the quality of the Irish joe will only keep improving within the next few years to meet the growing demand.

Other big changes are taking place on the restaurant scene. In the past, dining out in Ireland has been a limited proposition. Menus were very abbreviated, most items automatically came with fries/chips, and everything was pretty expensive regardless of quality or quantity. For that reason, people here don’t seem to dine out very often. Add up the costs for two adults and a couple of kids and you’re likely to drop some serious cash on a dinner or a take-away. (That’s take-out for my fellow Americans.)

Thus, most of our meals have been eaten at home, lovingly prepared by my mother-in-law or one of hubby’s sisters, and they’ve been delicious. But I’m also happy to report I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the meals we’ve enjoyed out these past few weeks.

For example – hubby and I escaped for a date night dinner a couple weeks ago while staying with my sister-in-law in Bandon. Destination? A renovated gastropub called Poachers, renowned for its fish dishes. The place was fairly busy at 8 p.m. on the Tuesday night we were there; obviously, the local community is embracing the changes.

Poachers Inn, Bandon

The menu was nicely upscale, full of pretty fancy, borderline fussy stuff with elaborate garnishes and saucing. Hubby ordered a stuffed chicken breast served with ratatouille vegetables and mashed potatoes. I went for a three-course prix-fixe menu for 25 euros. My starter was a handful of small toasts topped with a whipped goat cheese mousse-like concoction, slivers of preserved lemon and thin slices of beet. A fresh herb salad with pickled cucumbers anchored the center of the plate. Yum.

My main course was two delectable crab-and-prawn cakes topped with a mango plum salsa relish, creamy mayonnaise tartar sauce and more salad. Not a potato in sight – crazy!!! For dessert, hubby and I shared my warm gingerbreadish sticky toffee pudding with a scoop of whipped cream and hearty drizzle of caramel sauce. All in all, a splendid meal. And even more impressive, our total bill (with a couple beers and two glasses of wine) hovered around $75 dollars, easily fair value for the amount and caliber of food.

Restaurant diversity is expanding, too. On an overnight in Dublin, I was thrilled to see all ilk of ethnic eateries. Even in little Millstreet, there is an Indian restaurant and a new pizza place I’d like to try. In Dublin, we ate dinner at a small, modern Italian ristorante near our hotel. Hubby ordered his tried-and-true standby – a pizza salami and I opted for a penne pasta with pesto and thick shavings of pungent parmesan. The food was solid and authentic, not the best I’ve ever had, but certainly tasty enough.

Breakfast the next morning was another story. Thanks to hubby’s fortuitous suggestion to follow an unexplored side street, we came across a tiny café advertising breakfast all day. Sold, and in we went. As I mentioned earlier, cafes are popping up a dime a dozen all around these parts, but this was a particularly good one. We nestled into a small table toward the back under skylights next to a small open-air patio and started browsing through a menu full of breakfast choices.

After much consideration, hubby and I settled on the same item – a super-freshly prepared huge croissant sandwich with cheese, salty slabs of Irish bacon and scrambled egg, served with a small ramekin of delicious Ballymaloe tomato relish (a sweetish, spicy, chunky ketchup). For the toddler, we ordered pancakes — which I keep forgetting are actually crepes here — with sliced banana and Nutella. We also couldn’t resist ordering a “Babychino” for him, a cup of sweet steamed milk with chocolate shavings on top, which our picky little boy soundly refused to drink, although he did polish off the crepes and Nutella without much coaxing.

Speaking of Ballymaloe, Ireland’s well-known culinary school empire, I have several gift vouchers that I’m hoping to make use of with a wonderful lunch or dinner, if not an overnight stay at the inn. More to come on that later…

Other meals that stand out thus far – a simple traditional roast chicken and boiled ham dinner from my mother-in-law. Rounded out with classic roasted potatoes and vegetables, it was Irish cooking at its best. Also memorable was a fresh cannelloni my brother-in-law whipped up, complete with handmade pasta and a savory ricotta/mascarpone/ground beef filling and topped with tomatoes. Oh. My. Goodness. It was melt-in-your-mouth fabulous.

Here’s to more good eats to come, and slainte!

Oh, de Cologne

Here I am in Germany! Hubby, son and I arrived bright and early this morning after the overnight trans-Atlantic flight. We went from Indy to Atlanta, then an almost 9-hour jaunt into Frankfurt, followed by an hour-long train ride to Cologne and a taxi to the hotel. The flight itself was made ultimately much more bearable by hubby working some voodoo magic on the gate attendant in Atlanta and somehow managing to get us upgraded to first-class seats. Which kicked ALL kinds of ass and set a good tone for the beginning of the trip.

Something you should know before I say any more – I am not a good air traveler. You’d think after living in L.A. for nearly two years and all the back and forths from there, not to mention 10, count ’em, 10 trips to Europe, I’d be well over any flying fears I might have harbored. Not so. If anything, my flying anxiety is just as intense now as it ever was. Once we actually get underway and in the air, I’m not too bad, but the anticipation of the trip in the days just prior leaves me frantically checking turbulenceforecast.com and making sure I’m stocked up on Dramamine.

I am sad to say that while the extra space and attention in first-class were HEAVENLY, especially considering we were traveling with a very busy and curious 18-month old, the food was wasted on me. I rarely eat on airplanes. I have a sneaking feeling that eating an airplane meal en route would not sit well on my already-nervous stomach. I can’t imagine hitting turbulence just after downing a nuked lasagna would really be a good idea. And I definitely do not want to be THAT girl.

Hubby is a frequent flier, to say the least. He may even hit diamond/platinum/master of the universe status this year when it comes to frequent flier miles on Northwest/Delta. He crosses oceans like he’s crossing the street. I have lately begun telling him he’s turned into a travel snob, but after getting the first-class treatment on such a long flight, I am shutting my mouth. No wonder he whines like a stuck pig anytime he doesn’t automatically get upgraded and has to sit in, sniff, coach.

Hubby has no problem eating while flying, and I must admit, the menu in first-class was tempting. But I refrained, content to observe hubby with his meal of choice. First course was spinach salad with feta, roasted pepper soup and a scoop of hummus covered in toasted pine nuts. For the main, he had a surf and turf deal with a filet, shrimp, risotto and sugar snap peas. Oh, and free Heineken. It all looked tasty enough, but when it comes to my tummy, I usually try to follow a better-safe-than-sorry mantra if there’s any doubt.

Once we landed in Frankfurt and my feet were back on solid ground, I was hungry. We hit a cafe in the airport where we fed the baby and I scarfed down some scrambled eggs with ham, fresh orange juice and some of my son’s strawberries. Nothing spectacular, but it certainly hit the spot at that moment.

Jet lag has taken its toll on all three of us today. Neither hubby nor I got much sleep on the plane in spite of our lux accommodations, as we took turns baby-wrangling and trying to shush our son anytime he roused, which was often. Have you ever seen footage of those guys who try to wrestle alligators and the alligators end up twisting and rolling about a thousand times a second to escape roping? That’s what it’s like trying to hold our son while he sleeps. He eventually dozed off soundly, thank God, but didn’t get nearly enough rest. By the time we caught the train, made it to our hotel in Cologne and took a quick walk out for some much-needed coffee and a croissant, the sleep-deprivation was really catching up with all of us. A nap was definitely in order.

Hubby spent a month in Cologne last fall, so he knows his way around pretty well. The baby and I were supposed to join him then, but one thing after another went wrong and we never made it. I’ve been to Cologne once before for a weekend when I came over to visit my then-boyfriend, now-hubby five years ago (he was living just outside Frankfurt at the time).

Cologne is an interesting place. The architecture is very old and Gothic, although the city was all but destroyed during the World Wars and much has been repaired. In stark contrast to the cobbled streets and the awe-inspiring Dom that dwarfs everything around it, the city is highly modern, a media capital full of state-of-the-art shopping and hopping nightlife. The city nestles along the Rhine River, providing a scenic viewpoint and a home for charming riverside hotels and restaurants. Cologne is about the same size as the Indianapolis metro area when it comes to population, and I believe is even paired with Indianapolis as a sister city. You’d never mistake the two in a million years, though.

the massive Cologne Dom (Cathedral)

Post-nap, the baby went into the stroller and out we went to get some air and get reacquainted with Cologne. It looked pretty much the same as I remember, and I was able to recognize some of the quaint streets, pubs and restaurants we’d been before, once upon a time. One particular establishment we decided to revisit was Papa Joe’s – a kitschy beer hall kind of place whose main claim to fame is two animatronic musicians, one playing an accordion and one playing some sort of small tuba. These two robotic creatures “play” upon their perch anytime a patron drops in a coin and makes a song selection, much like a jukebox. The figures are a big draw, but it’s vaguely creepy to see their eyes roll your way as they bang out polka classics.

When hubby and I stopped in this place five years ago, the smoking ban hadn’t yet been instituted and it was like a wall of smoke when you walked through the door. We somehow managed to stay for a drink and watched as a group of Japanese tourists entered, then quickly exited, coughing and gagging. Thank goodness, it’s now smoke-free, so we were able to bring our son in for the fun.

Tonight, a small group of rowdy beer-swilling men had taken over the bar, singing loudly along with the traditional German tunes the animatronic duo cranked out, glasses raised and waving proudly. Picture a German bar version of “Piano Man” and you sort of get the idea. And it isn’t just German songs either, there are even a few little ditties in the catalog that I recognize. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a bunch of drunk middle-aged German men belting out John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Road.” This amusement was followed up by a polka version of, I kid you not, “Billie Jean.” I could hardly believe my ears. It was good, clean fun, and we stayed for a glass of Gaffel Kolsch, the local quaff of choice. The waitress took a shine to Michael, even going so far as to snatch him up out of my arms and whisk him behind the bar for an up-close look at the robot musicians and a  few wafer cookies. He blew her a kiss on the way out; now I know we’ll have to go back.

More wandering built up our appetites and after being shut-out of a German pub/restaurant hubby wanted to go to (they were full, apparently), we ended up at a crepe place. These were not your ordinary crepes, though; they were more like large square hot pockets stuffed with a whole menu of tasty fillings. Hubby got one wrapped around a meaty tomato sauce, almost like a spaghetti Bolognese, without the spaghetti. It must have been good because he even tolerated a few specs of onion he spied in the filling. My crepe housed a medley of veggies heavy on the broccoli and onion, with cheese and tomato sauce holding it all together.

Full and tired, we managed to wind our way back to the hotel, where we are trying to prop our eyelids open for another hour or two before finally succumbing to jet lag and sleeping the sleep of the dead. I want to write more, but at the risk of becoming incoherent, I think I’ll save some for tomorrow.

Paris, part deux

Last night’s dinner came courtesy of a bistro right next door to Miss Manon (alas, I was remiss and forgot to note the name. Duh.) It was a dark, cozy little place. Really, all Parisian bistros are dark, cozy little places… Little being a key word. People here must not dine out with their kids very often. In fact, I haven’t seen any in the past few nights that I can recall. Hence the lack of stroller parking space. We wedged the baby in a tiny spot next to our table, the poor man behind us couldn’t have gotten out if he’d wanted to.

Fortunately, what the bistro lacked in space, it more than made up for in cuisine. Hubby proclaimed he wasn’t very hungry and ordered a tomato mozzarella salad, which turned out to be very generous in size. I was pretty famished and ordered half a roast chicken that came drenched in a delicious oniony jus. It also entailed a side of crispy and perfect pomme frites (that’s fries to you and me).  

Hubby did his best to balance baby-wrangling and eating dinner, and did a fairly good job. I’m sure he was ready to call it quits as soon as I finished, but I couldn’t resist dessert and requested a creme brulee. Hubby swears he doesn’t like sweets and could care less about creme brulee, but even he pronounced it tasty. It was an ideal version – a crunchy crust of burnt sugar that belied a deceptively light custard beneath. Even the baby got a taste, and quickly opened his mouth again as soon as he’d swallowed, anticipating more.

Hubby took off early this morning on an overnight business trip to Norway, leaving baby and I to fend for ourselves today. We slept in until 8:15, then made our way back to Miss Manon for a repeat of yesterday’s petit dejeuner. I figure, why mess with a good thing?

I braved a visit to the produce stand on the way back to the apartment, purchasing tomatoes, apples and some gorgeously ripe strawberries to round out the stash of baguette, cheese and yogurt back home. Lunch ended up being a bowlful of said berries and a small yogurt-ish hazelnut mousse hubby had stocked in the fridge from a previous shop.

The afternoon consisted of walking, walking, and more walking. Nearly two hours worth nonstop to be exact. I got a little lost on the way back, but knew I was headed in the right direction and eventually found my way back into familiar territory. Paris is really not that hard to find your way around. Sooner or later, you either run into the Seine, or come across a convenient arrow pointing you toward a major attraction. 

At dinner time, I ventured round the corner to see what I could find on the Place de Bastille, having gone only the other direction thus far. The first cross street I came to served up Cafe des Phares, looking busy and vibrant.

I snagged a perch just inside the door in the corner and was supremely proud I managed to handle the entire transaction in French (including asking if they had space to accommodate the stroller – right on!) The crowd at the outdoor tables looked fairly young, but at the table next to me, I eavesdropped on a sexy shaggy gray-haired man having some sort of business meeting with a quiet, polite Japanese man, conducted in English. Turns out shaggy is a pianist (I had gathered he was some sort of musician based on the conversation), a native of Denmark living in Paris, but moving soon to Los Angeles. The manager of the cafe also stopped by my table to flirt with the baby, and we ended up having a nice little chat about the American and European economies. God, I was grateful to have not one but two actual conversations with the locals that centered on something other than ordering food! 

Speaking of the food, my dinner at Cafe des Phares was a glass of red wine, a small complementary dish of black olives dusted with what appeared to be herbes de provence, two hot-off-the-grill crepes filled with ham and cheese, and a small mixed lettuce salad. All tasty and just the right amount of food.

No sooner had I placed my order than a suspicious odor wafted my way from the stroller. Baby has had a hard time adjusting to the French food or the French water or something. In any case, I realized he’d just shit himself for the fourth time today. Seeing as how I was there by myself and didn’t want to leave my belongings unattended, I had no idea where the restroom was or if it would even accommodate a diaper change, and I was starving, I was a bad mommy. I simply covered baby up with his blanket to muffle the smell and hope the nice gentlemen next to us wouldn’t notice. 

On the way back, I made a quick pit stop into the boulangerie for a treat. After roughly three total hours of walking today, I figure I’ve earned one, and I wanted to get a croissant for breakfast tomorrow. The selections were all tempting, but I finally chose a small chocolate tart that looked positively sinful. It was so rich, I could only eat half of it.  

People visit their local boulangers here pretty much daily to stock up on fresh bread and pastries. You’ll see folks of all ages and social status toting their baguettes under their arms throughout the day, readying for the next meal. And tonight, I was one of them!