We are honored and excited to announce that our blog is currently being featured on The Traveling Yeti, an online magazine devoted to art, photography, writing, and music.  This is the first time “Bringing Down the White Picket Fence” has ever been reviewed and we are truly grateful and appreciative of the amazing words used to describe us and our website.  You can also view a gorgeous sampling of some of Paul’s photos and follow a link to his very own photography blog!Header-rightjust

Follow the link below and give The Traveling Yeti some love!

http://www.thetravelingyeti.com/current/2013/1/22/breaking-down-the-white-picket-fence.html

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Six months ago we heaved our luggage, for the final time, down the narrow and steep spiral staircase of our temporary little home in the beautiful city of Paris.  We rolled our suitcases onto our little cobblestone side street, adjusted our backpacks, took one final glance at our favorite cafe, and began our journey home.

Here we are in January and I never really “finished Paris”.   During the last few days of our stay, I disappeared from blog land and was never heard from again.  I understand this makes me somewhat of an unreliable travel writer and I’m sure I won’t be hired by the Travel Channel anytime soon.  However, I feel my reasons are justified.  Simply I was devouring Paris.  Eating it up, one incredible morsel at a time.

After Paris, we returned home to NJ and traded our new European lifestyle for our real life.  No more croque monsieurs in the Tuileries on a lazy afternoon or multiple hours at a cafe sipping espresso.  Our strolls down busy city streets and through perfectly landscaped parks were now history.  Our plane landed, our busy teaching careers resumed, and our view of the world was forever changed.

Why?

Paris does that to people.

We eat less.  We walk more.  We bought an espresso machine.

We don’t speak loudly in restaurants and we are a little snobby when it comes to the quality of our bread.

Yes, life post Paris has been full of revelations…

Like getting over the “everything is better in NJ” complex…

I will admit a Jersey Girl cannot go long without some comforts of home.  Therefore, on the night we returned to America, my mother-in-law responsibly placed an Italian sub in our refrigerator so that it would be ready and waiting upon my arrival.  Of course, always thinking ahead when dealing with food, I arranged for this prior to leaving Paris.  It was all I could think about on the flight home.  I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into a Jersey sub.  I was salivating thinking about the familiar taste of bread soaked in oil and vinegar.  But something crazy and unexpected happened.  I ran into the house, unwrapped the sub, bit in, and wondered why the bread tasted stale.  It was hard and tough to chew.  Paul thought the same.  And then we realized it.  French bread ruined the Jersey sub roll for us.  My whole life I was under the impression that bread in NJ reigned supreme.

This is when I realized Paris is powerful stuff.  It can tone down a Jersey girl and all her views on Jersey bread.

Or the American “all-you-can-eat” attitude…

Every time I see the advertisements for the Endless Shrimp at Red Lobster I cringe.  When I was 15 or so, my friend Jessica and I drooled over those over-played shellacked shrimp commercials and one day treated ourselves to the most immense shrimp dinner you could ever imagine.  We had shrimp fried, grilled, stuffed, skewered, you name it.  It was intense and like they promised, endless.  I remember staggering out of the place feeling bloated, nauseous, and downright disgusting. I believe I woke up the next morning with a shrimp hangover.  I’m surprised I can even look at shellfish today and no, I haven’t been to Red Lobster since.

In Paris, endless is ridiculous (unless you are referring to wine or cheese).  Portion sizes in France are much smaller than in America.  Order a single plate of food here and you could probably feed a family of five.  Order the same plate of food in France and you’ll feed yourself.  No doggy bag necessary.

In Paris, Paul and I ate good food in small quantities and never ever felt deprived or hungry.  When you do this for a month, your taste buds adjust, your stomach shrinks, and your eyes are no longer bigger than your appetite.  You start to actually taste food.  It is more flavorful and definitely more satisfying.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not “forgetting where I came from” or claiming that Paris is perfect.  I’m just saying Paris changed me.  It changed us.

If you only stay in one place and surround yourself with the same things, you’ll never see beyond your own village.  But if you venture outside your comfort zone and give it a go at living across an ocean, in a land totally different from your own, you see outside yourself.  You realize your way isn’t always the best way or the only way.

Until we meet again Paris.  For now, you’ll always live in me.  In us…

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast”-Ernest Hemingway

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Our Moms are in Paris and we’ve been so busy showing them the city that I’ve neglected to blog.  We’ve had them on bicycles and boats, to cafes and museums, on the sidelines of the Tour de France, and even for their first falafel!  I wish we had toted the camera along for that street dining experience!  We’ve walked and walked in the blazing sun and heat (they kindly brought it with them all the way from Jersey) and we’ve even been to the Paris Plages (the make-shift beach along the Seine).  We’ve had lots of fun, so much that I’m still unable to find the time to sit in front of the computer and write.

So, in between sipping espresso and shoveling down onion soup, croque monsieur’s, and cassoulet, we are basking in Paris.  This is just a glimpse of our mother’s Paris experience through Paul’s lens…

Provence…sigh…

Blame my lack of blogging on the South of France. We just returned to Paris from our little “vacation on vacation”, a luxurious retreat to Saint Remy de Provence. Two years of marriage equals two sweet and delicious days of celebration in French paradise. Our only regret is we didn’t stay a week.

I suggest if you are planning to walk down the aisle and say “I do” anytime soon, you dance your way right out the door of that reception hall and board a plane straight to Saint Remy. Book a room at Le Vallon de Valrugues Hotel and Spa www.vallondevalrugues.com, put your feet up by the pool, eat at the hotel as much as you can afford, stroll into town in the evenings, and try your best not to indulge and buy a villa on a whim. It will be very tempting, but totally illogical and unreasonable, and somewhat irresponsible.

Even if you aren’t getting married, or if you already are, go to Saint Remy with whoever you love and just enjoy every single minute. Its pure, small town, French perfection. I promise.

I’ll admit, Le Vallon de Valrugues Hotel and Spa spoiled us. Okay, they more than spoiled us. We booked the lowest priced room we could find for our two-day escape and they surprised us with an upgrade to the Van Gogh suite, complete with a private terrace and our very own swimming pool.

One minute we were checking in and our room wasn’t ready yet, and the next we were on our way to the luxury suite, their very best room in the hotel. We must have walked laps around the place with our jaws to the floor in complete astonishment. “Really? Are you sure? I mean, we booked the comfort basic economy room.” If the swimming pool, the terrace, and the gargantuan bed weren’t enough, the price tag on the door certainly made us blink, quite a few times. $1500 a night! ‘Holy cow, I hope this was a free upgrade’, is all we could think.

The room was a gift from the hotel in celebration of our two years of marriage. It was unbelievably generous and completely unexpected. In fact, we tried to picture ourselves staying in a basic room and sharing the pool with the other guests, like we had planned, and we both were sure we’d love the experience either way.

Le Vallon de Valrugues is home to a Michelin star restaurant run by chef Marc Passorio. There is one restaurant and two menus: the bistro and the gastronomic menu. During the summer months the restaurant is set up on a beautiful L-shaped terrace, so picturesque it almost doesn’t seem real. White table clothes, huge patio umbrellas, and beautiful green trees make this a perfect place to relax and enjoy a glass of local Rose while feasting on flavorful and well-presented Provencal cuisine.

This is the tree that I will use for my first children’s book…when I write it.

We ate at Marc Passorio’s restaurant twice, once for lunch and once for dinner. For lunch we chose the bistro menu, a less expensive and delicious option for a midday meal. For starters Paul chose the sample of Provencal tomatoes, a rainbow of symmetrically aligned slices of tomatoes drizzled with olive oil. With Provence being so close to Italy, I couldn’t help but steal a few slices of sweetness. I started with anchoiade, an anchovy and garlic dip served with crisp vegetables. I’ll be honest. I had no idea what anchoiade was when I ordered it, but I gathered it may have something to do with anchovies. Turns out anchoiade is a specialty of Provence and, if I could compare it to anything, I would say its a lot like hummus. Fishy hummus. It was actually quite lovely.

For our main dishes, Paul had a steak with roasted shallots and I had a penne pasta with smoked salmon, basil, and olives. My dish was good, but Paul’s was fabulous. This is the second time he’s ordered a steak that I couldn’t stop drooling over. I ate one of the shallots whole and it too was bursting with flavor.

Needless to say, we didn’t eat dinner the day of this massive lunch. We were beyond full and spent the rest of our day rubbing our bellies by our pool. In the evening we took a peaceful and quite walk down to town. We wound our way through the tiny streets and alleys observing the travelers and locals feasting at the cafes and lingering over ice cream cones. Between the warm breeze and the bluest of blue skies, Saint Remy felt like a slice of heaven here on Earth.

Our second meal at Marc Passorio’s restaurant was a special treat from my husband, a meal I will talk about for the rest of my life. In honor of our two years of marriage, we did something we’ve never done, something downright outrageous, but totally worth every bite. Paul treated us to the “Chef’s Tasting Menu with Wine Pairing”, an eight course masterpiece with wines to match. It was one of those things you just have to do once in your life if you can.

Each course came out like a work of art. The portions were small and delicate, but incredibly abundant in flavor. In fact, by the end of the meal we couldn’t believe how full we were. Eight courses of small bites are very deceiving. It is impossible to leave hungry.

I wish I could have gotten a copy of the menu to keep because I’m sure I’ll mess up the names of some of the dishes. Since the menu changes “according to the market and the inspiration of the chef”, I can’t even find it on their website. Here I’ve listed six of the eight courses:

-quail eggs with caviar in a cucumber jelly

-lobster served three ways-carpaccio, a small piece of tail, and a spring roll

-langostine served in the shell with butter sauce

-squab (pigeon) with a glass of mashed potatoes

-local cheeses from the region

Now I know some of you are wondering, “Really, quail eggs and pigeon?”. To be honest, those two dishes were two of our favorite out of the eight. In fact, we couldn’t decide which one we liked more out of the two. This coming from two people who rarely touch meat at home. Go figure.

The husband certainly outdid himself with this one, but, to be honest, the fancy meals, the private swimming pool, and the luxury suite, are nothing compared to the sweetness of being married to Paul. I feel so lucky to call this man mine.

So, after a beautiful ride through the luscious French countryside, here we are again in Paris. Yesterday, we did “falafel-take 2” at the place across the street, Mi Va Mi. We had a much better experience as the falafel guys were 100 times more pleasant and appreciative of our business. The falafel is even better than the place across the way. The added house piquant sauce is just the right touch of spice to an already delicious array of flavors.

We also visited an exhibit devoted to the children of Paris during the Holocaust. It was quite an eye-opening exposition and another sad portrayal of the horrid acts that occurred during this terrible time in history. Since the exhibit was narrated completely in French, we both had a difficult time translating some of the artifacts, however, the photos needed no interpretation. They were heart wrenching.

Last night we walked down the Champs Elysees and Paul caught some beautiful photos of the city lights. While Saint Remy was a peaceful escape from the hustle of the city, there is nothing quite like Paris…

Paradise in Provence

If you are wondering why I’m not blogging, this is the reason…

Le Vallon de Valrugues and Spa hooked us up with a surprise “Happy 2 Year Anniversary” upgrade, complete with a private terrace and our very own swimming pool.  Yes, you read that correctly, our very own swimming pool.  I’m still pinching myself in disbelief…

Saint Remy de Provence is just a little slice of heaven here on Earth…

www.vallondevalrugues.com/

Find joy in the blunders, find joy in the blunders…

Paris is dreamy with its dazzling tower, glistening lights, decadent food, and cozy cafes. Even the rain is romantic. Yet let’s be real. Paris isn’t perfect and neither are we. Here’s one of many posts devoted to our blunders, our mishaps, our unusual observations, and our causes for concern…all of which have added just a touch of spice to an already amazing story…

Paul likes to say that I’m the paranoid one. I’m a constant worrier, I’ll admit. Yet the night he thought he ordered a $2,000 or $200 bottle of wine (he wasn’t sure which) to go along with a simple dinner of French onion soup and cassoulet, I think we both had plausible reason for concern. The waiter’s reaction to our choice from the wine list was one of, say, shock, followed by a simple, “that’s a very good wine”. Paul sweated it out for a few moments, conveying to me that he was a little confused by the price on the menu. Commas are used in place of decimal points here and the wine he ordered said 20.00, not 20,00. 20,00 means 20 Euros. But 20.00…what in the world does that mean? Let me also add that Paul didn’t share this with me until I was already halfway through my first glass. We spent several minutes discussing how we were going to live with ourselves if we needed to charge a $2,000 bottle of wine, even comforting ourselves by reasoning that $200, while expensive, was at least better than $2,000. And when I just couldn’t take the anxiety anymore, we asked the waiter for the wine list again so we could double check the price. No, it didn’t change. It still said 20.00. So then we asked, feeling rather foolish, what 20.00 is equal to. Larry, our kind and rather patient French waiter laughed and said, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before. The person who typed the menu obviously had too much to drink. That should be a comma…”

Find joy in the blunders, find joy in the blunders, and breathe…

I got “tailgated” on the subway today. I’m not subway savvy by any means, but I’m keenly aware of my surroundings and ready to defend my purse at any cost. Today though, while putting my little ticket into the slot in the turnstile, I was pushed along rather quickly and strategically by a young, well-dressed, and attractive young woman. Concerned by her close proximity to my back and my purse, I immediately turned on her while she smiled and nodded and, without any merci beaucoup, got a free ride on my dime! I’ll be honest. I still feel violated…

Find joy in the blunders, but learn a few lessons along the way.

For months now I’ve been scouring popular Paris food blogs, acquiring names of cafes and restaurants that will give me that real Parisian experience. One of the foods repeatedly popping up on my screen was the must-try falafel scene in the Marais district. Falafel is not French, but its wildly popular here, especially in Paris. Of course, I couldn’t pass up the irresistible photos of round chickpea fritters smothered in cabbage, eggplant, and sauces and wrapped in a fluffy pita. So today we scoped out the popular L’As Du Fallafel hole-in-the wall so we could stand in line, wait our turn, and taste what all the fuss is about. Unfortunately though we were attacked as soon as we approached the line. An older man brought us to the front of the line, asked if we wanted two falafels, and demanded 11 Euros. When we expressed concern for cutting everyone in line, he began yelling at us. Paul immediately grew suspicious. Who was this guy demanding our money? Was he really from the falafel place? Did they really cost 11 Euros? Why were we getting served first? In a matter of seconds we were ushered into the restaurant while everyone else waited in line at a window. Paul handed over the 20 Euros, falafels were shoved across the counter at us, and we carefully ate the messy goodness on the side of the street, all the while observing the long line of salivating customers and shaking our heads in disgust. Much later, we realized we only received 7 Euros in change. They short changed us! While their falafel was incredibly tasty, I am disgusted by the way we were treated. I also made a point to search them out on Yelp and found we aren’t the only ones they’ve had the opportunity to abuse. In fact, they seem to love preying on the tourists. They’ve got a whole line of them to choose from.

Find joy in the blunders and go to the falafel place directly across the street. Smile and wave!

Just a couple of important Monop notes…(that would be our local grocery store)…

The “Gourmet Monop” pasta sauce is portioned for one serving of a small bowl of pasta. If you are thinking about coating more than a few noodles with one jar of this “gourmet” sauce, you better think again or, at least be prepared to buy at least 5 jars.

Don’t try to be cute with the cashiers. They don’t think you are the least bit funny, especially when your French is horrid.

And most importantly, super absorbent paper towels disguise themselves as toilet paper. Read carefully and bring a translation book…

P.S. The photo at the top of this post is the actual road where Midnight in Paris was filmed. This is where Owen Wilson gets picked up in the old car each night. Paul took my picture on the steps that Rachel McAdams sits on in the movie. A nice idea but she’s gorgeous and I was just a rain soaked frizzy mess.

That’s one blunder I happily deleted…

I apologize for not updating the blog in the last few days.  I’ve got several good reasons for not being able to write:

1.  While living it up like a Parisian, I was in the midst of selling and closing on my aunt’s house in NJ.  This is a house I inherited two years ago and have been trying to sell, rather unsuccessfully, ever since.  Of course, all the important stuff happens while I’m in a foreign country without a cell phone, printer, fax machine, telegraph, etc.

2.  We went to Lyon.  We ate too much Lyonnaise cuisine.  We took too many naps.  The hotel’s Internet connection logged us out in intervals of five minutes, sometimes 10 if we were lucky.

3.  I blew a fuse in the hotel room by turning on a light.  Not sure if it was our fault or not.  We felt it best we not charge anything else for the rest of our stay.  It is best not to mess with European electricity.

I’d like to start this post off by thanking our loyal readers as well as all of our new readers for becoming fans of our posts and for subscribing to our blog!  We love getting notifications of new followers and we are happy to share our travel experiences and Paul’s photography with people around the world.  Thanks to our family and friends for keeping up with us and our daily adventures.  Your comments are much appreciated.  We are always very excited to get your little notes!

The last few days have been hectic, but well worth the chaos.  I have always told Paul that one day we will look back on the long and frustrating process of selling my aunt’s house and, with time, fate will present us with a clear reason for having to endure such an emotional and financial nightmare.  There is one thing I’m absolutely sure of: my aunt didn’t mean for it to go like this.  I will never blame her for this turmoil.  You don’t leave somebody everything you ever owned with negative intentions.  It just didn’t go as planned. Life rarely does.

Yesterday while sitting under the awning at our favorite cafe, enjoying a crock of French onion soup, and watching the Parisians rush by in the rain, my husband said it best: “I know you were scared and frustrated and, at times you didn’t want to deal with it anymore, but you handled it well, especially when you weren’t quite sure what to do.”  Simply, it was all I needed to hear.

While there hasn’t been enough time for me to figure out the huge life lesson in all of this, I did get a few lessons on printing and faxing from a French Internet cafe.  Closing on a house from across the ocean could prove to be a difficult task, however, thanks to the Milk Les Halles Internet cafe just down the street and around the corner, we were able to print and fax rather easily.  While it does take a little longer for a fax to get from here to there, the staff at Milk were extremely good to us.  We were extra grateful for their ability to speak English as office terms are not yet part of our limited French vocabulary.

Surprisingly we only had to make two fax trips and, after several phone calls (Google voice is a Godsend) and emails, we were able to remind ourselves, we indeed, were still in Paris.  In an effort to escape from our business matters, we went ahead and did something rather touristy, but relaxing.  We went on a boat tour on the Seine!  We picked up the Bateaux Parisiens at the dock by Notre Dame, sat back, and took it all in.  It was lovely and just the escape that we needed.

On Tuesday we packed a little suitcase and our backpacks and boarded a high speed train to  the city of Lyon, a two hour ride south of Paris.

We found Lyon to be quite adorable and enjoyed strolling down the cobblestone streets past the shops and crowded cafes.

Of course, our major reason for checking out Lyon was in large part due to its reputation for having the best food in France.  Traditional Lyonnaise food is served in plentiful portions in small restaurants called bouchons.  Characteristically you can spot a bouchon by the classic red and white checkered table cloths, the intimate setting, and the abundance of people and conversation.

Our first bouchon experience was perfect, but before I give you all the details, I must fill you in on our arrival to Lyon.  There are two train stations in Lyon: Part Dieu and Perrache.  By train, you can travel between stations in about ten minutes.  We bought tickets from Paris to Part Dieu and then realized, shortly after, that our hotel was located in closer proximity to the Perrache station.  Not a big deal, we’d just take a taxi to the hotel.  Upon arrival to Part Dieu we exited the train, entered the station, and followed the taxi signs.  I’m not quite sure what we walked into, but it wasn’t a taxi stand.  When we reached the outside of the train station there were firefighters and spectators huddled together heads tilted to the sky while high above them were people sitting on the roof of a very tall building with their legs dangling over and a huge white banner of French words stretched beneath their feet.  I’m not sure what was being protested, but it was eerily quiet.  I sure hope the cause was worth the risk of possibly plummeting from a rooftop…

We did eventually find a taxi on the other side of the station and spent a good 14 Euros for a ride to the other train station.  Yes, had we stayed on the train we were on for ten more minutes, we would have arrived at the Perrache station and our hotel.  They shared the same parking lot!  In fact, you couldn’t get from our hotel to the city streets without walking through the station.  We found this to be of rather odd design.

I went to Lyon with a list of famous bouchons to choose from.  Of course I couldn’t eat at them all and, as it turns out, we didn’t eat at any of the ones on my list.  After settling into our hotel, we took off in exploration of food and came across a small and busy bouchon with tables of green and white checkered tablecloths.  Although we looked at the menu and could not decipher much, my eye caught the food on the table of a couple sitting outside.  I wasn’t sure what they were eating, but I decided I wanted what they were having.  Since there was an empty table right next to them, it was an easy decision.  My first bouchon meal was to come from Chabert and Fils.  The food was flavorful and filling and we both enjoyed it immensely, maybe even a little too much.  We shared a generously filled pot of beef in a Provencale sauce served with a platter of fluffy couscous.  It came highly recommended from the couple next to us!  The food turned out to be just half of the experience as we enjoyed every minute of conversing with our neighbors, a husband and wife from Connecticut.  They were celebrating the wife’s retirement from teaching by taking a Viking River Cruise through France. While we wanted to hear all about their river cruise, they wanted to know all about our month in Paris.  I think we may have inspired them to rent an apartment and spend a little more time here.

You can only eat one bouchon meal a day.  It is all you need.  It could keep you full for several days.  We said goodbye to our new friends, returned to our hotel and, without much hesitation, collapsed into a deep and lengthy nap.

Later in the day we ventured out again, well rested, but still unable to even bear the thought of food.  This time we found the area of Old Lyon, an adorable section of narrow cobblestone streets and busy bouchons situated at the bottom of a very big hill.

We returned to Old Lyon the next morning, bought tickets for the funicular, and rode to the top of the hill to see the church.  It was enormous and beautiful, but the best part was behind it where you could look out over the city of Lyon.  A grand view of a lovely city.

After our ride back down the hill, we visited the Musee Miniature et Cinema, a fascinating museum devoted to the cinema and tiny scenes.  You just have to go to the website to see what I mean: http://www.mimlyon.com/  Wind your way from the cellar to the top floors of this house turned museum filled with items from real movie sets, including miniature models used in special effects.  It was truly one of the coolest museums I’ve ever been to.

For our big dinner in Lyon we ate at Brasserie Francotte, a small restaurant situated just adjacent to the Celestins Theater of Lyon.  We just happened to run into this restaurant while walking through Lyon earlier in the day and since the menu looked good and the outside terrace looked comfortable, we decided to give it a try.  Although it wasn’t a bouchon, the food was well presented and flavorful.  I was envious over Paul’s choice.  The  steak he ordered was probably the tastiest I’ve ever had in my life!  It was perfectly encased within a dome of salty bread.  The bread was so salty that it was almost impossible to eat, but we think its purpose was to flavor the meat during the cooking process.  Don’t quote us on that, we aren’t 100% sure, but we think it is a good theory.  My salmon was also very good, but did not measure up to the steak by any means.  For once, Paul got the glory of choosing something that tasted better than my selection and, for the first time, I experienced food envy instead of him.

So what’s the verdict on Lyon?  We think we spent just the right amount of time there.  We loved how quiet it would get at night and, at times, found it difficult to believe we were still in a city.  The food was intense and although we probably didn’t get to experience even half of the delicacies of Lyonnaise cuisine, what we did taste was exceptional.

Our hotel was nothing spectacular, but it was clean and served its purpose.  We weren’t too crazy about our dark and tiny room, but we loved the downstairs lobby and bar area.  Unfortunately, over the two days, we did spend an absurd 72 Euros total on the continental breakfast, which, as it turned out, was NOT included in the price of our stay.  Quite a hefty bill for a cup of coffee, a baguette, and a few slices of ham and cheese don’t you think?  We won’t complain too much though since we did have this view from the window of our room…

The train ride from Paris to Lyon and back is quite remarkable and a great way to see the French countryside.  The weather was sunny and warm in Lyon, but, of course, rainy and dismal in Paris upon our return.  We finally broke down and bought an umbrella.  I’m a little bummed at how boring our umbrella is compared to everyone else’s and I’m on a mission to find that black and white ruffled polka dot one for myself.

I’ve still got lots to tell so this will be one of two posts for today.  Tomorrow is La Fete Nationale, otherwise known as Bastille Day in English speaking countries.  Aside from tomorrow’s schedule of fireworks at the Eiffel Tower and the parade down the Champs Elysee, the Bal des Pompiers (Fireman’s Ball) starts tonight, with fire houses opening their doors to the public for a lot of rowdy partying.  Sounds familiar doesn’t it Belmar?

For about a week now we’ve been fretting over this sign posted on the door of our building.  My interpretation went a little something like this: we are coming into your apartment on July 13th, so unlock your doors, lock up your dogs, and show us your washing machine.  Just in case my translation wasn’t correct, we emailed a photo of the sign to the owner of our apartment.  He replied with a phone call and a thank you for reminding him.

Simply, we survived our first meter reading…

Le Meme Chose

So here I was worried about packing enough shoes and, as it turns out, I should have been more concerned about packing appropriately for the weather. Today’s high temperature was a blustery 65 degrees with tonight’s low predicted to be about 57! Turns out my feet are just fine. I’ve just got a serious on and off case of the goosebumps.

I know, I know, take my story walking right? I’m sure you all find these temperatures to be rather refreshing considering it is so crispy at home. And, of course, I completely understand that you are not concerned that I’m going to have to find about 7 different ways to mix and match my denim jacket in order to stay warm here. I’m also aware that you don’t care that I’m without my favorite pair of cozy sweatpants and an umbrella. I’m not complaining though. I’ve got Paris.

In fact, Paul and I’ve come to a huge realization in our first eight days of living here. We can live comfortably and happily with a lot less stuff. Which means I’m probably going to have to start chucking some boxes of “important papers” when I get home. That’s code for the boxes of things I just couldn’t live without that I transported from Maryland to Paul’s garage when I first moved in. Paul still questions how these boxes could be so important when I can’t even remember what’s in them anymore.

For lunch yesterday we went to Sorza on Ile St. Louis, a small and intimate Italian restaurant that we discovered the last time we were in Paris. We think Sorza is the perfect mix of Italy meets France-a superb combination of French baguette and pasta. In fact, I think we went through three baskets of bread yesterday! Sorza was our little secret for quite awhile. On our last trip here, we didn’t want to admit that we broke down and satisfied our pasta cravings at an Italian restaurant in France. I mean, Julia Child would certainly be disappointed in us, right? The truth is though, even the French feel the need to expand beyond the traditional from time to time. This was clear just a few nights ago when we watched a group of young boys feasting on Dominos pizza on the edge of the Seine. Not to mention the killer business the KFC is doing around the corner from us. While I would not suggest eating at either one of these establishments, I do think it is okay to step outside the legendary French cuisine from time to time.

I do have to mention the salad that I enjoyed at Sorza yesterday. It consisted of arugula and a confit of tomatoes topped with a poached egg. Until now I would never consider having a poached egg on anything. Yet here, the first thing I look for on any menu is an item that comes with a poached egg on top. It is the magic touch to any dish and if it is there, I order it. Even Paul looks at me dreamy eyed every time he tastes one of my poached egg selections. Our main dishes were creamy parmesan risotto for Paul and ricotta filled ravioli with cream sauce for me. Both were outstanding and portioned just right.

After lunch we took a walk along the Seine and ducked into a bookstore just long enough to avoid the short onslaught of rain. We didn’t duck into just any bookstore though. Shakespeare and Company, located just opposite Notre Dame on the Left Bank, is a gem, a must-see for anyone who loves to read and write. Both an English language bookstore and library, works of literature are tucked into every crevice and stacked from floor to ceiling. Most importantly, Shakespeare and Company served as sleeping quarters for many famous and aspiring writers over the years and, if you make your way past the crowd and up the stairs, you can see the beds, play the piano, and or sit at an old typewriter. Owned and operated by the late George Whitman, he drove his business with kindness “Give what you can, take what you need.” and “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise”. The world needs more George Whitmans if you ask me.

This morning we woke up early, navigated two different lines on the Metro, and successfully purchased apricots, cherries, and strawberries at the Rue Mouffetard market. Successfully is the key word here as we’ve been a little nervous when it comes to actually buying things at the markets. It is one thing to stroll through and peruse the goods, oohing and ahhing all the way down the street. You don’t need to speak French to do that. But, to actually purchase something, well then you need to communicate. And when you don’t know if you should just pick up the fruit yourself or if they should pick up the fruit, it can be quite a nerve wracking experience. But, I dove head first into it today and, I must say, Paul was quite impressed.

To put it frankly, my French is awful. While my high school Spanish got us through Spain, and the Spanish accent helped get us through Italy, Paul is getting us through France and I’m just butchering the language as I go. I try, a little from time to time. I can say “Bonjour” pretty nicely and I can ask for the check, but that’s about it. Yet today, I decided to break down some barriers and take a risk, one that Paul never saw coming. Years ago he taught me how to say, “the same thing” or “le meme chose”. It was quite useful. If we ordered something at a cafe and I wanted another of the same thing, all I’d have to say was “le meme chose”. So, after eyeing up an enormous pile of dark red cherries for quite some time, I stood back and observed. An older lady approached the vendor. She said something in French and he, in turn, with his big scooper, gathered a bunch of cherries, poured them in a paper bag, handed them over to his partner next to him and she, in turn, paid for them. That looked easy I thought. So I immediately went up behind her and in my most confident French belted out “le meme chose!” The vendor’s face lit up with a smile and he quickly picked up the scooper and said, “le meme chose!” just as cheerfully as I said it. Next thing you know, I had a big bag of cherries and an overly proud husband. “Wow baby! Look at you using the “le meme chose”. I could barely contain myself I was so excited.

I boarded the Metro with a new kind of confidence, with my bags of fruit in hand, looking and feeling like I had some kind of understanding of how it works here. It was priceless. We returned to the apartment, filled up our fruit basket, and took a few samples. The fruit was ripe, juicy, and refreshing. A colorful addition to our cute little abode.

So here we are relaxing after a morning at the market, a quick yet chilly croque monsieur lunch in the Jardin de Tuileries, and a lovely dinner at Le Paname, the cafe across the street. We’ve neglected Le Paname for no good reason and tonight, after realizing almost everything closes in Paris on Sunday, we decided to give it a try for dinner. We ate here upon our arrival last Sunday and although we had a delicious and filling meal, we didn’t return until now, a full week later. Paul ordered the same sandwich he had last week, yet I tried something new, macaroni in a creamy truffle sauce. Paul’s food envy kicked in as my dish was fabulous and he couldn’t resist stealing small bites from across the table.

I leave you tonight with this picture of our new dryer. Isn’t it fabulous?! To think, all those years I insisted we need a top of the line, energy efficient front loader, when this would have done us just fine…

We went to the Centre Pompidou this morning, a modern and contemporary art museum featuring legendary artists like Pablo Picasso, Joan Miro, and Jackson Pollack, to name just a few.  We also got the opportunity to see a series of photographs by Robert Doisneau, the photographer featured in the coffee table book I mentioned in my post about Les Halles.  His photos of Paris from the 1940’s are realistic black and white chronicles of Parisians living their everyday lives in a Paris that obviously looks much different from today.

The Centre Pompidou building itself is quite a piece of art.  The building design is outrageously different and unique possessing a modern flair.  The escalators run through clear shoots that are visible from the outside of the building.  They almost look like clear covered water slides with escalators transporting visitors instead of water.  At the top of the museum there is an outside observation deck that provides an exhilarating view of the city of Paris.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have the camera with us, but we hope to return to the museum again so Paul can take some photos from this spectacular vantage point.

After the museum we had some delicious and quick sandwiches to go and then went for a walk to find Frenchie, the restaurant it seems everyone in Paris is trying to land a reservation at.  We looked it up and according to the latest review from just three days ago, there won’t be an opening until September!  Seeing as we won’t be here in September, it looks like we won’t be able to find out what all the fuss is about.  However, Frenchie does have a wine bar across the street that serves small plates.  This may be our only opportunity to get in on the Frenchie food frenzy.

We got home from our Frenchie expedition just in time to avoid the torrential rain storm.   We watched the clouds roll in, the rain pour down, and the sky transform into a gorgeous blue in a matter of ten minutes.  The busy cafes outside our apartment kept going strong throughout the whole thing, crowding their patrons under their big awnings to keep them happy and dry.  Paul caught this image of pedestrians dashing through the rain…

After our lovely and quiet dinner in tonight, we took off walking to the Louvre and the Tuileries. The carnival, alive and lit, was teeming with children and parents and the sweet smell of churros and other fried fare filled the air.  The ferris wheel adds a certain touch to an already gorgeous park, especially when spinning and glowing in the nighttime sky.  Tonight, the ferris wheel twinkled in one direction, while the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the other.  It was quite a treat.

So next time you find yourself strategically dancing around puddles after a rain storm, take a minute to admire the puddles.  You might just step into something more…

Paul captured this image in a puddle!

I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping in Paris. This is particularly unusual for me since I’m an avid sleeper at home. Even Paul is concerned and surprised by my inability to rest. It is not often that he sleeps better or more than I do. Yet here in Paris, the roles have been reversed. He sleeps, I don’t. Which is exactly the reason for no blog post yesterday. Paul was pleased to find me, for the first time since we got here, sprawled out in a deep sleep on the couch after dinner last night. I’m not sure how long I actually slept, but when I did wake from my much needed nap, Paul insisted I go straight to bed. So I did.

There are many factors contributing to my sleep problem. Of course, like any city, the streets here are noisy and my body seems unable to ignore all of the sounds that echo beneath our windows. In addition to the noise, I’ve been unable to adjust to the length of daylight. I am unable to comprehend going to bed when it is still bright outside at 10pm. Finally, I think the most critical factor in my lack of sleep comes from me not wanting to miss anything. After all, I’m in Paris! Surely there is something to see or do rather than sleep!

We went to see the Eiffel Tower yesterday. I had big plans of enjoying the view with my feet up in the park. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate with my plans. The clouds rolled in just as soon as we emerged from the depths of the Trocadero Metro station. While the rain held off until hours later, we were sure to make our visit to the tower a short one. With no umbrella, we were certain we’d be soaked if we stayed any longer.

The pre-engagement dinner location.

We did get a chance to visit the cafe that Paul took me to for dinner prior to the big engagement. This is not the place Paul intended to take me that night, but since Chez Agnes, the restaurant he had planned for, was closed on that particular evening, he settled for this cafe nearby. This was my first real meal in Paris. I’ll never forget feasting on steak frites and nearly pinching myself in disbelief over being just steps away from the Eiffel Tower.

Unbeknownst to me there was a ring burning a hole in Paul’s pocket, forcing him to leave the table several times to retreat to the bathroom to either practice his speech or reassure himself that the ring was still there. I remember being worried about his health and I think I even insisted he see a doctor as soon as we returned home. I convinced myself there must be something wrong with someone who needs to go to the bathroom that much.

Of course, all of that was long forgotten soon after as I was twirling beneath the Eiffel Tower with a shiny diamond and a trembling fiancé. The poor guy was so nervous about the whole thing, yet it went off without a hitch. He even timed it so that his knee would hit the ground as soon as the lights to the tower began to sparkle. There was so much joy that even a homeless man tried to join in the celebration just seconds after the proposal. When we refused his hug and tried to escape, he roared at me like a lion. I screamed and we quickly made our exit. Then Paul worried that being chased down and roared at by a homeless man may have ruined the magic of the evening. I think it added a fun twist to an already good story.

Like I said in a previous post, the Eiffel Tower is quite a distance from our apartment. It was a good half hour ride on the crowded and hot Metro. We were packed into those subway cars like sardines yesterday and, since the Metro isn’t air conditioned, it was just as stinky too. By the time we returned to our apartment, we were both a sweaty mess. We decided that when our mothers get here, we will take them to and from the Eiffel Tower by boat. A more expensive option yes, but certainly more scenic and comfortable.

There was something beautiful about seeing Paris in the rain yesterday. We got soaked on the way to dinner since neither one of us thought to pack an umbrella. Yet there was something about sitting beneath the awning of a cafe watching the Parisians rush by, shielding themselves from the rain with their fancy and fashionable umbrellas. I never thought I’d find a rainy day to be so intriguing. It was like they’d planned their outfits with the impending rain. I particularly took notice of a lady in a bright magenta dress with a black and white polka dotted and ruffled umbrella. I was so impressed at how perfectly coordinated she was, even how put together she looked while walking through a downpour.

We ate at Comptoir de la Gastronomie again last night. Paul really wanted the cassoulet and I was eager to try the onion soup. We made an evening of it and found ourselves walking back to the apartment a good three hours later. This is probably why I slept so well last night. I was well fed with a full belly.

We started out with an appetizer of mixed meats, some of which I had never seen or heard of before. They were beautifully arranged on a wooden cutting board topped with gherkin pickles and a side of salad and bread. The meats were tender and delicious. Our waiter, who was lovely, spoke beautiful English and helped us throughout the entire meal. He even showed me the proper way to eat escargot when he saw me struggling to release the little snail from its shell. After the meat and escargot came our cassoulet and onion soup.

Since I was old enough to eat solid food, my mother has made the very best French onion soup. It was one of my favorite childhood meals, a tuna sandwich with toasted bread and a side of French onion soup. She didn’t make the actual soup from scratch, but she assembled the bread and the cheese in such a way that you’d be tempted to lick the bowl clean. She taught me from the beginning that a good bowl of French onion soup requires stale bread and plenty of Swiss cheese with lots of holes in it. No restaurant could ever outdo or even match my mother’s version of French onion soup. Until now.

The onion soup at Comptoir de la Gastronomie is divine and while it is assembled differently with the bread on top instead of the bottom (my mom is gasping in horror right now as she insists it must be on the bottom), it tastes just like my mom’s. And while my mother’s soup will always be number one in my heart, I think even she might agree that this version is pretty darn good. I’m certainly impressed that a gal whose never been to France has been rocking out a pretty decent and close to the real thing version of French onion soup for most of her life. Good job Ma!

I will blog again later today, but now its time to get out of here for the morning so that the cleaning lady can come and change our sheets and towels. Thank goodness I won’t be fighting the French washing machine in that respect. This apartment came with a weekly cleaning service included in the price and, after dealing with the French appliances in this place, I’m thankful for small miracles. Yes, I’ve even had a run in with the stove, but I won’t get into that story.

One more thing before we begin another beautiful day in Paris-we did check to see if Chez Agnes is indeed closed for good. It is. Our favorite Parisian place to dine has been replaced with a new and modern looking restaurant. We will miss you Agnes wherever you are. You’d be happy to hear that the overly excited couple who dined at your restaurant post engagement, have now been happily married for two years. Thanks for the memories…