No, not love at 1st sight. First sight was me barely seeing past my sweaty scarf.
Lugging 100lbs of duffle-bag-bungee-corded-to-suitcase-plus-awkward-camera-bag through the metro system.
The metro system that is not friendly to things that roll and do not climb.
The metro system that is also not AT ALL friendly to things wider than a French woman (not wide). My bungee corded duffle bag was at least 2.5 French women wide.
This blog will henceforth measure everything in French women.
So right. Neither he narrow ticketed metro gates nor the numerous stairs wanted me in Paris. This is why my lats are killing today. This is why I had a nap yesterday afternoon (also the whole not-sleeping-the-previous-night thing). This is why the lats of two kind French gentleman and one other surprisingly ambitious French ladies also likely hurt today. Thank you mystery helpers.
And thus begins the love.
As soon as I was free of my handicapable friend (Monsieur Luggage), my temporary hostel neighbourhood, the Bastille, was mine to discover. I spend hours wandering and could have kept at it for eons if not for my stomach. I walked to the Place de la Bastille, and back along the Promenade Pantée (Viaduc des Arts), all the while smiling dumbly at each new café or brasserie. I ate lunch at the Bar a Soupes, recommended by a famous Parisian blogger Clotilde. It was perfect, and the service was beyond friendly, beyond friendly (for those of you who can’t believe that I’m referring to a Parisian restaurant). The rest has been metro rides, creperies, and more.
It feels like everything just makes me smile dumbly and slow down. I have a feeling it will be my routine.
Even the most modest apartments look like this from the outside.
This is my future residence that I crept outside today.
This is just a random street that ends in awesome.
Oh, and my lunch today? Shut. The. Front. Door.
Our side may have created the sandwich, but leave it up to the French to leave our culinary arse in the dust. Le Sandwich du Jour was a demi-baguette with the most flavourful chèvre I have ever tasted, along with market fresh tomates, and arugula. Lunch dessert? Yes. Tarte au chocolat. Woah. Thank you David Lebovitz for recommending Blé Sucré for pretty much everything. It’s a block away from my hostel. Roll me out through the porte.
I’m off to dinner with a friend, yes a real one, (oh, nevermind.. I had to wait until the next morning at starbucks to find interwebs) so I’ll leave you off with the things that have inflated my ego thus far:
Being asked directions my 7 million Parisians. Desolée. It’s ma first time ladies and gents. Though obvi I did not say it like that to them; would have so ruined my apparent sophistique. I think it’s because I walk with purpose.
And I do have purpose. Until I do a 180°, realizing my purpose is maybe most definitely in another direction, and not down the dark creepy alleyway where those men are smoking.
- Speaking French, and being responded to in fast, fast French. No, me needing to stand there like a deer in the headlights for fifteen seconds to process what they’ve just said to me does NOT deter from this making me feel awesome.
- Being told I look German. By the man who runs my hostel. And sees many a German. I don’t care. I am entirely taking this as a compliment.
p.s. many of my fellow hostelees come in every night with MacD’s, perhaps this is why I have yet to formally get acquainted with any of them?