Someday

 

 

I loved today's post by Duchess.

 

Her sassy asides have always been a delight

but today's remark that she'll take her

jewel tones as jewels

made me smile.

 

I envied her quick transition.

If there had been a pneumatic chair

with scissor-wielding stylist at hand

I'd have sat down and told her to

lop it all off!

It's easily been seven years since I made

my first dramatically short cut

to make room for my grey.

I'm still waiting.

 

My hair was blond - very blond - and has

gradually darkened to

a color that I find almost impossible

to describe.

Think "mousy" with an

extra dose of "meh."

For years - years - there have

been lovely white streaks running

from root to tip

interspersed throughout my mane.

They refuse to merge.

There have been short haircuts several times

since the first was made oh, so many years ago. 

Hasn't helped.

It seems small comfort that, thus far,

 I've avoided the dreaded

skunk stripe roots when the

longed-for transition never happens.

 

The idea that Duchess made her decision and

started the process in August

- less than six months -

makes me crazy with envy.

 

My regular hair appointment is on the

calendar for next week.

I've had time to calm down.  

There will be no lopping.

This time.

 

 

 

Iconic Images

Do you need to see another picture of

any of the countless icons of Paris?

We saw them.

The Rodin, Picasso, and Cluny museums.

D'Orsay, Louvre, Notre Dame.

Le Tour Eiffel, L'Arc de Triomphe,

Luxembourg Gardens, Tuileries,

Chanel, Hermes, Louis Vuitton.

The list goes on... 

I have pictures and ticket stubs

and amazing memories

to enjoy when ever I want.

 

Today I offer a few of the humbler images

that will also represent Paris to me ...

 

 

including the cobblestones.

 

This is our terrace. 

 In our neighborhood. 

The three windows represent the hallway, living/dining area and the bedroom. 

 The building across the street was a community rec center.  One weekend it was used for an artisan's fair.  The next weekend it housed a vintage market.  During the week classes were held there.  I watched from the terrace windows as fencers performed their warm-up drills.  Dance classes included the tango and flamenco. Grace in motion.

 

 

Our wardrobe which, thanks to  

Naphtali's lavender sachets,

 smelled like summer sunshine when we opened the doors.

 

 

This is a terrible picture, but,

on the far left you can see that the women's skates are

made to look like high heels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

I should have taken more pictures:

Umbrellas piled inside shop doors.

Dapper men in their toggle coats.

Laughing women d'un age.

Children.

Dogs.

Plates of beautiful food.

Display cases of beautiful food.

Windows of beautiful food.

Menus.

Impossibly small tables

laden with lunchtime paraphernalia

with the diners shoehorned in

around them.

The overhead coat racks.

 

Surely, someone has taken those pictures

and compiled a wonderful book

or created an instagram album

or Pinterest page

 to help us

relive the unique experience

that Paris represents

to each of us.

 

I'll have to look...

 

 

 

 

 

Bon Appétit!

In general there were three questions

asked after my return from Paris:

What did you see?

What did you buy?

What did you eat?

 

This was the most difficult

post to compose.

Hardly surprising when we consider how the textures,

aromas, presentation, and accompanying

soundtrack of conversation and clinking tableware
contribute to our dining experience
as well as the actual taste of the food.

Alors, in no particular order,

a few impressions:

 

Our breakfasts of variations on

 toast or croissants,

 cheese,

creamy yogurt,

and mandarins

were a delightful start to each day.

 

We cooked at home several times

with frozen selections from Picard (!)

or fresh-from-the-market ingredients.

Local-resident chic.

 

Bread.

 

Omelette Concorde at Ladurée?

Delicious in it's simplicity.

The macarons purchased on our way out the door?

Everything I expected.

 

Bread.

 

A leek soufflé with champagne butter

and caviar at Bon Marché?

Exotic.

(That's Naphtali's butternut soup in the foreground)

 

Fresh tomato basil soup on a rainy day stop at

Galleria Vivienne?

A reminder of why I leave certain

tasks to professionals.

 

Wine and frites to fortify us for the final

leg home on a late night.

Bracing.

 

Bread.

 

The arrival of my chocolat chaud:

two small pots

- one of chocolate,

one containing hot milk -

flanking the small white cup

in which I will mix my own drink.

Decadent.

 

We scoffed at the warnings of the dangers

of sidewalk crepes - until we shared one.
 

Haricots, mushrooms and potatoes

will henceforth elicit

an inside-joke smile from me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fragrant reminders

 

 

The official start of each day was marked with

 the invigorating burst of citrus

as the first mandarin

was peeled. 

 

(We consumed soooo many of these little gems.)

 

In the way that warm and cold currents run through

a body of water

the aromas of Paris washed over us in turn.

 

Baking bread? Check.

Melted butter?  Bien sur.

The sleepy scent of chocolate?  Mmmmm.

Falafel?  Just around the corner. 

 

Fresh cut trees.

Roasting chestnuts.

Espresso.

 

 

 

 

Flower markets.

Fish markets.

Herbs.

Oils.

Cigarettes.

The occasional cigar or pipe.

Today's special.

 

 

Lavender sachets.

Soaps, lotions,

and perfumes.

She chose SacreBleu.

 

Close at hand

 

 

My visit was further enhanced

by various tactile expressions: 

 

Vin chaud and a new wool wrap

to ward off the chill.

 

Stiff linen napkins at Ladurée.

 

The heft of silverware at Musée D'Orsay.

 

Heavy, elegant menus.

 

Chilled fingers

stealing heat from a cup of chocolate.

 

Silk wall coverings at the Carnavalet.

 

The supple warmth of

a nutella crepe.



 

Eric Bompard's cashmere.

 

The exchange of bills and coins.

 

Sorting through bins of used books.

 

Vintage furs, silks and leather bags.

 

New "furs" and silks.

 

Soothing lotions.

 

A hot shower and warm bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evocative echoes

I loved my trip to Paris.

It was a sensory-intensive experience

from beginning to end.

 

We had many drizzly, but mild, days of

walking to and fro

about the city, absorbing the nuances of its 

quotidian rhythms.

(I wish I'd snapped a shot of the le Pain Quotidian)

My clothing selection was

adequate

- which is all I had asked of it -

in light of the laundry

facilities in our

charming apartment.

 

So, what did I hear?

 

I was awakened several mornings by the

sound of the rasping broom of a

street sweeper below our windows.

 

 

This pianist livened the street corner

at a flea market on a dreary day.

 (We kept hoping the ladies would break into song.)

Rain on my umbrella.

Church bells.

The organ at Notre Dame.

A boy's choir performing the Hallelujah Chorus.

A piano recital in a nearby church.

The melody of conversation.

The whine of approaching motorcycles.

Car horns.

An accordionist on the metro.

Street musicians doing their best with the Beatles.

Laughing children.

The click of heels on cobblestone.

Late-night revelers.

The hushed reverence of memorial places. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Countdown

Next week at this time

we'll be in Paris.

 

This will be a busy week as final

preparations are completed.

 

Here's a section from my to do list:

 

finalize packing selections

go to the bank

get a manicure

pay bills

have my glasses adjusted

compile addresses for  postcards

avoid breaking toes

(or fillings)