You know, those Sundays.
You know them.
Those Sundays where you wake up to the sun rising over the Panthéon, then mosey over to your oven-less kitchen and whip up some yeast-raised pancakes, because corner stores don’t carry quick leaveners.
Then you head out for a run through the snow-covered Jardins du Luxembourg and smile at your fellow Parisians while they welcome the new weather with shock and awe.
And of course you follow your run with a stroll through the Sunday marché along the boulevard Raspail. You know, the weekly organic market where you spend hours perusing the different varieties of chévre and agrumes while politely shuffling around the weekly patrons who are on the hunt for their favourite yoghurt vendor, fresh turmeric bulbs, or saucisse.
Then, as per usual, you walk back around the boulevard saint-germain, while maintaining the feeling in your hands, and stopping at a little stand for bonbons on your way home.
You know how those sundays go. Typically, after warming up at home for a short spell, you take the metro over to le marais for some lunch and some late sunday shopping. Lunch is at the famed L’As du Falafel of course. It wouldn’t be one of those sundays without a steaming falafel at a little park, surrounded by inquisitive birds.
Typically you’ll finish off you stint at le marais, with some window shopping through gorgeous chocolateries and vintage stores, metro-ing home to catch the evening crowd trying to decide on their favourite local bistrot.
Obviously those sundays finish with a market creation inspired by the earlier finds, and a movie.
You know, those sundays.
Oh… right… I live in Paris now. Hi.
My last week has been new, exciting, frustrating, amazing.
Bonding with another ex-pat Yukoner over the infallible magic that is Paris. And how only here would you find yourself desperately asking, “is it blood or wine?!” Seriously, there were smeary hand prints.
Catching my first glimpses of the tour eiffel, moulin rouge, and…. sexodrome.
Catching my second glimpse of the tour with the first of many aussies to come, from the top of l’arc de triomphe.
Demolishing my first taste of french bistro fare, chocolate three way and all.
Going into the Paris version of Abercrombie & Fitch. Which was horrifying. I can still taste the parfum.
Getting asked out by someone who speaks neither english nor french in the parc des buttes chaumont, then attempting to tactfully reject their Russian offer of café, then realizing they didn’t understand your rejection as they try to follow you to your metro stop.
Getting used to the views from my new residence.
And the restaurants near my new residence.
And the new friends in my new residence.
Excuse me while I eat another truffle and head out for some bread.