Alone in Paris

June 23, 2013

Alone in Paris.  This isn’t a lament.  It’s quite exciting, to be sure.  I’m about to go for a little explore and will fill you in on the details when I return.

6 hour break…

Or maybe tomorrow.  Now that I’m back, I’m sleepy.

June 24, 2013

Last day in Paris.  I’m going to clean up and take a walk along the river to get closer to the Eiffel Tower.  The weather seems to be holding, but no blue skies.  I hope to get some good pictures and I know I’ll see new sights if I get out of the neighborhood.  Plan to bring something simple in to eat for dinner that I pick up on the way back.  Then I will contact the lady here to check out in the morning, and figure out a way to wake up at the proper time.  Tomorrow I will travel all the way home.  Amazing.

As an aside, I must assure you there are many interesting tidbits handwritten in my Brown Bag Books Journal.  In the interest of sleep (something I am greatly interested in, it seems), for now I am only typing up a little bit here and there.  I find it easier to walk with a journal and a pen, to stop and jot, then I do to haul out the laptop, as slim and lovely as it is, while strolling.  Strolling, I did today.  And plenty.  Being my last day in Paris, I felt driven to get out and walk.  Though I wanted to stop in and browse the museums I passed, I could not.  I needed to feel Paris under my feet.

Here is one snippet:  Did I mention dropping my beautiful pastry (also known as my dinner) on the floor of the shop immediately after purchase?  Proof that the French are not mean:  The lady who served me did not scowl.  I was very apologetic, of course, and I did not ask for a refund.  Lesson:  Sometimes “to go bags” are not really bags.  They may be really pretty paper that is pinched and rolled “just so” around your gorgeous last Parisian pastry.  Should you casually pick up this “not a bag” and try to walk away with a French “Merci,” you may find that it has fallen through the other side of the so pretty paper and your fellow customers are crying, “Madam!  Votre Pastrie!”  (or something close to that; it may actually have been, “Madam!  You Idiot!”).  There it is.  A terrible, extremely colorful mess on the shiny white tile floor.  You have lost the raspberries and crème from the top!  You are caught between plans of throwing the whole thing out, or…perhaps rewrapping the main body of the pastry, the undamaged remains, ala George in Seinfeld, knowing the whole time (which is only seconds-I never imagined my mind could move so quickly) that the lady of the shop will know and find you hideous… but you want that pastry!  You want it in a way that only an American on their last day in Paris could want it, and it is getting late, you know you won’t find another shop open.

What do you do?

You pick it up, apologize, rewrap it, and leave.

You are alone in Paris, after all.

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