Observations from the 19th - 3-21-15

***Vignettes from Deb:

 

***Paris is in bloom – pink blossoming trees, white ones, yellow blooming bushes, and patches of bright gold crocus in the grass, like spilled sunshine under the overcast skies. Jonquils waving in the gusty, cold winds and tied in bunches for sale on the streets. Every little park or raised bed along the sidewalks is bedecked with spring blooms. Such a delightful relief from all the concrete of this huge city.

***And the flower shops! At least one every few blocks. Big ones with seeds for sale and trees and pots and tools. Little hole-in-the-wall ones with imaginative displays out front, just a few feet wide, taking advantage of every inch (2.5 centimeters) to tempt with little pots of bright narcissus and fancy ruffled grape hyacinths. Mundane displays in front of bricolage (handyman) stores that still make cheerful patches of color. People walking home with baguettes and bouquets, both necessities of life here.

***In response to several questions, no, we’ve not had a single rude waiter since we’ve been here this month. Not one. By contrast, we’ve actually had some fun exchanges with various wait staff from the proprietor of the wonderful seafood place we stumble across (who loved recommending his favorite Vielle Prune, an old fashioned liqueur, to Warren) to the charming waitress at the wine bar/bistro who laughingly suggested that between her poor English and my maladroit French we could figure how to do a reservation over the phone to the handsome young guy waiting on us in a crowded bistro who said he had an ex-girlfriend in Phoenix and would love to visit the Western US. (we suggested he get a job as a waiter in Santa Fe – they would love him at Santa Café.)

***About the lack of rude waiters, maybe it’s because we’re not eating in the busy tourist areas, or maybe because it’s not yet the height of tourist season or maybe because we always try in French and keep to our theory that if you make a fool of yourself first in another language, it sets people more at ease with trying to speak your language. Maybe we just look elderly and peaceful and non-threatening. Who knows?

 

***Two other nice interchanges with locals:

 

***We were trying to find the little conveyance that was supposed to be outside the train station to take people over to the antique show we were going to. We overheard two French guys asking a bus driver about it, and long story short, we ended up following them and finding the “bus”. We struck up a conversation with them, thanking them for leading us around. It turns out that they run horse carriages around the extensive park at the Chateau Fontainebleau. (looking at their website, they do many other things, too, including competitive carriage driving training, training carriage horses, providing carriages for weddings and state funerals, etc.) They were just enjoying the antique fair on one of their last days before their very busy season begins. We’re going to go out to see huge Fontainebleau, and have them take round the huge park for a ride in one of their carriages.

*** Sitting in a nearby wine bar/bistro mentioned before, Warren noticed that an seventy-something lady had left her purse behind when she moved to another table. We started to chat in our hesitating French and had a lovely time visiting with her. She switched to equally hesitant English after a bit, saying she wanted to practice since she used it so often travelling. Asked where she’d been most recently, we somewhat startled when she said “Mongolia, staying in a yurt and travelling by pony.” Hardy, these French. Her fortyish son appeared about that time, and it turns out he’s a restauranteur, coming to eat in his old friend’s bistro. We’re going to check out the son’s restaurant next week.

 

***Probably a good thing to eat in more restaurants. I’m cooking like an absolute neophyte. Poor, long suffering Warren is being a good sport (editors note: most of you are aware of my sporting instincts when it comes to food, i.e. I'm soldiering on manfully), but I’m sure my fumbling efforts are disappointing to have to put up with in one of the world’s great food towns. Everything from a new kind of stove (ceramic top) to the different altitude/cooking time and temperature changes to reading directions for the oven in French is making me feel like a first-time cook. I’m sure that all this mental stimulation is good for brain health, but I think not so good for digestion.