Ne pleure pas
by jemma margaret
This morning began with a run in Parc Bercy, but it didn’t really begin until we each had croissants. The best croissants in the world, that is.
The difficulty of having breakfast at Blé Sucré is that by 8:30 AM the best meal of the day is over. Sure, you could have another croissant, but that is probably not a good idea. So one picks at crumbs for a few minutes and considers whether the 40 minute walk would be feasible tomorrow. Whether this sort of thing justifies living in Paris indefinitely. It might.
Afterward we went to the delightfully overwhelming Marché d’Aligre where everything is sold by at least seven different vendors with varying degrees of price and quality. Since we owed no allegiance, we bought cherries from one, figs from another, mixed greens from another, and carrots and apples from the last. Crazy Americans!
Back home I tried to make instant coffee blended with milk and ice. Forgetting that coffee is hot and Parisian ice cubes are tiny, I ended up with weak, cold, somewhat foamy coffee. I then continued paring down my list of books to consult tomorrow. Apparently I can only request five at a time. If all goes well, this could be the fourth chapter!
Today was somewhat sunny and vaguely a holiday, so the Parisians and tourists were out and about. Our neighborhood is basically students, but closer to the town center congestion became difficult. On the way to the Musée des Arts et Métiers (where we were to meet at 6:30) I took precaution by making dinner reservations at Aux Tonneaux and then bought some pearl sugar at G. Detou. They only sold it in kilo and larger bags, so there are many Liège waffles in our future.
The Museum, the only museum in Paris I have been to three times, is a lovely squeaky place. We looked at meters and air pumps and magic light boxes. At almost 8, we went to dinner. The place was crowded, but the waiter seemed to recognize us as he spoke in English before we said anything. We sat outside next to a table of mysterious European foreigners. They were eating and so not talking. When our food came, we did more or less the same. My duck was exemplary, Madeleine’s steak fell below expectations.
Home for dessert waylaid by a broken glass of dessert wine. Vanilla yogurt, perfect cherries and slivered chocolate.