Sitting at dinner the other night, Tina’s ex-pat friends remarked that when they have visitors from home, they’re always amazed at that fact that they don’t spend every waking moment being fabulous in Paris. That in addition to working, they’ve still got errands to run, dishes to wash, laundry to fold; in short, they’ve got to live here, just like everyone else in the world does to some degree. So, I think I spent a pretty typical day off in Paris yesterday. I woke up so late that all the bakeries were closed so I didn’t get to have pain au chocolat (bummer!). I went to a small store, bought some fruit and some muffins, and ran a couple of errands for Tina in the rain.
Then, I napped and read for the rest of the day. It was raining hard, which always makes me think of Sylvia Plath. One of her journal entries reads something along the lines of, “When it rains, days later, poems about rain land on the desks of editors across the country.” I’m terrible at paraphrasing, but there’s something about a rainy day in Paris that makes you think about writing poetry, thankfully, I was too sleepy to do so.
Now I’m up at the crack of dawn (well, it’s 8.30 AM), and am raring to go. Today my plan is to visit the Louvre, see the Mona Lisa and only the Mona Lisa, and then take the Metro to Montmartre. In Montmartre there’s the Sacre Coeur and a Dali Museum. Not a huge fan of Dali, but Wiebke, my roommate from university would have appreciated it—she loved his work. Speaking of Wiebke, if anyone knows where she is, Hannah and I would love to get in touch.
Off I go to be a tourist in Paris. These Pumas were made for walking, and not in that gross semi-pornographic way Jessica Simpson’s boots are these days.