“Bonjour, Madame!”
says the toothpick-shaped waiter, in his breezy accent, so thick and
sophisticated.
With my lopsided
messy bun, I sweep the wisps of hair that habitually fall over my right eye and
I gaze up at him, grinning. My thick handmade Peruvian wool herringbone
scarf and light distressed denim studded jacket are just enough to keep the
crisp, cool air at bay. Only two words
necessitate this conversation and they might possibly be my most beloved
alliteration on the planet: "Bordeaux and baguette” (sil vous plait!)
I’m sounding really cultured and elegant here, but the truth is, I don’t speak a word of French, unless it means food or drink. Well, actually…unless it means a baguette carved horizontally, perfect top half to bottom half proportions. Slathered first in butter, then homemade apricot jam (or really, any jam). The impeccably crisped flaky outside with a softer middle, only achieved with the local water. I wish I could tell you I savor each morsel, but I am American; I certainly do not eat with the grace and eloquence of a French lady. I devour that thing. And then I order another. Pair it with a cappuccino? That java goodness topped with frothy foam and “chocolat de poudre, sans sucre” (chocolate powder, no sugar), and I could sit outside in a wicker chair sipping and observing passerby’s all day.
I’m sounding really cultured and elegant here, but the truth is, I don’t speak a word of French, unless it means food or drink. Well, actually…unless it means a baguette carved horizontally, perfect top half to bottom half proportions. Slathered first in butter, then homemade apricot jam (or really, any jam). The impeccably crisped flaky outside with a softer middle, only achieved with the local water. I wish I could tell you I savor each morsel, but I am American; I certainly do not eat with the grace and eloquence of a French lady. I devour that thing. And then I order another. Pair it with a cappuccino? That java goodness topped with frothy foam and “chocolat de poudre, sans sucre” (chocolate powder, no sugar), and I could sit outside in a wicker chair sipping and observing passerby’s all day.
What is it about a good cup of coffee or wine? It’s almost an out of body experience. One sip and I’m transported back to those cobblestone streets, the smells of fresh breads and pastries enveloping my senses. And it’s not nearly the same in New York. The wine in Paris purer, the coffee richer.
I am not the
museum type. I could care less about
checking off the sights and scenes any travel guide will inform you is a
necessity to this city. To me the
experience of the local fare, getting to know the attitudes and fashion of the
people is how to truly acquaint with a new city. Saunter
down the narrow streets, pick up an armful of soft blush peonies and stop for
an onion soup in the afternoon. Let the
city in and taste it. We travel because when we
arrive home, a piece of it invariably remains within us.
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