It all went off without a hitch except for the baguettes—our class must have collectively gotten some bad yeast because all of our baguettes were a little on the flat side and had no ears—the top part of the bread that splits and puffs up with extra crisp. Everyone in Group A was quite crestfallen —or crustfallen—depending on how you look at it—especially after sneaking down the hall to look at Group B’s springy and crispy baguettes—but we persevered. And my brioche braids—while not super elegant—passed the test. Very relieved.

Final Product

In celebration, my husband arrived the day of the exam, and we invited the whole class over for a potluck dinner and drinks at ours. I think I have told you that we have a very international class, and everyone brought something from their native country. We had Lebanese, Turkish, Indian, Spanish and Asian foods—and bonus—when you go to culinary school—people can cook! We ate like kings and it was a great evening. I will really miss these young people as they head on to Advanced Boulangerie and I head home. As a side note—Chef told us that in advanced class they actually grow their own starter and use it for all the sourdough breads going forward. I was really surprised, as I never see sourdough in France—or at least it is not labeled that way. Maybe another time I will get a chance to learn this new technique.

My class party

After our celebration night, Les and I decided to rent a car and drive into the countryside and stay at an old abbey that is now a hotel. Renting a car in Paris is a little bit of a trick as all rental agencies are housed in dingy parking garages and are not well signed. By the time we rode up and down in the dirty elevator of a nondescript parking garage for 15 minutes—we finally found the rental agency behind the stairwell, and got our car. The other thing about rental cars in Paris is that the agencies are only open a few hours a day—you are kind of on your own to figure out how to get the keys and find the car, as there is literally no one working after noon. And also, when you pick up the car you have to take all these photos of it to document any dents, dings or wheel scrapes, or they will assume you did it. Not sure who is inspecting the cars between rentals, but it seems like this should be their job.

In any event we finally got our car, negotiated the Paris traffic, and blazed a path to the French countryside. It was so fun and so liberating to have a car and be free to go where you want —not on public transportation! We drove south out of Paris and headed along some country roads—passing through many a small town until we reached our destination—L’Abbaye de Vaux Cernay. Wowsa! It was gorgeous! The abbey had been built by Cistercian monks in the 1100s—around the same time as Notre Dame—and it was in use as an abbey until the French Revolution when everyone was killed in the Reign of Terror and the state took it over. Hard to tell what they planned to do with it, as it is literally in the middle of nowhere, but at least they didn’t destroy it completely.

Today, it is a very luxurious hotel and spa and our room was wonderful. The ceilings were all groin vaulted and made entirely of stone, with enormous fireplaces everywhere.

The sitting area of our room!

There was not a whole lot to do there, and of course it rained the entire time, but the place was packed with people happy to sit by the fireplaces and play backgammon or other games, and while away the day. Super relaxing after LCB, and we did almost nothing except tour around in our little BMW, looking at all the chateaux in the area and eat a lot.

The abbey

The grounds

Pretty impressive

After a slow and relaxing two days at the Abbaye, we packed up and drove back to Paris and tried to turn in our rental car. Oh my. What a debacle. We were returning the car to the Louvre—I know that sounds ridiculous, but there is apparently a parking garage (never before seen by us) under the Louvre and it houses rental car agencies. Who knew? Anyway—in a burst of optimism—we planned our arrival to be within minutes of the hour that the car needed to be returned—thinking that we knew the way to the Louvre, and really, how hard could finding a giant parking garage be? Well—turns out—kinda hard.

We pulled up to the Louvre with five minutes to spare for drop off, and then—we drove around another hour looking for the garage—it was truly like the movie Vacation—Big Ben, Parliament— round and round we went. Past the Tuileries, up rue de Rivoli, through the middle of the Louvre where the pyramid is, and so on and so forth, over and over. For the life of us we could not find any entrance to a garage. And as you know in marital life—these situations get very tense very quickly with the driver (husband) blaming the navigator (wife) and the reverse.

I kept saying slow down and let me look for signs, while my husband kept yelling things like, you are not giving me any direction, and don’t you speak French? Ugh. It got ugly. Finally, we saw a tiny sign with a green P —for parking at the Louvre, and all we had to do to get to it was risk death by making an illegal left turn from the middle lane, head the wrong way into a tunnel with oncoming traffic roaring toward us, cut across two lanes of said traffic and make another left turn to enter the actual exit into the garage. All of which my husband was completely willing to do, just to get free of the car and maybe me. Meanwhile, I just shut my eyes, prayed my children would remember all my good advice, and braced myself for certain impact.

My husband, luckily kept his eyes open, ( I think) and exhibiting nerves of steel, floored the BMW, jumped the curb, and headed into the garage seconds before getting creamed by enraged French motorists heading straight for us. We had a moment of unintentional silence, and then we breathed a collective sigh of relief and let loose a little giggle at our success in the face of this adversity, only to then realize we had entered the delivery garage for the Louvre-not the civilian parking garage. We were surrounded by giant trucks unloading—I don’t know—priceless artifacts? It was slightly disconcerting, especially as no one paid us any never mind —either to help us or to tell us to get the heck out of the delivery zone.

Ultimately, in another relatively amazing driving exhibition by my husband—he reversed slowly out of the delivery area and made another quick left turn against the traffic, and into the proper garage where we safely returned the rental car—an hour late, but with no damage except to our frayed nerves. Per usual, the rental car agency was closed—at 1pm—for the rest of the day—but there was a box to drop off the keys, which we did, and headed home on foot, with our luggage merrily rolling along the cobblestones behind us. Lesson learned. When renting a car in France—be prepared to channel your inner Nascar driver, and maybe allot some extra time.

After our return from the country we decided to celebrate Valentine’s Day by doing some home improvement. We woke up early and ambled down to southern Paris to another flea market I had heard about but not visited. It is way down in the 14th Arrondisement at the Port de Vanves. There was so much junk you wouldn’t believe! Vendors had set up tables all through this two street area that was blocked for pedestrian traffic only. There were old dishes and used tools and dolls with no heads— but amongst all the random stuff—there were some treasures to be found—like this incredible monkey lamp—that I got for 100 euros!

My husband thinks it’s ugly but I love it

We also found a little secretary, a chest of drawers, a rug and a painting—all for a few hundred euros and they delivered it all to us! This is my new favorite place to shop—I am going every weekend. Of course, it did start to snow a little while we were there, and we were freezing after an hour of walking around outside —forcing us to seek shelter in a local tabac—which was filthy dirty, but had decent coffee and central heating, so it all worked out.

Hanging with the locals

After getting all our treasures into the apartment, we moved everything around and now they look like they have been there forever.

Got this chest for next to nothing

By the way, it is still raining, or sometimes snowing in Paris, and the river is higher every day! Getting a little worried it might overflow its banks. There is currently a flood warning, so we are keeping a close eye.

The tide is high!

Not ideal when you walk everywhere

The bad weather did not slow down the pace at LCB however, and this last week of classes has been long and tiring. In addition to regular classes, we had a field trip to a mill, another meeting, and the written portion of the final exam. I am ready to finish!

It should come as no surprise to you all, now that I am a declared rebel, that I was woefully unprepared for the written exam. I absolutely did not study one minute in advance, and it was only because I was assured by some boulangerie veterans, that as long as I had a heartbeat, I would pass. Hmm. Not so sure about that. On the day of said exam, I decided I had made a grave error not studying, so on the one hour break between the end of class and the test, I hurriedly tried to start cramming all the information from the eight hours of instructional videos into my already overloaded brain. Important things, like what is the temperature at which yeast dies, and how many grams of butter do you need for a kilo of croissant dough. Like I said—IMPORTANT things.

The exam was quite formal in that we had to line up, receive the specific exam with our individual name on it, sign and date it, and take a picture of a QR code proving we entered the exam room. You would have thought I was sitting for an admittance exam at CIA headquarters. Well, as luck (not necessarily good) would have it, I knew—not very much. It was truly a squeaker, with yours truly receiving the barely passing grade of 66%. Yikes. Not really proud of that. Oh well. D is for Diploma as we used to say in law school.

The rest of the week was a lot of review, which in boulangerie translates into croissants and baguettes every day. The only other thing we did, was spend two days making an Eiffel Tower sculpture entirely out of dough. For what reason, you might rightfully ask—and for which I have no rational answer. When will I ever need a sculpture made out of dough? Your child’s birthday party? It truly boggles the mind that dough as art is a component of LCB training. And, oddly, it was not easy. We made the actual tower, some flowers and other decorations out of different types of dough, but the killer was the liquid dough. The liquid dough looks like chocolate sauce and is tough to manipulate. You are not going to believe it from looking at the pictures, but this actually took me 12 hours. Just embarrassing!

My Eiffel Tower started off ok but my markings are like a 5 year old did it!

This is the completed sculpture —made with 100% dough products. Unfortunately, this one is not mine-it was too terrible to even photograph!

Maybe the Eiffel Tower project was my punishment for skipping class the Thursday before and going to the opera. Which was SO fun and SO exciting! Not only is the Palais Garner beautiful but the people watching was extra fab. The opera on deck was Eugene Onegin which was written by Tchaikovsky. So who do you think was there? You guessed it clever readers—lots of Russians! And man, they were dressed to the nines—way fancier than any other attendees. There were lots of furs, long sparkly dresses and champagne flowing. In fact, other than a bottle of water, the only drink you could order was champagne.

Palais Garnier is a stunner!!

The ceiling of Palais Garnier is by Marc Chagall—Truly Fabulous!!!!

The Russians and their sables

Maybe a bit much??

This guy cracked me up!!

I can’t say that opera is my favorite style of musical art, but I enjoyed the show right up to about 10pm when the second intermission began. At that moment, I decided I could read on line how it all turned out for poor Eugene, and I skipped out and into the night, straight to my bed, as I had yet another 5:30am wake up call the next day.

And by the way, in case you were worried— in an abundance of caution, I ultimately decided to take a peek at my daily grades as I began to prepare for the final practical exam—which is comprised of preparing four items completely from memory— in six hours. After my 66% on the written portion, I figured I had better calculate what the lowest score I can make on the final practical and still pass might be. How is that for ambition and pride in my work!! I was pleasantly surprised to find that (other than the Eiffel Tower debacle) my daily grades ranged from 80-90% on average, which accounts for 45% of the overall grade. So with my 66% on the written exam, I think I really only need something in the 70s on the final to pass. Surely I can make a baguette, a croissant and two other “surprise” recipes to earn my degree in boulangerie?? As a precaution I have been practicing braiding brioche dough every night for a week. For some reason I am just positive it will be on the final and I can’t braid to save my life. Wish me luck!

And keep me posted on the Superbowl tonight-I don’t think I will be awake to watch!

Real life Paris photo—aren’t they the cutest in their little blue and white vests in the middle of Paris!

Croissants and more croissants!

The whole gang

There were trolleys full of brioche

We made croissants and brioches like an enemy invader who lived on butter alone was coming and we had to use every last stick in France to save ourselves from certain death. I have already told you all about the long and arduous process of making croissants, but this was a whole new level. We made them four different ways—which I did not, hitherto, even know existed. The different methods changed how many layers there were and how puffy they were, and also what they tasted like. It was a revelation! Truly, just beyond what anyone wants to know. And the brioches—we made small ones, traditional ones, and giant loaves of brioche. I am going to be making French toast forever here in Paris—as I still don’t know what else to do with it all!

After this marathon of baking, was the dreaded “Performance Review”, which I have written about in the past. Very unfairly, LCB schedules this performance review after a full day of classes and they do it alphabetically, ensuring that I will be the last one with my W last name. Ugh. I waited for about an hour and they had only interviewed four people so far and I was number 12, so I knew it would be two more hours before I got my turn to make up some BS about my future plans in boulangerie. This, after being there eight hours already.

How do I explain to them that I am only doing this for fun, and have zero career ambition? Feeling like a loser and embracing my new freedom from culinary expectations, I impulsively decided to —leave. Yep. That is what I did. I was sitting there thinking to myself, this is three hours out of my life that I could be doing something I want to do instead of sitting here trying to make up a story about why I am here, and what my bread-baking future holds—which is nothing beyond making bread for friends and family. So I put on my coat and told my partner—whose last name begins with a V, that I was out of there. She was not fazed—God bless her.

And—I ran home, changed and went to Le Bristol Hotel in the very fancy 8th arrondissement for a Dior exhibit, showcasing 100+ Dior couture gowns that were going to be auctioned off the next day (today) by a local auction house. First, I gotta say-Le Bristol is beautiful! I have been there many times and it is simply a gorgeous hotel. My head was on a swivel from the time I arrived, and, it may be sacrilege to say so, but I am not sure the hotel did not outshine the gowns.

The flower display in the lobby!

The dresses were interesting, but most were from the 1990s—probably why the lady who owned them was auctioning them off—and, if you have been to the Dior museum here on Avenue Montaigne, which I highly recommend on your next visit to Paris—you have seen the best of what Dior has had to offer over the last eight decades.

You proabably wish you owned this

Or this

It was still très chic and way better than sitting for a performance review with a cranky chef—so I considered it a win and way better use of my time. I think I have forgotten to mention that it is yet again Fashion Week in Paris, and the streets are crammed with long-legged models, wannabes, and very dressed up older ladies, presumably here for the shows. I have seen many an impromptu fashion shoot on the streets over the last few days—guessing that is the wannabes and other aspiring model-types but they take themselves very seriously.

This gal in the middle of the rue has a photographer shooting shots

The funniest scene I have seen (pun intended) was the other day at 6:30am when I was walking to the metro for class, and as I turned the corner onto rue de Buci which is lined with cafes—not nightclubs—just cafes—that probably close around 11 or 12, there, at a table, were two model types and a man—maybe a photographer or boyfriend, all sitting at an outdoor cafe table with drinks still in front of them, smoking cigarettes. God bless the young! How they were still out when no one but me and the trash men were on the street is amazing! I wanted to take a picture but it seemed too invasive, so I have this rather blurry one from a discreet distance down the street, which doesn’t really show you anything. Sorry.

There are cocktails on the table and it is 6:30am on Monday

Today, before class was due to start, we visited a real French bakery, where they are making everything in house. It was interesting—and they had the biggest mixer I have ever seen, or will ever see. It held 80 kilos of dough!

Most of the operations and baking took place in the basement, which was accessed by these super narrow and steep stairs and of course there were no windows and stuff was piled everywhere—30 kilo bags of flour, rolling trolleys, supplies, etc.. I started hyperventilating from the claustrophobia after about 2 minutes, and needed a reviving freshly-baked palmier stat to clear my head. Clearly, working in a bakery is not in my future. Tell that to the performance review people!

Maybe, they too were claustrophobic

In any event, after that I decided to take the day off and go to —the Opera! I have always wanted to see an opera at the Palais Garnier, so I skipped class today and bought myself a ticket. Will let you know if it was worth the wrath of Chef tomorrow.

I am getting to the point where I may never eat baked goods again. Weirdly, I am even eating some of the raw dough as a snack during the day. Bread—baked and unbaked has become the main source of dietary intake for me. I am so puffy that my usually baggy uniform is getting tight and my fingers are like little sausages.

I feel a bit like this giant piece of dough—the blob!

We have reached the half way point in our coursework and we had the “Examen Blanc”, or mock exam for boulangerie this week. Without recipes, we had to make baguettes, pain de campagne (country style bread) and milk breads in two shapes over six hours. It was a lot of pressure. I went to bed early the night before after reviewing my notes, and I met my friends from Group A at 7:00am to discuss proofing times and baking temperatures before we were admitted to the classroom for this practice exam. Yikes! It was not my best showing, as I realized there were many gaps in my knowledge of baking that made it a little dicey to prepare these products soley from memory. Good news— I did learn what I don’t know and will hopefully be better prepared for the actual final exam.

Some overbaked country bread, brioches, and suspiciously shaped baguettes for the mock exam

The rest of the week dragged a little in its repetitiveness-we made croissants again, more baguettes, fougasse, pizza dough, and a host of other breads. So many things that I cannot keep up with it all. At the end of class each day Chef brings out bins that we can put all our excess products in and they are given to the staff and charity, which is great as no one could consume all of this!

Almond croissants and fougasse

Daisy bread and more baguettes

Almond croissants, pain au raisins, seed bread, wheat bread—the list goes on.

Almond croissants, fougasses and more baguettes

The items we donate each day fill several bins like this

The competitive me has been worried about my grades, especially after the mock exam, and I was feeling some anxiety over the whole sitch, which I was sharing with my 24 year-old partner—to which she replied quite guilelessly, that she never checks her grades.

And she didn’t say more. Which made me think— what the hell. She is dialed in. What is the point of stressing about the grades? Who really cares if I get the top grade, the middle grade or the low grade in boulangerie? Not you all. Not me. There really isn’t anyone else who even knows I am here. I am learning cooking chemistry (which makes me feel super smart), and I am in Paris, and all is well. Sometimes the younger set has wisdom, that I either never had, or forgot! Anyway—it was super liberating.

As a result, after the exam, I came home, took a shower, and went out with my husband for drinks and dinner at Hotel Costes —always awesome people watching. We drank wine and martinis and ate NO bread products—thank God! A fun evening was had and we wandered home quite satisfied. Sure, I regretted it the next morning at 5:30am—but right then—it felt fine! The lesson for me—doing is the important thing, not the score from a chef eval. I am not opening a boulangerie or a restaurant— this is an educational-keep your brain engaged to stave off senility—sideline for me. So bring on the cocktails and lets have fun in Paris!

In that spirit , we have made the most of the last few nights. On Friday we splurged and went to Guy Savoy, a three star Michelin dining room that was pretty outstanding. While I did not actually eat their bread, I did cast a judging eye upon it and decided my breads were just as good as the ones Guy is making! Even without the bread we managed to consume 15 courses and we rolled home, stuffed, at about midnight!

the caviar amuse bouche

A most delicious John Dory

The first of about five desserts

Between the bread, the eating out, and the wine, I probably better start on a workout program. Getting in my 11,000 steps each day is not cutting it. Maybe its time to join a gym here in Paris. There is actually a gym at the base of LCB, and I pass it every day wondering who in their right mind would work out there. It is so dark, and the ceiling is so low that I kind of get unmotivated just looking at it. But a workout is a workout and this would be pretty convenient —maybe I better pop in on Monday and check it out.

The French don’t do gyms well

On a last note — the weather in Paris has been splendid. There have even been a few days I have been outside in the afternoon without a coat and gloves—which is kind of amazing. I don’t think Paris is packed with tourists right now, but whoever is here, is outside and enjoying the sunshine. It is not often that the weather in Paris in January is better than it is in Dallas —but there you go—blame it on climate change.

The quai at the Pont Neuf is packed today!

We made baguettes every day this week, as well as a host of other baked goods. But it is the baguette, and the daily improvement in my skill at creating it- making the dough, shaping it, letting it rise, cutting the slits at the exactly appropriate angle, and finally, overseeing the baking of it at a specific temperature, with the right amount of steam added, that produces this —dare I say, daily bread. There are so many tasks in our lives that we do in a slapdash or hurried manner, and we forget to take pride in them—even though they are important for ourselves and/or our loved ones. We take ourselves for granted and don’t appreciate what we create. LCB—even though it has so many annoying characteristics— always brings a refreshing, remembered perspective that creating something that is real and good—even if it is such a small thing—is important to our individual sense of self worth.

I was frustrated by the slow pace, and even bored with waiting for the dough to rise, and the baking to finish— and I lost sight of the purpose. The purpose is to do your best and put your heart and attention into something, so that when it is complete you feel satisfaction. I am not sure there are that many things that I do in a day that bring me satisfaction. I have lists to cross off, meetings to attend, places to be, and things that must be done— but doing them does not always translate into simple satisfaction. And that is totally on me.

I think one has to take on a task purposefully and with commitment to feel satisfaction with the outcome. I am sure that sounds dopey—it does while I am writing it. So maybe I am not expressing it correctly, but, I do believe, at the end of week two, that making a baguette is not the waste of time I said it was 10 days ago. I am getting a very positive sense of accomplishment from the process of doing this every day. Maybe it is like religion or yoga—if you really practice it—it’s not your own skill level you gain satisfaction from —it is your commitment and doing your best, that brings the fulfillment.

This is just one day’s baked goods

Other than baking on the daily, I find myself growing more and more interested in a little mystery on rue Dauphine. For some years now I have been curious about a store on the street that I will, for purposes of this blog, call, Swimday. As I have mentioned in the past, the main street that sides our building here in Paris is rue Dauphine, and I am sure I have also said, that if you had to live your whole life on rue Dauphine and were never permitted anywhere else— you could do it. To refresh, there is a pharmacy, tailor, nail salon, massage parlor, many restaurants, a palm reader, rug dealer, liquor store, dog groomer, clothing and jewelry stores, dry cleaner, five art galleries, four bars and yes, even a Mexican restaurant (essential to survival for all Texans) that bears the unfortunate name—”Fajitas”—which they don’t even have on the menu. However, when desperate—there are chips and some Old El Paso-type salsa.

Not my favorite but it’ll do in a pinch!

So, while rue Dauphine is mostly a completely known quantity to me in Paris—”Swimday” is the one place that I can’t quite figure out. Already, even in title alone, it is slightly on the strange side, no?

First, Swimday** is obviously an English word, but it is not one that makes an enticing retail name; and second, when have you ever been to a pool in Paris? It is such an odd concept that people here might be lounging around their non-existent apartment pools or non-existent public pools, that it defies logic as to why a store like this would find appeal in Paris. Even if it were called Beachday, that would make more sense- as people in Paris go on vacation and visit the beach. But, they do not hang out poolside in Paris. Additionally, the store displays quite a bit of athleisure wear which is also NOT a thing in Paris. You will see no one on the street in their tennis outfit, workout leggings or sweatsuits. It is just not considered apparel fit for public street-walking. These observations taken all together have led to the raising of my mental eyebrow concerning the true nature of this establishment

The weirdness of the merchandise is the real head scratcher, however. For a few years now, since my daughter and I have been paying attention and laughing about this storefront as a concept, we have noticed that the merchandise remains the same—season in and season out, year after year. After a year or so of noticing this same merch—we began taking photos to document the fact. Every time either of us would arrive in Paris, one of the first things we would do is stroll down rue Dauphine and take a look at the window of Swimday and snap a quick pic. Originally, we would send each other the pictures with a crying laughing emoji, but after a while, we began to grow suspicious.

How, you might inquire, were we able to identify specific merchandise so easily that we knew it was the same all the time. Very simply—we identified two outfits—pink and green tracksuits which look a little like a 2000ish collab between Juicy Couture and Lilly Pulitzer. Not something that would seem to be super popular today, or really ever. And also, not popular at all in France—either by color or style. But also very distinctive.

January 2026

October 2025

April 2025

October 2024

July 2024

December 2023

These are just a few of the pictures we have archived of the pink and green tracksuits over the last two years, all in different seasons.

The questions we keep asking ourselves are many. Are they ever selling these pink and green tracksuits, or are the same ones just living in Swimday season after season? Or— do they sell them and replace them with the exact same ones year after year? And who buys them? Not French people. Hard for me to believe any Americans either. The Italians? The Chinese? I don’t think so. Who is the customer in Paris buying pink and green tracksuits??

Which then made me start thinking a little more critically. And my VERY rusty criminal lawyer brain started whispering—maybe Swimday is just a front for some money-laundering operation and they don’t really sell anything ever and don’t care. That would explain the randomness of the merchandise and its continued sameness. And then I started thinking about the guys that hang around a few doors down at the local tabac. I have always been suspicious of these guys. Every day they pull standing tables out of the tabac, no matter what the weather, and drink beer or coffee on the sidewalk, while they smoke cigarettes and look kind of tough. The tabac has this very presumptuous name, “Les Gagnants”, in giant letters above it; which translates to “The Winners” —at which I have always snickered, as these people do not appear to be the winners of anything. The place is a little creepy, and definitely not welcoming. There is no door—just these strips of heavy duty plastic—like a carwash-that make it hard to see inside and slap you when you try to enter.

The thugs of rue Dauphine

Maybe there is a tie between the “The Winners” and Swimday. A little organized crime going on right here in the 6th. You have your money laundering front and some muscle just next door to enforce —something—whatever it is that needs enforcing in money-laundering situations. I don’t know—just speculating here. Maybe I am being a little dramatic—but you can rest assured that this is something I am lowkey keeping my eye on until they change out those outfits!

On second thought, maybe this is the part where I say this is a work of pure fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is only coincidental. There, that ought to do it. Selfishly, I am thinking about the scaffolding just outside my bedroom window. Very easy access if a person were so inclined. If you don’t see me in Dallas in March—please investigate.

One could easily walk from the scaffolding right into the bedroom!

Best 90 euros I spent all weekend!

It turns out I really needed the flowers to perk me up, as Saturday was a beat down! We worked like slaves and made so many baked goods it was like we were our own Viennoiserie basket at an upscale hotel breakfast buffet. We made baguettes (again) but with fermented dough, we made whole wheat loaves and we made brioche in two different formats. It was exhausting! But I actually learned a lot and really settled in with my little boulangerie group.

My Saturday baked goods

By the end of the day on Saturday, energy fading, the entire class was eating handfuls of the sugar pellets that decorate the brioche, straight out of the 50lb bag while telling each other our life stories as we waited for the dough to finish rising and be ready for baking. In our group, titled—Boulangerie A—there are 12 of us, and, as you can guess, they they are all super young! My current partner is a great girl from Minnesota who is 24 years old. I adore her, and she is quite talented without being competitive—just my speed! In addition to my partner, the other ten people in A group are from all over the world— India, Malaysia, Spain, Puerto Rico, Indonesia, Taiwan, France, Turkey and the Philippines. It is very international! I love hearing their stories of how they ended up at LCB!

Boulangerie A

By the time we were released Saturday night, several of the group had plans to go out, but I nearly crawled in exhaustion to the metro, and was asleep by 10pm after a quick phone call with my husband— who is in Antarctica and fingers crossed will soon join me in Paris. He was having way more fun than I was—it was croquet and wine night at the base there (could I make that up??) so it was a quick call.

Croquet night in Antarctica!

On Sunday I walked down to Shakespeare and Co. and book-shopped for about an hour—coming home with two treasures— a current crime novel ( my favorite genre) and Bonjour Tristesse (obligatory French literature). I then wandered into a Korean beauty products store, strangely attracted to its pink and red, Hello Kitty vibe, and decided to investigate what all the hype was about. I loaded up on all the products the nice Korean lady wanted to sell me. Sadly, now at home, I cannot read how to apply them, nor do I know what they are supposed to achieve. It’s kind of like beauty roulette! Oh well…

I finished off the day with a nice meal at Les Editeurs—a personal favorite for dining alone in the 6th—and a late evening mass at St. Germain des Près. The day went way too fast!

My favorite bookstore in Paris always has a line to get in!

Beauty products galore

Les Editeurs

As fast as Sunday went, Monday came even quicker. Today we traded places with the Boulangerie B group and had a new Chef and a new classroom. Boy, was this a different experience! Chef today was old school! And when I say old school, I mean there were a lot of new rules and a lot more formality. First, was the required “Bonjour Chef” and “Oui Chef” in unison, to every request or observation he made. Additionally, he has a whole host of preferences for the ways things get done—very different from our very laid-back, young chef from last week. This is the LCB I remember!

Chef began with a long talk on how the dough speaks to him and how he does not let it master him. He is the master, and the dough must do as he says. It was kind of hypnotizing—I, like the dough, was totally going to do whatever he commanded.

He is also giving us our first grades! Last week nothing was graded— which probably contributed to Young Chef’s laissez-faire attitude. Now we are in grading competition and Chef is exacting. He measured the length of our baguettes to check if they were exactly 25 centimeters, and he noted the angle of the scoring on the olive bread to see if it was 45 degrees.

Yikes! I think we all took a deep breath and pulled up our big boy pants after he arrived. In some ways it is good though. I am here to learn and I need to know the rules (of which he had many) in order to play the game —so I am ok with our new chef. He is also so quintessentially a bread baker—look at him!

Our new Chef

We made milk baguettes—slathered in butter

Olive bread

Will update you on grades as I receive. Not sure this olive bread was my best effort. I am going to have to step it up now that we have the big man giving us grades!

Well, we are only on day four of Boulangerie and I have already learned two important things. There are no breaks in boulangerie, and I am sad to say, I would rather pay 2 euros for a baguette than bake one!

To begin: Monday was the first day of my new adventure at LCB and it started with a party-I am using the word party loosely as LCB really doesn’t “party”, but there was a welcome event, and there was pretend champagne, and king’s cake so… who’s to say it wasn’t?

Not sure what this was—but it was not champagne even though the bucket said so!

Better than the faux party, the highlight was that I received a nifty new kit! It is different than the knife kit—and bonus—it is styled as a backpack so you can actually heft it on to your shoulders to more evenly distribute the weight. And it has tons of fun things it; like rolling pins and a flour dusting brush, a bread knife and silpat for baking on a tray. Additionally, we get to wear this cool new bakery cap that distinguishes the boulangerie people from the rest of LCB. I like it better than the little army cap that we wore for cuisine and patisserie. It never sat on my head correctly and always got stuck in my hair net.

New Gear!

Chock full of fun bakery-themed items!

Bathroom selfie of new cap

The welcome out of the way, Tuesday was straight down to business —making baguettes and preparing fermented dough. The baguettes were made by hand kneading, which is difficult, sticky, and requires a lot of slapping the dough on the granite counter in an effort to strengthen the “ gluten network”. I am going to have very strong arm and back muscles when I finish boulangerie. I kneaded and cut my dough for a solid twenty minutes before Chef said I was ready to pre-shape my baguettes and let them rise for the first time.

Relieved to have completed the kneading, my happiness was abruptly cut short, when instead of getting a well-deserved break, we moved right into preparing the fermented dough that will be used for a variety of future baked goods. This was a group effort and was made for the entire class—it had four kilos of flour in it and we got to use this giant industrial mixer with the biggest dough hook I have ever seen!

Big Momma

The fermented dough was not difficult, but it was time consuming, and the day went by fast with no lunch break. Meanwhile, outside the window it snowed and snowed. By the time I left on Tuesday, my feet were aching and I was so hungry that I stopped for lasagna at a very mediocre Italian place around the corner. The streets were covered in snow and I half hoped class would be canceled for Wednesday.

Snow on the Pont Neuf

That did not happen. I trudged to LCB at 6:30am yesterday in snowy Paris, intent on making three baguettes, which took from 7am till 2pm in the afternoon. I was on my feet from the time I left the house— with no food and no sitting—until I arrived home at 2:30pm. I now know there is a reason why chefs wear clogs—they are, oddly, easier on the feet than even tennis shoes.

But I digress—back to baguettes. I am just going to say it—hand-kneading baguettes is a dead art. It is so hard and takes so long that for sure no one in a commercial enterprise is doing it, and not sure that anyone else is either —other than for their own bragging rights.

These are pictures of like step three and step 20 in the process

All the while we were hard at work, snow fell in Paris for a second day. It may not seem like big doings to you, but snow in Paris is kind of a big deal. Especially when it snows hour after hour for two days! Snow aside, my baguettes were beautiful—though Chef said the slits I cut were not uniform, and they were a tad overbaked. However, that was not my fault—the team leaders were in charge of the ovens, and Lord knows they were shoveling them in an out as fast as they could, but it was hot and they are heavy!!

View out the window of the boulangerie kitchen

You knead hard and carry a big stick in boulangerie!

Not bad for the first week!

While the baguettes were baking we started making croissants and pain au chocolate. Spoiler alert: These and baguettes are going to be on the final exam and we are going to make them 10 times in the next six weeks. Mon Dieu! So much work! As you know from my stint at cuisine, croissants take forever-three rises of dough, lots of rolling, and a lot of resting in the fridge so the butter doesn’t melt from the friction. Fun times.

After we progressed to the final stage of proofing the croissants which takes a few hours, we were allowed to leave. It had stopped snowing by then but was very slushy, and I knew it was going to get slick come sundown. Not to be deterred however, I rushed home, dropped my things and ran up to the Musee d’Orsay before it closed, so I could see the last days of the John Singer Sargent exhibition.

It was well worth the trot up the quai. I loved seeing all the portraits on display that he had painted while living in Paris in the 1880s. My favorite, and many say his most scandalous, is Madame X. She of the low cut neckline and bare arms! Just shocking!

Shameless hussy!

Today came dark and early once again, and our task was to finish the croissants and also make some decorative breads. The croissants and pain au chocolate turned out perfectly and I ate three of them on the metro home because, as usual, I was starved. Grrrr…

Proud of these

The decorative breads were kind of funny and strange— they are supposed to be little hedgehogs. Why is that good to eat? I know not. But they did turn out kind of cute with their raisin eyes and poppy seed backs.

I am reduced to whimsical baked goods

Tonight I rest. And maybe order in. No class tomorrow—it got moved to Saturday afternoon and evening—boo. I detest Saturday night classes. But tomorrow is a free day and the Soldes (sales) have started!!! Cannot wait to hit the town and find some bargains!

On a last note, below is a picture of my hand after just four days. It is so dry here and I am washing my hands about 50 times a day. I am going to need a weeklong manicure when I come home.

boulangerie is hard on the nails

I love Paris and I will always love Paris, but it is fair to say that I love it more when it is easy than difficult. I arrived a day ago and was greeted by this terrible sight. See below!

Mon Dieu!

Our entire apartment block is covered in scaffolding and workmen are nearly in my kitchen and living room with me. I was making coffee this morning in my bathrobe and two guys, who were literally two feet outside my window were just watching me (cause obviously they were not working). It was like they were in the kitchen with me. I felt a little guilty for being all comfy and cozy indoors, and briefly considered asking them if they wanted a hot refill, but then I got so annoyed by their hanging around that I just shut the shades. They will have to get their own coffee.

Too close for comfort

The French take their scaffolding very seriously and spend a lot of time just setting it up before doing any real work. You would think we are Notre Dame here with all the vans, workers not doing any work, and the constant yelling, smoking, and eating outside the window. According to our building manager this will be going on for an entire year —a complete refurbishment of the exterior of the building. According to this same manager—when you live in a “historic” building you are required to ”keep up” the exterior in an appropriate manner,—which, to the best of my understanding, signifies putting up miles of scaffolding, but not really doing any work.

In addition to the general annoyance of all our windows being covered with scaffolding—the bulk of the time there is also advertising in a giant vinyl sheet overlaying the windows as well. The building owners are making a killing renting the front of the building to luxury brands to line with advertising. This is what has been up since summer. Apparently Lacoste is the best we can do.

Just what you want covering your view

Our building is having a bit of a renaissance inside as well as out, and the entire floor above our apartment is being renovated. Sounds like a good thing right? But no, the noise from the jackhammering is just appalling, and in December when we were not here, there was a leak in the apartment above that was left unattended over a weekend and a portion of our kitchen ceiling ultimately collapsed! I am uber grateful I was not here as I am sure it was super scary when it happened.

Yikes!

Fortunately, all has been remediated and it is back to its former intact state. Hopefully, nothing else can go wrong for the next two months while I am here—Fingers are well and truly crossed.

On a final note, I am enclosing this real life Paris photo which just cracks me up. This toilet on the street was actually on the bridge between the Île de la Cité and the Île St. Louis, which is mostly residential, and I am wondering how in the world it got there and why no one else is even looking at it. If a toilet fell on the street right by you —wouldn’t you look? You know, like wow—there is a toilet just here in the crosswalk. I guess other people’s remodeling projects are having problems as well.

Not even a glance

Tomorrow my new course at LCB begins and I am signing off so I can dust off my uniform and sharpen my knives for this next adventure in Boulangerie!

The answer is the newly opened Dior Cafe in Highland Park Village. It is elegant and so, so French! It is decorated in a modern, but très chic and comfortable way that allows one to absolutely believe that she was somehow transported directly to Paris for lunch. Upon entry to the Dior store, you climb the staircase to the second floor and are immediately welcomed by smiling young women who eagerly show you to a perfectly set table. The decor is not so fancy, but it makes you feel special and coddled — for example, beside each table is a little poof in the same fabric as the chairs, whose sole purpose is to gently receive and nestle your little handbag. I love that thoughtfulness. Another kind touch was the immediate offer of champagne upon arrival—now I am not a regular day-drinker, but still—so festive and welcoming! The day I was there I also got to meet the executive chef and creator of the menu—three-star Michelin Chef Dominique Crenn. I totally have a crush on her and am completely starstruck. As you all know, food is a passion of mine and to meet this amazing chef who has created so many unbelievable concepts was just thrilling to me! The food was delicious and just the right portion size for a yummy lunch that still left room for a coffee and gorgeously delicious dessert.

The whole Dior team! With Cheff Crenn in the glasses and blazer

Note the poof for your handbag between the chairs

All the food had motifs from Dior incorporated in their presentation

After lunching at Dior, I am now unexpectedly in Paris and could not be more thrilled! I wasn’t sure it was going to work out, so that makes it even more special to be here. My daughter is on break from university and we are spending some mother-daughter time together. As soon as I arrived and unpacked I headed out for a snack at Les Deux Magots—touristy I know—but I can’t help it—I love it. Well, lo and behold, upon my approach, I saw the scaffolding and the fenced in outer area where the newish part of the cafe has been torn down. The entire place was closed! There is a wrap around sign on the exterior that says 140 years—so I am guessing it is not closed for good but instead, receiving a long overdue facelift. I hope they don’t modernize it too much —I kind of liked it the way it was.

The new part of the cafe is torn down and also La Société behind it. I hope they bring both back!

Instead I went next door to Cafe Flore—equally as famous, but not a place I often go. I really liked it too, though the interior is not nearly as charming as Deux Magots. The waiter was super kind and indulged me in speaking French, though he clearly knew I wasn’t from around these parts, and as an added bonus I had the best quiche lorraine I have had in Paris in FOREVER! It was seriously yummy! So bonus! New place to go for when you want plain old French comfort food and don’t have reservations.

Yesterday, my daughter and I visited the Louvre Couture exhibit. It was very cool to see fashion mixed in with decorative arts. The gowns looked amazing amongst the apartments of state, though it was difficult to imagine that some of these designs were actually ever worn.

Not sure what to make of this, but it is big! Yohji Yamamoto.

Fit for a queen. John Galliano

A gothic dress made of??? Iris van Herpen

While in Paris, we discovered that the Pompidou is going to close for refurbishment this month and will be closed for some time, so we scooted out to pay a last visit before the renovation begins. I almost never visit the Pompidou and I don’t know why—it is the keeper of modern art in Paris picking up where the Musee d’Orsay leaves off around 1950. I think I have never loved the exterior with its pipes and exposed scaffolding—meaning to look as if it had been turned inside out— like the exoskeleton of some giant, ungainly creature.

Maybe it is time for a redo.

New favorite painting! Henri Matisse

People picnic in front of the museum on the hard cobblestones

On a final note, a mean clown yelled at my daughter outside the museum. I fear it will scar her. It has already scarred me—he was so unfriendly and unhappy-looking with his half-deflated balloons. What could have led him to be an angry clown?? I am going to be worrying about him for awhile.

Real life Paris clown. No tips for him.

Beautiful store front windows at La Samaritaine

A new favorite neighborhood with a long pedestrian street

In contrast, January 1 ended up being a way bigger evening than I anticipated. It started with an impromptu drinks party chez nous with some friends from Dallas who we had run into earlier in the week. There are always people from Dallas in Paris and, curiously, we alway see them down the street on rue de Buci. You can just count on it.

After our little drinks party we set off for a bar called “The Moose”, which I had never been to, but is apparently the go-to bar in Paris for American sporting events. Secret’s out- you now know where all the Texans are hiding in Paris when they are not on rue de Buci. The UT v Arizona State game was set for 7pm and the place was loaded with Longhorns—even the alumni president was there handing out Texas stickers for our lapels.

Texans galore in Paris

I cannot brag on the service or quality of the food and beverage at the Moose, but if you are in the mood for an American football game or if you are missing your fellow Texans whilst in Paris—this is your spot. Luckily, Texas had a substantial lead by the third quarter and we had tickets to a jazz concert across town, so we bid adieu to our Longhorn friends and took off to discover our inner jazz vibe.

We headed on foot to the jazz club, and as my mapping directions got us close, we found ourselves on a little pedestrian side street with a whole host of jazz clubs. There were lines out the door for various spots, all advertising live music. Our jazz club was called Le Baiser Salé (The Dirty Kiss), which I gotta say, kind of made me wonder a little bit in advance if this was really a jazz club or if it was a “jazz club” (winky, winky). Our daughter had given us the tickets to this show for Christmas, but she had never been there either, so we were all in the dark.

When we entered, the downstairs was like an ordinary bar/bistro type of place, but then you flash your tickets and get directed to the back of the house and up a creaky old flight of stairs to the tiniest little room you ever saw that could hold a band, and somehow, 80 patrons. The itty-bitty room had strange seating as well—three rows of really hard, narrow church pews arranged in a U around the minute stage. Obviously, since it is winter, everyone had a coat, but there was nowhere to put them except on your lap in your pew, which made it even tighter quarters as we were packed together like little sardines in a tin. In each church pew though, there was a little drop down tray table in front of you, à la coach class on an airplane, to hold your drink-if you could get the lone waiter to bring you one. It was some pretty interesting people watching— with some old folks, some young folks and some just plain strange folks.

We were not familiar with the artist so we waited patiently to see what it was all about. Finally, about an hour after our arrival the band took the stage and began to play. I am going to confess I do not know a lot about jazz, but the one thing I can tell you now is that jazz is not dance music. It was very tonal and maybe -and I use this word with, not a slight amount of trepidation--intellectual. At one point Les asked me what language the singer was singing in, and I had to hazard a guess that it was just a made up bunch of words -which I have come to find out was what they call “scatting”. A lot of bibbity shoo la la boo kind of thing. Interesting. Unintelligible. Funky.

The pews with stairs to the right

Strange, yes….

Life is an education though, and we gamely clapped along. At the end, we were exiting down the rickety staircase with strains of the bass lingering in my brain, when Les could not help but check the score of the UT game, and lo and behold Texas had lost the lead and it was tied up and going to overtime.

This was hours later and I could not believe the game was still going. We have no tv in the apartment, so we ran from the jazz bar to the nearest spot with wifi and we finished watching it on his phone huddled in a bar halfway back to the apartment. Texas ultimately prevailed (Hook ‘em) but it was after midnight when we headed down deserted streets for home.

After the jazz and football I was ready for a good old-fashioned art exhibit, and so we finally headed to the Orsay for the Caillebotte exhibition, which was fantastic. Highly recommend if you get to Paris in the next couple of weeks. My favorite Caillebotte painting -which was previously housed at the Cox estate in Dallas—Jeune Homme à sa Fenêtre, was on display, and I was thrilled to be reunited with it and to view the many other treasures of the exhibit. It is said that Caillebotte is a painter of men—which is true— women are few and far between in his paintings, but what I love most about his work is how perfectly he paints architectural elements of Paris. Things like ironwork on a balcony, stonework on the buildings, and the wood floors of Paris apartments.

My personal favorite

A beautiful dinner at the recently reopened Maxims followed this, and it was pure decadence. The interior of Maxims is so grand and so over the top it made us feel like extras in a big budget, period piece on turn of the century high society in Paris. We sipped champagne, dined on lamb chops and scallops with caviar— and ordered a flaming dessert, prepared tableside. Quite dramatic! We then repaired to the upstairs bar for more glamorous-ness and struck up a friendship with a delightful Irish couple with whom we have vowed to stay in touch since we will be coming to Dublin to see our daughter and they seemed like a ton of fun to hang out with. New friends!

Check out that ceiling!

Top floor cigar bar—the ceiling is tented but it is open air—it’s like the casbah!

A day of shopping seemed just what was necessary the following day and I was up early and ready to make the rounds down Miracle Mile-or as they call it here- rue St. Honoré. You know the euro has dipped to $1.03, and I was feeling quite flush as I sashayed from one boutique to the next, snapping up ‘bargains’ along the way. Feeling very energized by my incredible cost savings ( you are welcome Les) I wandered in to La Madeleine, a church I have long wanted to see inside, but which has been closed for as many years as I can recall. It, like Notre Dame has had a full refurbishment and was fairly gleaming in the late afternoon sun, begging me to visit. The interior was gorgeous with a triple-domed ceiling that I was completely unaware existed from my observation of the exterior. Just another amazing piece of architecture with little fanfare in Paris.

Who knew this was even here?

The altar at La Madeleine

How many extraordinary churches must there be? Paris without doubt has more amazing buildings, fountains, libraries, squares, museums etc. than you could visit in a lifetime. I think that is why it always holds my attention so completely. The variety of things to see, places to walk, beauty to absorb— is endless. I hope y’all will come visit soon.

We arrived in Paris Saturday on the usual Flight 48 American Airlines, that, as luck would have it, arrived right on time. We had been hearing of all the delays out of DFW and were feeling very lucky to have gotten here on time and sober. I would like to say I am above it and have better sense, but those long delays always result in unplanned desperation drinking in bad airport lounges before boarding, which then turn into terrible hangovers upon arrival and ruin the whole first day—dodged that bullet!

I have been looking so forward to this return to Paris, and we have hit the ground running! My to-do list includes investigating some venues in Paris for a party I am planning, attending the Caillebotte exhibit at the Musee D’Orsay which contains one of my all time favorite paintings, and finally and most importantly-paying homage to the restoration of Notre Dame.

I never fail to visit Notre Dame when I am in Paris and have spent the last five years closely following the work being done and anxiously anticipating the day this symbol of Paris would reopen her doors. For an entire week prior to departure I had been trying to queue on line to get time-stamped tickets to get a glimpse inside the new Notre Dame with no luck—my computer would just keep staring back at me with a countdown of minutes until I would be allowed to make a reservation, but the minutes passed and nothing ever happened—I literally spent hours in “the virtual waiting room”, staring at my computer screen, never gaining entry to the reservations page. So frustrating.

As soon as we arrived in Paris we walked to Notre Dame to scope it out and one quick look at the exterior parvis immediately confirmed why we couldn’t get tickets—there were throngs of people trying to get in and the lines were snaking around the building. I was a little despondent about our chances of getting a tour of the inside when I saw a separate line for the mass service. Wheels started turning and Les and I decided we would try attending the mass service on the following day. We consoled ourselves with a visit to Augustin at the wine bar and had a delicious meal and yummy bottle of wine to round out a perfect first evening.

Gobs of people trying to in to Notre Dame

A yummy winter Pithivier—pigeon pie. The photo is so red because we were sitting under the neon sign. Photography — not my strong suit.

Sunday dawned and we dressed for mass and crossed our fingers that we would be able to get in. Being the proud Catholic that I am, I marched authoritatively up to the queue for the 11:30am service as if Notre Dame were my home parish. The line was still very long— but I had faith that they were going to do all they could to let the worshippers in. We waited patiently, and sure enough as the church bells began their call to the faithful, we were admitted, and actually got seats for the service. It was a beautiful mass with all the pomp and circumstance that I am sure you have seen via television coverage of Notre Dame’s reopening. The enormous organ was clear and loud and the choir was glorious. There were no less than four priests conducting the mass, incense was wafting, the church bells were chiming, and the entire nave was packed with people. It was something very special and unique and I am so grateful to have been a part of it.

The new interior of Notre Dame

We were even able to receive communion, and that gave me an unfettered, close look at the altar and the remodeling that has occurred. The first thing that really strikes you when you enter is how luminously white the interior now is. If you have visited Notre Dame in the past before the fire you will recall that 850 years of soot and ash pretty much colored everything in the interior a dull grey. Which, oddly, I liked. It gave you confidence that you were, indeed, in a church that was 850 years old. Now however, it has been cleaned, dare I say with what appears to be nearly toothbrush-scrubbing attention to every pillar and post and the result is startlingly bright. Only the old stone floor, worn smooth and dull by the millions of feet who have trod upon it, looked familiar. New, shiny gold chandeliers adorned the aisles, and in a concession to modernity, the old, rather large altar that was destroyed in the fire, has been replaced with something so small and nondescript that I mistook it for the baptismal font ( I wan’t wearing my glasses). Behind it was still the statue of the Pietà, but with the new petite and plain altar, it appeared farther back and maybe a little less powerful. I am not sure I liked it, but it was an interesting marriage of Gothic construction and contemporary furnishings.

Original Pietà

The new altar reminds me of a bathtub

The coolest thing though, was behind the altar at the back of the nave, there is a giant gold-lit circle with a little oculus in the middle, in which will be suspended the Crown of Thorns, purported to be worn by Jesus upon his death. It was a riveting presentation, more along the lines of a modern art installation piece, and will really draw attention to this ancient artifact. Previously, I believe it was just behind some dusty glass in a case, but honestly, I really don’t even remember where it was housed. Now, it is majestically illuminated for all to enjoy

The new home of the Crown of Thorns

The chapels on the sides of the body of the church have also all been redone and the statuary and paintings are greatly refreshed. The whole of it was something so different from what it was before that my head was on a swivel and I could barely take it all in. One standout item, that seemed particularly strange and out of place, was a round sales desk with all kinds of items for purchase—from books on Notre Dame to rosaries and candles and other religious paraphernalia. Just like a museum bookshop but right in the middle of the church. A little commercial, but I guess they gotta pay for this restoration somehow.

It is amazing to me that people from all over the world have come to Paris with the same goal of seeing Notre Dame again after five long years of restoration. All around us people were speaking in more languages than I could even identify. It truly is an icon and inspiration to the whole world. Even the homily (sermon) was quite upbeat (the topic was family) which is not always the case at Catholic services so I think the priests are equally as excited as the visitors. All in all, I was thrilled to have gotten to experience the magic of the mass -albeit with 5,000 other people, but you know the old saying about beggars and choosers.

Needing a little post-lunch nap, we settled in to the apartment and lit a fire—see below—or what passes for a fire in a Parisian apartment. It actually did throw off some BTUs though, which was great as it is pretty cold here and our old radiators are not putting out as much heat as I would like. Maybe it was an illusion, but we felt very cozy inside while the gray skies outside made me shiver just to peek out the window.

Our faux fire

Last night we dipped in to Cheval Blanc across the river for a much-loved cheeseburger at the bar of Tout Paris and knocked back a couple of their signature cocktails while admiring the beautiful Christmas decor. Paris is decorated to the nines for the holidays. Even our little street has decor hanging above and Christmas trees below.

Rue Dauphine looks very festive!

The enormous real tree in Cheval Blanc!

Yummy French 75!

It was straight to bed after that as the jet lag was hitting hard. But there is much more to see and do and I will definitely be reporting on our New Year’s Eve plans—can’t wait to celebrate!

Life changing.

Ravello may be one perfect spot here on earth. If you don’t believe in God -go there, you might change your mind. It is not glitzy or super fashion-y —the scenery is the star. Dramatic mountains, deep blue Tyrrhenian Sea, small boats scudding across the blue below, while white clouds float across the blue above. Lemon trees everywhere. Jacaranda, hibiscus and wisteria hanging over pergolas, half- walls and garden gates. The hillsides trellised with grape vines and olive trees. Same as it has been since Roman times. Only the cars and modern clothing give it away.

We landed in Naples, rented a cute little cabriolet and sped into the countryside hunting Ravello. We climbed higher and higher into the mountains-traversing the switchbacks like seasoned Italian drivers. Though I was the passenger, I still white-knuckled the one-lane passes up the mountain-with no guard rail and no telling what was coming down from the opposite direction, ascending each curve was a little act of faith.

We arrived in Ravello in the afternoon sun and were instantly whisked inside the lobby of our hotel, and given a cool just-pressed lemonade to drink while we waited for the usual handing over of passports, presentations of credit cards and explanations of the amenities on property. This is usually boring stuff, but in Ravello you have an incredible view all the while you wait. We didn’t mind at all.

The view from the hotel bar

As we entered our room, we looked out the window and realized we had a beautiful terrace overlooking the sea. Ravello is a few thousand feet up from the water so there is no beach, but the views of the mountains and sea are unrivaled. We looked at each other and immediately realized we were of like mind—call the realtor—we are moving here!

View from our balcony

All the views in Ravello are gorgeous. There is not one ugly view anywhere. The sea views are sublime, but also the ancient town square with its church, outdoor cafes and medieval fortifications were so charming -it looked like a movie set.

The town square at night, with a small orchestra playing on the church steps

Day one we ventured into the tiny town and wandered around. At the opposite end of the town is an aristocratic villa dating from the 11th century with beautiful gardens that is now a hotel called Villa Cimbrone. It has a famous terrace with views of the sea that made my breath catch. Simply stunning.

Villa Cimbrone—best view I have ever seen

Villa Cimbrone courtyard

The entire town of Ravello is built into the mountainside, clinging precariously to the cliff and everywhere are stairs to take you up and down to all the unique little corners of the town. Ravello is definitely not for the infirm. We explored the town for most of the morning touring Villa Rufulo, with its cascading gardens and the petite Duomo on the main square, both surrounded by lots of little local shops to peek into for that perfect Italian souvenir.

As the sun got warmer and higher in the sky we decided to put on our swimsuits and have lunch by the pool at the hotel. And what a pool it was! The infinity edge pool looks straight out at the mountains and the sea. The pool was not only gorgeous but the waitstaff were fantastic and it was not a mob scene or really any scene at all. It was all very low-key glam. Nobody holding court, no tacky displays of excess, no dancing on tables-just people-couples almost exclusively, engaged in conversation or having lunch- no pretensions at all.

An afternoon well spent

After lounging around the pool most of the afternoon, we knew a good meal was in the cards. The hotel’s fancier restaurant welcomed us that evening, and the meal was one of the best I have had in Italy. There were several set tasting menus and we eventually settled on the “earth” menu (read classic) which was very Italian! Locally grown tomatoes from nearby Mt Vesuvius, homemade pasta, eggplant grown in their garden and a beef ragu-all perfect. We paired all of that Italian deliciousness with a yummy Brunello made with sangiovese -something I don’t usually drink, and I was very impressed. The “Let Yourself Be Guided” 7 course menu was intriguing as well, and we made a mental note to have it another night-especially after seeing the second item-"shrimps on excursion.” We decided that suited us -a couple of shrimps on excursion, and what a lovely excursion!

The following day we took the hotel’s complimentary shuttle into Amalfi-which sits at sea level below Ravello—it is not that far —maybe a mile or two but takes thirty minutes by car because of the one-lane, winding mountain road. It was very lively and busy and right on the water. We saw several beach clubs with umbrellas set up- south of France style— in long rows, but we did not explore as we immediately boarded a boat bound for Positano. We cruised down the Mediterranean parallel to the coast, ogling all the beautiful hillside homes, picking our favorites for our future dream life on the Amalfi Coast.

Approaching Positano with its colorful homes and shops, it appeared as a beautiful little jewel snugly set in the hillside and we couldn’t wait to disembark.

First look at Positano

Unfortunately, two thousand other people on the cruise ships moored nearby had the same idea, and the tiny town was clogged with day-trippers everywhere. We tried to do some shopping (which looked fantastic!) and sightseeing, but it was a bit like opening day of the state fair— long lines, throngs of people and generally nowhere to enjoy the beauty of the town. It was also about 95 degrees and we were a hot, sweaty mess in short order. We ducked into a beautiful courtyard of a hotel and ordered a lovely lunch with some properly chilled white wine but Les was already over Positano, so we headed back to the dock and boarded the boat for some cruising of the coastline and a little swimming. Our boat captain was raised in a little town next to Positano and he knew all the good spots. Soon we were swimming in a secluded cove and jumping off the rocks into the blue, blue Mediterranean.

We swam here and there all up and down the coast through the afternoon. The water clear and warm. Our captain took us to see a private island that is available to rent, the only fjord (he claimed) in the Mediterranean and also to a beautiful cave and a an unknown little beach with ruins- so rocky we could barely walk on it.

Private island sounds heavenly!

A swimming cave

The fjord— and people apparently jump off that bridge!

It was one of those best-day-ever days and we returned to Ravello at sunset—tired, sun-baked and very happy! Ravello and the Amalfi Coast are a feast for all the senses—the kind that linger in the back of your throat and in the mind’e eye long after departing. I hope to revisit soon-secure in the knowledge that it will be exactly as I left it.

I am exhausted! Since I last wrote so much has occurred! After our delightful tennis debut at the Olympics we went on to sample equestrian eventing at Versailles -simply amazing! The event was held on the grounds of Versailles which are vast! I have visited Versailles several times but never realized how huge it was—not the palace but all the grounds!

It was a long walk to those stands in the distance and that wasn’t even the half of it. We must have walked ten miles following the course around—up hills, down vales, through water, forest, grass and even bridges. The horses and riders moving fast and furious through the terrain racing the course.

A Jumper!

If you werent careful you could have been trampled!

After a big day of equestrian we were so tired we could barely walk the two miles back to the train station so we commandeered a guy with a car and hitched a ride back to Paris. The temperature was steadily rising each day in Paris and it was getting downright hot, so my husband broke out the portable, rolling air conditioners and rigged them up to the windows to vent. No sooner did he get those babies fired up than we blew all the fuses in the apartment and were without power. Our landlady was completely baffled by the air-conditioning units and could not understand why he would do such a thing when fresh air is all you need. Les was not in agreement and the fuses got replaced to withstand more amperage— and he is running them 24-7. His only comment—“you’re welcome.” You can take the man out of Texas but not the Texas out of the man!

The following day we tried our luck at archery on the Champs du Mars and Invalides. Those guys were some expert marksmen but it was so hot in the sun we did not last long and headed for the hospitality lounge indoors at the Palais de Tokyo.
The hospitality for archery was not nearly as good as at the equestrian event, but we made it work and got almost as many steps in-everything is far when you are on foot! It is impossible to get a cab anywhere so walking or public transportation are kind of the only options.

Crossing the Pont d’Alma

Palais de Tokyo

The following day was my birthday and I coerced the family into doing a cooking class at LCB. I think they liked it! It was titled-the Secrets of Chocolate-sounds exciting right? Everyone gamely donned their aprons and we made chocolate tarts decorated with chantilly whipped creme and hazelnuts. They actually looked delicious, but as usual, my birthday was a scorcher, and by the time we got them home, after an outdoor lunch at Monsieur Bleu— they were a liquid puddle!

Before—

After—

Despite the heat we took a wonderful boat ride up and down the Seine to see all the monuments and venues of the Olympics. It was hotter than you can even imagine but we still had a good time, drank champagne and toasted to being in Paris.

The best event I have seen though, is beach volleyball at the Eiffel Tower—-what a par-tay! I am so sad I am not a beach volleyball player-those guys and gals were in phenomenal shape and jumping around in the sand in bathing suits looks really fun!

Sadly, Team USA fell to Spain, but the energy was electric!

There were strange interludes with these “Mav-type dancers” that were fun and funny and the crowd was definitely engaged! The music had a very Barcelona night club vibe that seemed to fit in with the raucous crowd!

We had hospitality tickets with the volleyball and the location was up high in the Eiffel Tower—it was so, so cool! I have not been up in the Eiffel Tower in years and the views were as grand as ever!

The lounge in the Eiffel Tower was swanky!

After three hours, we limped back to the apartment for cold showers before dinner. Not wanting to go far, we skipped over the bridge to Cheval Blanc and drank cold drinks at Langosteria and took in those gorgeous views.

I have to say, though I will probably never go to another Olympics in my life (way too many people), this has been a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime experience!

Acrobats on these poles! Unfortunately it started to rain!

A heart in the sky right above us and the return of the luggage carts with dancing bellmen and a float of Louis Vuitton luggage!

One of my sons arrived that morning, and after a snafu with the taxi — all bridges were closed inside Paris and the taxi driver had entered on the Right Bank so there was no way to cross the river and we had to go to Plan B. I told him to abandon the taxi and head to the Metro. He was a trooper, and lugged his and his girlfriend’s luggage down into the subway and popped up not too far from the apartment, where we just rolled them and all their belongings the rest of the way.

My daughter was coming from Amsterdam and she had not bothered to check in before she got to the airport, and of course her flight was oversold, so — she was on standby. I was nervous--there were no other available flights on the afternoon of the 26th—three hours before the opening ceremonies. Lacking another option, I very firmly told her to figure it out and get herself on that plane. She did, and all was well. Though she did confess that she told the Air France folks that she was a sound engineer for Celine Dion and needed on that plane right away! High marks for creative thinking! No idea if they believed a word of her tale, but she did get off standby and on the flight—so there you go.

Once they were safely arrived, I relaxed, and we got ready for the parties! Our first party was the Christian Dior cocktail and watching party on the top of Cheval Blanc, to which we scored an invitation thanks to our friends in Dallas at CD! It was oh-so-chic, with the red carpet out in front and a strictly-monitored guest list. We felt special and were thrilled to get in and see all the fun!

Coming up the red carpet!

Dior and More!

The funny thing about this party is that it was 50 yards from our apartment, but as I mentioned, every bridge in Paris was closed on the 26th. Though we could see the festivities across the river-there was no way to get there. Salivating with anticipation, I was not going to be thwarted in attending this party due to closed bridges. I started working on alternative routes. Finally, I came up with the idea of taking the metro from a little farther back in the 6th to across the bridge underground... Not the most glamorous way to get there, but —-it worked!

The crowded metro was not how I wanted to arrive at CD! Standing room only!

After we arrived at CD we were whisked to the 7th floor and there was an international collection of people, all decked out in Dior head to toe. I have never seen so many Dior handbags and dresses outside of the store in all my life! We sipped side cars and hung out on the balcony until the show was about to begin —then we scooted out and rode the metro back across to meet up with the kids and head to the neighbors’ party.

At the neighbors’ we really settled in and watched the floats come down the river and chatted with every expat American we met. it was a ton of fun—for us. The kids were getting restless as it was all people our age, until our landlord mentioned that her son was having a party on the second floor and they should join. No sooner were the words were out of her mouth, than the kids were saying their thanks, and sidling up to the door to run down the stairs to the “kid” party. They had the French flag hanging over the balcony and were belting out The Marseillaise— I believe a great time was had by all!

Oh to be young again!

We stayed and partied to the wee hours at the adult party, but finally faded off and into bed. The 27th was mostly a recovery day until we headed out to Roland Garros for the debut of our Olympic events. Well, we struck gold! We did not know it when we bought the tickets, but we ended up seeing Alcariz and Nadal playing doubles against the Argentines. How lucky could we get! They were amazing—individually and together, and it was a wonderful way to open the Olympic experience.

Our seats were great and getting to see these two was worth the price

Enjoying the match!

Two days in and I have to say the Olympics have been not-stop fun since the pass jeux is no longer required. The whole neighborhood has come back to life! My other son arrives today and we have big plans for the coming days! There are many more events to come and I cannot wait to celebrate them with you all!

Out of my living room window

Rue Dauphine

It’s like it’s World War II and I am harboring a resistance fighter from the Nazis. Tonight, I slunk out for food for the both of us -scanning the streets for potential ways to bust him out—none were found. I brought the food back to the apartment. We ate in the kitchen and then we went downstairs and walked the perimeter of the prison yard. Me showing him where the guards are lurking, careful not to go too close to the edge where they might ask to see a qr code. All of these pictures were taken surreptitiously-photos are not welcome. He is being a sport, but I am sure being cooped up inside our apartment while all Paris awaits is super frustrating.

My husband arrives tomorrow and I am saying my prayers that his qr code works. There are just no guaranties, and no way to fix it if it doesn’t work. My sons and daughter come Friday and I am worried for them as well. What a bummer it would be to come to Paris for the Olympics and be stranded outside of your own home. Not saying there shouldn’t be security, but tensions are mounting. The tourists here are super angry that no one told them they needed a pass to be anywhere near the Seine.

Yesterday, all the bridges in both directions were closed-even to pedestrian traffic, while the Olympic people did some strategizing for Friday’s opening ceremony. For some unknown reason it involved luggage carts—you know the kind that hotels use when you pull up in the valet line to check in. They were lining the Pont Neuf. Not sure what that was about. Anyway, there was only one bridge open to cross from Left Bank to Right. Pont St. Michel. So, of course I went—needed picture-hanging tools from the BHV. On a side note— I bought this 1940’s icebag for Les at an auction of items from the Hemingway Bar-Colin Field’s personal collection. So cool! Had it framed and think it needs to hang here in Paris. But I digress.

I approached the pont and guards, showed my qr code and gained passage. As I crossed from the Left Bank and onto the Ile, it was just completely empty. Not a person in sight. So surreal! I walked past the entrance to St. Chapelle and there was no one in line. No one at all. The Conciergerie-same thing. It is crazy! These are top tourist sites that are usually packed. Even the river itself is devoid of traffic. The usual Bateaux Mouches taking tourists up and down the river all day and all night are gone. No boats on the Seine.

Tomorrow I think I will go to the Louvre. Maybe I can finally have a moment alone with Mona!

More unhappy tourists begging to get through!

Police vans lining Pont St. Michel

Real time photo. Olympics workers guarding the Pont Neuf.

How it usually is

How it is in preparation for the Olympics

As you can see the Pont Neuf is now closed for business and only Pass Jeux holders with the correct QR code can access the bridge. Obtaining the Pass Jeux has been a feat of French ridiculousness, with a side of all kinds of shenanigans. We had to get the pass in order to access our apartment, as the bridge and the quais in front of it are in the “Grey Zone” from now through the opening ceremony on July 26. I applied for our family on June 11 and by the end of June had not heard a word from French authorities, which made me quite nervous. So, in early July, I strolled on down to the prefecture of police hoping for some information regarding our passes.

As you can probably already surmise from my tales of French government inefficiency, I girded myself for a difficult and circular visit—Paris-style! Our local Prefecture of Police is down near the Jardin de Luxembourg-a short walk from home, but I blocked out an entire afternoon, preparing myself for frustration. When I got to the Police Prefecture, there was a guard outside who wanted to know what my business was with the police department as they are very busy preparing for the Olympics. I told the guard that, in fact, my business involved the Olympics and the Pass Jeux. The guard kind of squinted at me and announced, “No one will want to speak with you about that.” I would like to say that was a shocker, but alas, it was not. A little ominous perhaps, but undeterred, I pressed on and insisted I be allowed to at least ask someone about our status.

After gaining admittance I waited in a queue until I could speak to what appeared to be a receptionist. I explained as best I could in French, what my issue was—no pass jeux and the streets were about to be closed—barricades were going up on my walk over there. Oddly, she was very nice, but told me that the police department had nothing to do with the pass jeux and I would need to visit the Mayor’s office. Really strange because it is the police department who is doing the background checks on everyone before issuing the passes, but ok—I was willing to go to the Mayor’s office—which is in the very same building, and make further inquiry.

Outside and around the corner, I attempted to enter the Mayor’s office when another guard stopped me, again wanting to know my business. I again explained, again was told that no one would be able to speak with me, and again I forced the issue and gained admittance to wait in another queue to talk to another receptionist.

I am guessing y’all probably know where this is going, and you are not wrong. I waited in line, spoke to the receptionist—who did actually look up my name on her computer, but who then said, I am so sorry—this is the business of the Prefecture of Police. They are located around the corner and you need to go see them. I resisted rolling my eyes at her and instead asked her what we should do if our QR code doesn’t arrive by July 18 when they lock down the bridge and the quais and we can’t get to our apartment. She looked me in the eye and deadpan said, “I guess you won’t be able to go home.” Ok then. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I do know when something is going exactly— NOWHERE, so I gathered my documents and departed, feeling like I had done all I could in pursuit of the Pass Jeux and the rest was going to be left to fate.

Fortunately, our qr codes arrived in the nick of time, and today, when I arrived at Charles de Gaulle, full of excitement and anticipation, I was quickly brought to heel. It took two hours to get into town, and then the car service that I use could not access the “grey zone”, even though I have the pass. After a very long ride and the disappointment of not being able to get into my neighborhood, I finally abandoned the car and driver and began on foot. I hauled my luggage two miles— by myself— through the grey zone to the apartment—not a car on the road. I literally walked down the middle of the street with all my luggage. It was eerie— like maybe the rapture came and I got left behind.

Real life Paris photo! The streets in the “grey zone” are empty of cars and people!

When I finally (hot, sweaty and desperately needing to use the bathroom) arrived at the apartment, it was totally blocked with this fencing. Feeling a bit like a prisoner in a maximum security facility, I clutched at the bars and cursed my lot. Desperately searching for an escape route, I walked down another two blocks and came up a side street heavily guarded by gendarmes who let me pass—after scanning my qr code and eyeing my bags. They are not messing around. No one is getting through without a pass jeux.

So close and yet so very far!

After taking a much-needed shower, I decided to explore on foot —in part to test the value of my hard-won pass jeux, and in part to figure out what the boundaries are. I headed across the Pont Neuf and stopped to take a picture of the stands lining the river for the grand opening. It should be something to see. Feeling really grateful we will be watching it from the 5th floor of our building at our neighbor’s fun party!

Stands lining the river!

As soon as I snapped this photo, a police officer approached me and asked me what I was doing. I admitted that I was taking a photo. He gave me a hard look and told me not to linger, and asked to look in my bag. Jeez. Paranoid much?? How can I not want to look around? I have never been to an Olympics and want to savor my touristy moments! Even though today was a little crazy, I am beyond excited! And as the advance team for the family —I am super glad I came early to scout it out. Four days to go! More soon from your loyal reporter on the ground in Paris!

On a last note, Ricky has finished cleaning all the fireplaces and touching up the painting and the apartment is all ready for its Olympic debut. Even Mr. Peacock has returned in full plumage, delivered like a bouquet of flowers by Ameline from Deyrolle-I can’t imagine what she looked like heading down the street with him tucked under arm! A sight I am so sad to have missed.

Welcome back Mr. Peacock—looking proud!

First, I have been locked out of my online banking account for some time. I can still go to an ATM and get money, but have no way of knowing what my balance is. Kind of reminds me of college. So frustrating, as you all know what I went through with all the “codes secret” nonsense to get the darn thing open in the first place. Well, the problem has been that the only way currently to get your code secret, is to have it texted to you via a French mobile number— which I did not have. When I opened the account this was a problem, but they were willing to mail it to me, which, though inconvenient, worked. No longer. You absolutely have to have a French number to get the secret code and this is super important as they change it every six months. Ugh. So my mission has been to get a French mobile number and then to go to the bank and get them to send the new secret code to my French number. Ok then—Game on Société Génerale!

Day one in Paris, I go to Orange determined to get a French mobile phone number and like clockwork, the ever-present French roadblocks are up. Do you have your passport? Do you have proof of your accommodations? Do you have insurance? Do you have a bank account? Over-confident and under-prepared, I was sadly lacking in all of the above. I was brusquely told to gather and print all of these documents or forget ever getting a mobile number. Truly, I was super annoyed and slightly depressed. I didn’t think I really had it in me to fight this fight.

So, I went back to the apartment. Made some snacks. Took a nap on the sofa and at 3:30pm I felt fortified enough to give it another go. Having learned my lesson the first go round—I wisely chose a different Orange store and was prepared with at least some of what I thought I needed. I have a passport, so that was easy. I printed a copy of our lease-which by the by, does not have my name on it unfortunately. However, we do have homeowner’s insurance, which does have my name on it, so I optimistically carried it with me as well.

Luckily, I chose the Orange store over by the Sorbonne—hoping they were used to dealing with flaky students. I was immediately greeted by a very kind man who listened to my whole story of why I needed a French mobile number—to access my bank account and to make dinner reservations in France—impossible without a French number. Mohammed, my salesman at Orange, was more than sympathetic, and agreed that the French live by the mobile phone, and without it one is definitely marginalized. He could not have been more helpful. He let my homeowner’s insurance be an acceptable document, overlooked that fact that my name was not on the lease and confirmed my bank account. In 20 minutes—Yours Truly got a new phone number! And the even better news is that it is on my American phone! I bought the new Iphone 15 and it holds two e-sim cards internally, allowing you to have two phone numbers active on your phone at any time—loving modern technology! Also, the phone service is so reasonable—it is only $10.99 a month— and I get data and international calling. Winner!

My new best friend Mohammed at Orange!

Well, after that I marched over to the nearest Société Génerale and announced to all present that I had a mobile phone and wanted my “code secret” stat! Of course that was just too much good fortune to even hope for and they promptly gave the ever popular shoulder shrug and a cavalier, “C’est impossible”. I was informed that I needed to return to the original branch where the bank account was opened and communicate the amazing news of my new French mobile number directly, and only, to them. Mais oui. Why would an international bank the size of SG actually allow you to stop in anywhere to access your account? Of course you would have to return to the point of origin because that is so convenient for everyone, as no one ever moves or changes locations. Ugh, Ugh, Ugh.

Remaining resolute however, I took the metro across town, back over to the 15th and walked to the SG where I opened the account in the first place. Then, my luck back in play, I met another nice man, who not only added my new French mobile number to my account, but helped me upload and navigate the app so I can see my bank account online! He even let me choose my own new “code secret” so maybe I can remember it for the future. Winner again!!

After the bank win, I ran home with a little pep in my step, to meet the Orange technician-Kevin—who scarily, I actually have stored in my contacts from when he uncovered the scandal in the basement involving the 4th floor internet thieves. Kevin came because our house phone wasn’t working which is also tied to the internet, which had been going in and out intermittently. First thing he does is reset the “box” —the thing that houses the internet service, telephone service and whatever else. After resetting the box however, there is still no phone and now NO internet. I am pretty mad at Kevin, and he knows it. He is desperately trying to make things right, but tells me I am going to have take the whole box thing into the Orange store and get another. I was so mad! Hauling the internet box to Orange and trying to explain why I need another and then having to reinstall it myself was not how I want to spend a day in Paris. In a last desperate move to appease me, he calls some Orange help line and they do some testing— and voilà! They were able to fix the phone remotely and restore the internet connection. I was overjoyed! It was a trifecta of a day, a unicorn day! This never happens in Paris and certainly not to me!

To celebrate all my technology wins of the day, Les and I decide to check out this new rooftop bar on top of the venerable Tour d’Argent. If you dont know, Tour d’Argent is one of the most famous and oldest restaurants in Paris and its wine list even has its own name— The Bible. It is allegedly the biggest wine list in all of Europe—and they have their own caves underneath the building, storing thousands and thousands of bottles. Well, the rooftop was definitely not the restaurant, but it was cute and we were ready for a fabulous glass of wine, except it turns out you cannot order wine from The Bible. What?? That was the whole reason we went there. Weirdly, they only offer a few wines on the rooftop and none were interesting. The views were spectacular, but the food was also very average and very limited. I think we won’t be back.

Roof top bar at Tour d’Argent. Views were good. Wine—-meh!

On the way home, we stopped at a new little wine bar I had heard about, that is around the corner from the apartment—Augustin Marchand de Vins. Sounded cute, but not really compelling. Well you never know do you? Life is full of surprises and here is where the evening gets interesting. This place was the bomb!

We show up and a man who turns out to be the proprietor—Augustin—greets us and tells us that they are “complet” for the evening. Disappointed, I looked around a little longingly, and he suddenly relented and showed us to a tiny table with the admonition that we had to be out in an hour as he had a reservation coming in. We were elated!

We then asked to see the wine list and he laughed and said the entire place was the wine list—look around! I had noticed the bottles of wine stacked on the floor, on top of the bar counter, and along the walls, but that doesn’t usually mean you should go grab one and help yourself. But at Augustin—it does. So we moseyed around and picked out a bottle of wine (they all have the price on them in sharpie)—handy. Augustin came over with some glasses and a corkscrew and while he was opening the wine he told us that he did not have a bar license and so we had to order food to go with the wine—French law. Well, that was fine by me after the the disappointing snacks at Tour d’Argent, so we ordered a yummy squash blossom stuffed with creamy cheese and topped with caviar to start. We then ordered the special burrata dish that instead of the usual tomatoes, was topped with shaved truffles and basil leaves and surrounded by hazelnuts and flavored olive oil. Both were fabulous—just plate-licking good!!

This squash blossom stuffed with cheese was delish!

We were enjoying the wine and the food when all of a sudden, out of the tiniest kitchen you have ever seen, bursts this very dramatic woman, dressed kind of like a gypsy, and carrying what appears to be a clay sculpture — with a reclining naked man on top of it! As she delivers the clay sculpture to the table next to us, some very atmospheric opera music starts to play and with a grand flourish, she sets the sculpture down on this lazy susan-type contraption and she starts spinning it around while the music increases in tempo and volume. Then she raises her arm with a mallet in her hand and starts to bring it down as if she is going to hit the sculpture-but doesn’t. The music recedes in intensity, and she spins the lazy susan thing around again, and the music builds again, and she raises the mallet again—- and this goes on for awhile. I was goggle-eyed and dying to know what was going to happen! I only had the presence of mind to start filming it towards the end of her performance, but finally she brings the mallet down on the sculpture and smashes it all to bits! See below.

It was such a fun surprise! And the content of the sculpture was either a guinea hen or maybe a Cornish hen baked in the clay pot —smelling delicious! Augustin came over to our table and we immediately started asking questions. He told us the woman was the chef, and also an artist, and she makes one sculpture a day with the bird in it and whoever pre-orders it first gets it for that evening. It was so unexpected! Then he takes us back by the “kitchen”, which I am telling you was the size of an easy-bake oven. So tiny! And in front of the tiny kitchen is a tiny counter with one seat, and separating the seat from the kitchen is a confession screen like you have in Catholic churches— which Augustin told us in complete sincerity was for exactly that—confession. He said, “Come and tell her your sins and all will be forgiven!” It was pure theater and I loved it!

The confession screen and the tiniest kitchen ever!

It was hands down one of the most fun evenings we have had in awhile and so completely unexpected. We will definitely be back— and I want that dang bird thing too!

We checked in to the beautiful Hotel de L’Europe which is apparently owned by the Heineken family of Dutch fame. The story goes that Herr Heineken was always drinking in the bar in the hotel and his lovely wife never knew where he was, so he bought her the hotel, renamed the bar Freddy’s (his name), and continued to enjoy his time there. I kind of love that story—true or not.

Hotel de L’Europe

Amsterdam was a whirlwind of canal tours, museum tours and dangerous encounters with cyclists. Those people will run you down and knock you in the canal if you get in the bike lane inadvertently. Fast footwork is a must, as is the tried and true, “look both ways three times” before you cross the street or even step off the sidewalk. And absolutely no looking at your phone as you navigate—I shudder to think of the carnage after getting hit by a raging cyclist.

Pedestrian danger aside however, Amsterdam was lovely and we had a fanstastic three days. Highlights for me include the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh. Pretty good stuff.

Van Gogh and Rembrandt—Dutch Masters!

And, of course a birthday celebration with our daughter at a very fancy restaurant called the Duchess. The food and ambience were great and we had a ball, but the coolest thing was this painting at the entrance which I hope you can see is three dimensional. Her dress is literally bursting out of the canvas—I don’t know who the artist is but I loved this surrealist portrait of the “Duchess”.

Touching the Duchess!

Upon leaving Amsterdam we embarked on a lovely cruise around the Baltic Sea with wonderful friends. It was the perfect way to ease into the summer and prepare myself for the Olympic madness of Paris.

We set sail from Hamburg, Germany and two days, and hours and hours of sailing later we ended up in Denmark— literally 45 minutes from Hamburg. It is crazy how different going by boat is from overland travel. Only by boat would we have experienced the scenery of the German countryside and small villages along the way.

Ma and Pa at the farm!

An old fortification in the city wall of Lubeck

Denmark has been beautiful also, and the people so friendly, but the food has been slightly suspect. They have an affinity for these open-faced sandwiches with tons of little shrimp and lots of mayonnaise. Sometimes they also serve them with pickled onions and liver paté or pickled beets and ham (so bad, I know) but no matter what, they are always served open-faced and slathered in mayonnaise. All of us on the boat have come to dread the words, “And as a special treat, we will be serving you traditional Danish fare”. There is always a collective head-hanging at those words and a mental note to eat a bigger breakfast the following day on the boat-which has delicious food!

A hearty example of the open-faced sandwich with not one but four types of fish and seafood!

This is the word for the open-faced sandwich—found on restaurants everywhere!

The ubiquitous open-faced sandwich nothwithstanding, there are several other Danish food oddities with which we have become acquainted. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that I traveled to Copenhagen in February to eat at what has allegedly been the number one restaurant in all the world—Noma. After winning the title of best restaurant four years in a row, it is going to close at the end of 2024 so we got in under the wire—lucky us. I never did write about the experience but it was WEIRD! The food was strange and the whole experience was a little surreal. First, you arrive and you have to sit in this waiting area where they bring you tea to drink. Then after a suitable wait you are guided to your table and told there are no choices for beverages except homemade juices or approved wines to go with each dish. Hmmm. I knew right then I was going to need the wine and made my selection. There are 14 courses and they got stranger and stranger as the evening wore on. My favorite was the cod tongue, which quite literally was a cooked cod tongue that had been thoughtfully put back in the mouth of the cod and served face up and sticking out. See picture below.

There were several other quirky items on the Noma playlist, and I was regaling the passengers on the boat about the experience when one friend happened upon the Noma cookbook in Copenhagen, and lo and behold, the recipe he found was this beauty.

Yum Yum.

Kind of makes your mouth water right? Who doesn’t long for a little reindeer penis salad when feeling peckish? It is a safe bet to say that we probably won’t try to squeeze in another evening at Noma before it closes. So bring on the open-faced mayonnaise sandwiches!

Weird food aside, on the top of my list of things to buy in Denmark or Sweden was candy. I have a very good friend from Sweden who swears the most delicious candy hails from this part of the world. That is —if your taste runs to licorice and gummy-style candies—(pure sugar) which mine definitely does. On the hunt for this elusive delicacy, we all purchased candy everywhere and at every opportunity, but it was absolutely the worst thing you have ever put in your mouth! I don’t know where the delicious candy was hiding, but the only thing we could find was this licorice candy that looked good but that was covered on the outside by a layer of salt! It was so bad people were making faces and spitting it out in the street like chewing tobacco! You have never tasted anything so foul in all your life. It would have made a child cry just to have a lick of it. In an evil moment however, I have brought some with me—just in case I run into someone I despise to whom I can then offer a little treat and just sit back and watch as my unsuspecting nemesis takes a big bite! Just kidding, kind of.

This particular one is called the Swedish Devil -I should have known!

Sailing on through Denmark and on to Sweden, we took one afternoon to try the whole Swedish sauna experience. It was a shocker! I haven’t seen so many naked people since—ever! The Nordic people love their sauna custom and the experience was quite invigorating, and dare I say, liberating!

For the uninitiated like myself, here is the rundown. You enter the bathouse and check in like you do at any spa and then separate by sex. When I entered the women’s side—there were probably 60 women, all 100 percent naked, lounging out of doors on towels by a secluded part of the sea that had ladders going down to the water so you could ease yourself into the icy Baltic as slowly as you wished. The idea is you go sit in the sauna first and then take a big dip in the ocean water-which is freezing! The sauna sitch was women-only in the dry and wood-burning sauna areas but in the infrared sauna it is co-ed. Well, I tried the dry and then I took a little dip in the sea—which for a brief moment I truly thought might stop my heart. Then, I tried the wood burning sauna and thought I might incinerate myself it was so hot, so I took another dip—more confidently this time.

Finally, curiosity got the best of me and I had to try the infrared sauna—which as I mentioned was co-ed. In all the ladies’ areas everyone was completely naked, but in the co-ed portion you are allowed to cover yourself with your towel if modesty requires you to do so, which in my case—it did. As I entered the infrared sauna however, it became apparent that I was the only American prude there, as all the men and women were again naked as the day they were born and chatting chummily with each other. Well, I slinked over to a bench and closed my eyes so as to avoid staring —it just could not be helped.

Not very long after I sat down, a woman started trying to speak to me in Swedish, which I do not understand and out of politeness was forced to admit. No problem—she switched to English and asked me for the time, but by then everyone in the sauna knew I was an American. Sadly for me, the naked and heavily tattooed man sitting directly across from me was quite excited (pardon the innuendo) by this news and began to question me about Nashville, Tennessee—a place he longs to visit. I tried to convince him that I knew absolutely nothing about Nashville, but undeterred, he pressed on, asking breathlessly if I had ever met Blake Shelton or Garth Brooks—two of his apparent favorites. All the while he is engaging me in conversation, he is gesturing, talking and walking right in front of me— in all his glory, and it is all I can do to keep a straight face. My eyes were darting about and I could not decide exactly where to look as I was seated, and my eye-level view was—well, you get the picture. It was very stressful. Ignoring my monosyllabic answers and go-away body language, he then began to muse on whether one should wear skinny jeans tucked into cowboy boots or wear wider-legged jeans that cover the boots when dancing the two-step. At this point, I was thinking that one could not make this up if one were paid, and I muttered something unintelligible and fled. Straight into the sea where my cold dip washed away all my embarrassment and I started to laugh hard. All in all, it ranks as one of those experiences I shall remember for a lifetime! Sorry—no pictures available to protect the guilty!

After a week of fun in the Baltic, it is off to Paris where I have much to do whilst fully clothed. More on that soon.

To fortify myself Saturday night, after the second day of home improvement, I met another expat for a fun dinner at Mer et Coquillage. It was a short walk from the apartment and a lovely surprise! The restaurant was beautiful and the food was really great. We both wanted the St. Jacques with spring peas and they were to die for! I almost never order scallops in a restaurant, but I can never resist in France as they are always so fresh and full of flavor. Same for the spring green peas—Just YUM!! Fresh peas are simply delicious and I was thrilled to see them on the menu.

Scallops with green peas and dill in an emuslified broth!

We had a great catch-up, swapping best practices for Paris. Like how to get a doctor, and how to open a bank account. I didn’t want to discourage her but I did briefly mention the “codes secret.” She looked a little baffled, but she will figure it out, (maybe, I hope), and we even talked about which is the best over the counter headache reliever—it’s Doliprane, in case you are on a need to know, and it blows Advil away! Highly recommend you pick some up next time you are in Paris. Be warned, even though it is an over the counter medicine and no prescription is needed, you cannot just walk into a pharmacie and purchase it. You will have to actually have a conversation with the pharmacist and explain your symptoms before they will give it to you. Oh—and forget about getting a 200-pill bottle. Ain’t no such thing. They will most likely sell you a miniscule 12-pill pack that one big weekend would decimate.

After our lovely dinner we decided we needed to walk home, and since we were both headed to the Left Bank, we crossed the Pont du Carrousel together but then had to part company-she was headed to the 7th and I to the 6th. By then it was already 11:30 and I tucked myself in straight away.

Sunday was free of work in the apartment so I headed off to mass at St. Germain des Prés in the rain. I love that church and even though I sometimes find the service a bit hard to follow, I always enjoy staring heavenward at the beautiful architecture; imagining all the weddings, christenings, funerals, etc, that have taken place over the last 1500 years of it’s existence. After mass, I ambled around and had lunch at Breizh Cafe-my favorite crèperie in town, even treating myself to dessert. Who can resist salted caramel?? While I was finishing my café crème, I tried to convince myself to go see the exhibit on at the Fondation Louis Vuitton, but alas I was too lazy. Instead, I walked along the quai and planted myself on a bench and read my book.

In a burst of ambition, I then walked down to Notre Dame to see the most recent progress on the restoration. She is looking good! And the spire that had spectacularly collapsed and burned in 2019 is now proudly up and looking very regal. I don’t think it will be open to tourism by the Olympics but for all of those who said it would take France 50 years to repair it—I think you made a bad bet. It won’t be much longer.

Notre Dame

I haven’t yet given y’all the update on the homeless man outside my apartment-the one who was there all winter, and was the potentially unwilling recipient of all my patisserie creations. He is still there. Though, he has traded in his winter sleeping bag for a lighter blanket, and seems to be more on the move. I didn’t even catch sight of him for the first few days I was there, but the telltale signs of orange peels and cigarette butts let me know all was well.

I don’t know how much longer he will be allowed to stay however, as Paris is instituting a strict residence policy for the Olympics, according to my upstairs neighbors. We got together for a drink in their apartment and they regaled me with all the rules that are being put in place for the two-week duration—like a QR code on your phone to show police in order to enter neighborhoods like ours that are close to Olympic venues. Our building is apparently in the “red” zone, which I think means that you will not be able to even access the area without the code or maybe an event ticket. France is taking threats of terrorism very seriously, and I suspect there will be a lot of gendarmes come summer. Sounds complicated. Not sure what it means for our guy, but I am interested to see if the French government will let him be or will relocate him since I am pretty certain he does not have a cell phone or a QR code.

Monday dawned and Ricky reappeared with a sander for my fireplaces. He is intent on restoring them to their former natural-colored glory. He thinks we won’t even need to paint them when he is finished but I am not so sure. We will know in about a week if he can truly remove the old grime and layers of paint necessary to coax the original color to come through.

Hard at work!

I was leaving Tuesday, so I ran some last minute errands—by which I mean— stocking up on gifts and and necessary purchases. First, Cire Trudon to buy my favorite candles in all the world. Even though they weigh down my luggage, I can never not buy more as they are hard to find in the US and the scents are more limited. Then on to Maison du Chocolat for my son, who loves their chocolates the most. And finally, to the “Official Olympic Store” which happened to be right next door! I stocked up on t-shirts for all the fam—don’t want to wait till August.

While on my shopping spree, which was in the basement of the Louvre, I decided to take a spin around the museum. I never want to spend a whole day there, but I am a member, so I try to pop in for short 45 minute bursts just to keep myself acquainted with all the treasures. I have to admit I never get tired of seeing the Winged Victory of Samothrace. I find her so inspiring— imagining her in some Hellenistic harbor a few thousand years ago. Gives me chills!

If you don’t visit the Louvre- you should. You don’t have to spend all day either, but it is amazing, and I forget how much is there. I paid a quick visit to my favorite painting-The Wedding Feast at Cana by Veronese, which also happens to be the largest painting in the Louvre. It is spectacular and the figures in it are as big as me and there are more than 80 of them. It must have been a leap of faith just to try to paint it!

The Wedding Feast is in the same room as the Mona Lisa but the crowd around her was too huge to even think about getting more than a glimpse. And this was a Monday in May—afraid for July! Since I could not even get close to the Mona Lisa I contented myself with viewing another Da Vinci masterpiece—this fine lady. Isn’t she gorgeous!

La Belle Ferronière

The crowd around Mona

Tuesday was departure day. Always sad. Always planning my return before I am halfway to the airport. But it is always a joy to come home too—sometimes it takes leaving something to appreciate it when you return.

No sooner did I let myself in, longing for a shower, than I encountered my housekeeper spraying what appeared to be lavender-scented air freshener all over the life-sized peacock who presides over our dining room. She was quite agitated and let me know that the peacock was being eaten alive by mites and she was relentlessly murdering them with what turned out to be “mite spray.” I was devastated and appalled to see that the peacock was going bald, his plumage eaten away by these disgusting creatures. I nearly cried at his appearance. How in the world did we get mites and why had no one told me! Images of the bedbugs we heard about last winter during fashion week began swirling in my head.

It has been a feast for the mites!

Not wanting to let another minute go by without addressing this horrible problem I changed clothes and ran straight to Deyrolle—the most famous taxidermy shop in Paris and the place from whence Mr. Peacock had been procured. As I explained the problem to the people at Deyrolle, they too were shocked, and suggested that I immediately confine the peacock to the freezer to kill the mites. Well, that was a puzzler. They are French, and they know what size freezers exist in French apartments and the peacock is about 7 feet tall— which they also had to have known as there are several other peacocks living at Deyrolle waiting to be adopted.

So as an alternative, I begged, very politely, that they come pick him up and replume him to his former grandeur, which, after some conversation, including the ubiquitous, “C’est impossible”, they reluctantly agreed and promised to send someone by next week. We will see. I have a feeling I will be spending more time following up with them than it will take to refeather my beloved peacock.

While there however, I did take a look around at the wonders contained in Deyrolle-there were lions and tigers and zebras gracing the floors. And giant African cockroaches and birds of every variety you can imagine. It is a little like going to a zoo—albeit nothing is alive.

Peacocks as they should be!

After leaving Deyrolle I decided to check out this flower/cum coffee shop owned by Cordelia de Castellane who is also the creative director for Maison Dior and the visionary behind the transformation of Maxim’s, which has been brought back to life and restored to it’s former 1970’s glory days. I am dying to go there and have a cocktail at the bar! Cordelia’s Flower Shop was a mash up of English garden meets flea market so I ordered a latte and some lemon poppyseed cake and took a look around. I eyed these beautiful miniature orange trees that I very much wanted to take home but decided against as I am not here enough and frankly, I can’t be responsible for the death of another thing in my apartment. But they were adorable.

By this point I was falling into a bit of a slump and decided to return home and regroup. As I was trying to check my email I realized that we had no internet service. This has been a continuing problem and has happened twice in the last week. I immediately went on line to our provider “Orange” (kind of reminds you of Apple right?) and scheduled an appointment for the following day.

On Friday morning at 8am the doorbell was ringing and “Ricky” (not his real name-it is something no one can pronounce) who is our maintenance man showed up to replace some lights I wanted changed, and while he was there I asked him if he could help remove the ugly black fireplace covers that are blocking all of our fireplaces. It is technically illegal to have a fire in your fireplace in Paris—I guess when central heating became a thing they tried to stop the pollution in Paris by banning the use of the indoor fireplace, and I am not even sure the flues vent to the rooftop. Still, it was a very dirty job getting rid of these metal covers and as Ricky was lying on his back inside the fireplace, reverse Santa-style, I was quite worried that that the screens—which are made of the thinnest, sharpest metal were going to fall down and chop his head off guillotine-style. Luckily, he came out with his head still attached to his body, triumphantly holding aloft the hideous cover while it emitted the plumes of a hundred years worth of dirt and grime. I may not be able to have a fire in the fireplaces, but at least now I can fill them with either candles or flowers or some other arty-intstallation that at least makes them look a little more welcoming.

Screen successfully removed but desperately needs a paint job before I can redecorate.

As Ricky was leaving, the doorbell rang again and it was the guy from Orange. I explained our problem and he trucked on down to the “cave” or basement of the building to check out the internet issue. Ana Rosa went with him to hold the flashlight but I couldn’t go. I am terrified of the “cave” and never go down there. It is accessible only by a tiny service elevator with no windows that takes you down to a basement with a dirt floor that is so filthy and creepy—it evokes my horror film/claustrophobia fears and I just can’t do it. Upon their return from the bowels of the building, I received the most disturbing news. Apparently, though all the people in the building have internet service through Orange, there are not enough wires to accommodate every apartment. Meaning “someone” has been going down there and just unplugging our service and plugging in theirs! I was incensed. We have been here for six years and have to be one of the longest tenants in the building. The Orange repairman and Ana Rosa suspect it is someone from the fourth floor above us who is doing this and don’t you just wonder if it isn’t the hateful neighbors who always yell at us for playing music at night when our dance party is in full swing.

Our man from Orange promised that he hid our connection wire as best he could. Hopefully no one will find it and unplug us again anytime soon, but this situation needs a permanent resolution. Ana Rosa called the landlord and demanded an upgrade so that everyone can have their own connection. I adore her—she is like a walking poster for Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité. But, this is France and nothing happens very quickly so we shall see —maybe we need to install a camera to see who is sneaking into the cave and unplugging our wires.

After all the home improvement drama Friday morning I scooted off to the Musee d’Orsay where I was meeting two friends who work there and who had promised me a tour of the new Inventing Impressionism exhibit. We had a delightful lunch in the restaurant at the d’Orsay and the curated tour made the exhibit really come alive for me. It was also a great history lesson about what was going in late 19th century France. The Impressionists were definitely the outcasts of the artist community at this time and as odd as it seems now, their art was considered quite lowbrow and our beloved Monet, Degas, Caillebotte, etc., could not sell any paintings to anyone. Oh, how time and taste change things. The paintings that were actually esteemed at that time you would not hang in your home if someone gave them to you. Really terrible stuff. It was super interesting to see it juxtaposed in the exhibit, and illustrated how history is not really accurate—as the years go by the actuality of the time gets morphed into something entirely different. Now the Impressionists are revered as visionaries, ushering in the modern age of painting and completely changing the landscape of art for the 20th century.

This is the painting that won the competition the year the Impressionists debuted. Not really what you might want today!

As opposed to this Monet masterpiece for which Impressionism is named

After spending nearly five hours at the d’Orsay I realized I was almost out of time to make it to Christie’s before it closed and where I needed to pickup some items I had bought at auction as an anniversary gift for my husband. No more information on that at present as he does not know yet what I bought—so keep it under your hat. By this time it was nearly 6pm and I was meeting a friend from LCB for dinner at Benjamin Schmitt, a new-ish restaurant in the 9th arrondisement that I had read about in a food blog I follow. I decided to walk since I felt like had not seen any of Paris since my arrival, and as always, a picture from the Pont Neuf inspires.

As always, it takes my breath away

The restaurant was tiny and quaint-a perfect setting to catch up and get all the gossip from LCB. It didn’t hurt that I ordered the cassoulet which was the best I have had in along while. To top off the experience, the restaurant is still old-syle French where there is only one table seating for the evening. When you arrive—no matter your reservation time-the table never turns over and it is super leisurely. At the end of the evening the chef comes out to speak with all the patrons and discusses the meal— a very personal touch which I adore.

Really outstanding cassoulet!

This appears to be a chocolate mousse but underneath there was a yummy coffee and vanilla base that was delicious!

My girlfriend, was of course heading out afterward to meet our other LCB friends for an evening “clubbing”— remember they are all about 22 years old, but I, the old lady of the group, headed home exhausted. It had been a long day for me. As I closed my eyes with the bedroom window open, the ever-present sound of police sirens and revelry from The Highlander put me right to sleep.