Chocolat

I am writing this post during a thunderstorm while wrapped in an Ikea fleece blanket.  It's laundry day and my pajama pants aren't dry yet. 

Do I look like someone desperately in need of dark chocolate?  This morning my Le Petit Cler café crème arrived with an extra foil wrapped dark chocolate. When I thanked the waitress, also known as my new Parisian best friend, she brought me several more chocolates with my bill.  

I haven't confessed my new dirty habit- eavesdropping! It's a consequence of being here alone.  I like to listen in on French conversations to help improve my language skills.  And then there are the English conversations.

Thank you for letting me come here. 

Well. It's been ok.  You were kind of right to want to come here.  Now look here.  This Smart Phone thing says it's only 1 mile to the Eiffel Tower.  

I went to Les Halles today via Galerie Vivienne.  I wanted to market on rue Montorgueil, specifically to purchase a chocolate eclair at Stohrer but turned away after half a Japanese tourist bus was crammed into the tiny store taking photographs with their Ipads.  Instead I bought a cheese plate for 6 euros and a demi-baguette for.48 centimes.  The perfect Parisian dinner with a glass of wine, some cornichons and cut up fruit! 

Antiques' store in Palais-Royal

Tomorrow I am off to the Chagall exhibit at Musée du Luxembourg. 

Another boot having "its moment" in Paris...

Tall, black rubber riding boots like the ones I used to wear riding ponies.  Typically paired with skinny jeans and that gorgeous, red-lipped Parisian pout.

If you are going to risk a French menu, go for breakfast...

I always think it's best to try and order using the restaurant's French menu.  It will save you your server's contempt.  Breakfast is the perfect one to start with: croissant v. croissant, omelette v. omelette, café v. coffee, jus d'orange v. orange juice, and etc.  At breakfast you are unlikely to end up with a plate of minced raw beef or Trigger's long lost cousin in hamburger form. 

Frenchman of the day...

I was taking photographs in the gardens of Palais-Royal today when a running grandfather type stopped and offered to take my photograph under the alley of trees.  He explained in French what a beautiful photograph it would make.  Blushing furiously, I politely declined, thanked him and wished him a "Bonne Jog!"

Alley of trees in Palais-Royal

And on the subject of French runners...

French runners aren't like North American runners.  They smoke cigarettes and wear strange clothing and accessories.  I have come to think of their outfits as "running costumes".  Yesterday I watched a man take the final few puffs of his cigarette, neatly toss the butt into the street, set his stop watch and head off for his nightly jog around Champ de Mars.  I have seen chic scarves double-wrapped around runners' necks and watched runners struggle in heavy pants more suited to a walk in the country than a 5km run.  And last week a man ran past me with a baguette stuffed down the back of his black, Lycra tights. 

Spring trying very hard in Jardins des Tuileries