Some of you may recall that last winter we abandoned planning a trip to my husband's family's hometown in Cornwall to return to Paris, following a dream I had that made waking up on a dark January morning nearly unbearable.
We traveled to Paris in May, landing on a warm and breezy Thursday. Our shuttle driver took us through St. Denis and Clichy, dropping off three other couples in various locations before bringing us to the Parc Saint-Severin near the Cluny in mid-afternoon. We loved our sixth-floor room with its tiny private deck.
We ate at cafes in the Latin Quarter, buying provisions at FranPrix and Monoprix in between. The wheat roll above, presented on a tray that reflects the sunny Paris skies we enjoyed, was delicious. It's from Monoprix, as for some reason, there were no patisseries in our neighborhood, a rare occurrence in Paris.
We discovered some new neighborhoods (new to us), including Canal St. Martin and Place Dauphine and dawdled on St. Andre des Arts and Rue Dauphine. I shopped at Le Rouvray, the American quilt store on the Left Bank, buying fat quarters for L, my talented hair-stylist who is also an award-winning quilter.
We were in Paris the day Francois Hollande was sworn into office. For several days prior, we noticed huge police presence on Ile de la Cité and in Place Maubert. On the day he took over, the skies over Paris were filled with police helicopters.
I discovered a new scent, Bois Farine from L'Artsian Perfumeur, and ordered a bottle to mark my return to personal freedom in the fall. It smells like baking bread and peanut butter and dries down to a powdery sandalwood.
You can never get enough of Paris. It stays with you always, teasing you more on certain days and at certain times, but always with you, quietly.