Movies: Sam Elliott in "The Hero"

Sometimes you want to watch a movie because you like the star of that movie. You do not care about socially redeeming value, you do not care about  how great the director was and you definitely do not care about how many tomatoes it got on Rotten Tomatoes. You simply want to see one particular person..... in this case it was Sam Elliott.  If you need to ask "why Sam Elliott" then I can only surmise you are either a straight man or a clueless woman. Come on.... Sam Elliott?  Sexy cowboy with that gravel voice?  I long for a movie with both Sam Elliott and Jeff Bridges. Whew, just the thought of that makes me swoon.

So, here we are, "The Hero", which going into it I knew not much about but I give it two thumbs up. The character Sam Elliott plays is an oldish guy who had some success in movies. I would not call him a movie star. When the movie begins, he is doing lame-ass voice overs for some barbeque sauce product and it is clear from the first frame that he thinks of himself as a loser and so does everyone else. In the second frame (virtually) we find out he has cancer and that now defines who he is. Well, to himself it does but no one else knows.

Nothing else needs to be said here. He finds a younger woman to convince him he is not totally fucked up. He sort of reconnects with his daughter. He finally faces the cancer and tries to do the right thing with everyone in his life. All that is predictable in this movie.

What is not predictable and what is so surprising is Sam Elliott's performance, his acting, his face, his emotions. There are times when he holds his face so still and yet within that stillness, within that silence he tells us everything. There are several scenes, some that last just a few seconds, when we see the amazing quality of an actor's face, transmitting everything to us, the audience. Like Jeff Bridges, Elliott knows when to move and when to stop and wait and breathe. The last half of this movie has many of those moments. Watch and see.

Another gift is that Elliott's wife, Katherine Ross, is in this movie for a few scenes. I fell in love with her in 1969 when she was Etta Place in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."  Seeing her in this movie, "The Hero", was a bonus.

It is not a great movie but it is a good movie. Not just for Sam Elliott but for the point of facing mortality and how to do that gracefully.  It's a lesson worth exploring.

.

Christmas + Champagne + Crab + Kids

Again, Christmas Eve consisted of all of the above, some to excess. Also in the mix were chocolate, cookies, cheeses, charcuterie and probably other words starting with the letter "C."  (Church was definitely not in that mix.)  It is my favorite day/evening of the year and once it begins in the mid afternoon, it roars with healthy abandon until after 2:00 the next morning. Lots of small gifts are opened throughout the evening and there is more laughter than bubbles from champagne.

The early morning found Dar and myself driving to Bodega Bay for live crab. Beautiful morning, fog drifting over the hills from Guerneville to the coast, happy people waiting in a short line for crab. Once back to Jenn and Dar's cooking began, bread was baked, bagels and cookies and dips and spreads were made and gifts were still being wrapped. By 3:00 we were all in the house while it poured rain and the power flickered on and off. A fire was lit, the first bottle of champagne was popped and off we went, snacking and talking, drinking and laughing (and crying) until, woozy with food and alcohol, we all called it a night and fell sleeping into our respective beds. 

The next morning, much too soon, coffee and the above mentioned bagels and leftover cake and cookies helped us get our feet on the ground, ibuprofen helped with the headaches and by noon we had all hugged, kissed and moved off down the road towards other Christmas dinners.

There is nothing better than sharing the love (and everything else) during this season.  I hope for all of you a happy holiday season.

The Un-Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon

OK, I admit that the first season of Mrs. Maisel was fine. I found it charming and funny, although I could never figure out how she had time to run out and do stand-up comedy in the wee hours of the night when she had two kids. But hey, it's TV, whatever.

Tonight I started to watch the second season and for the love of Lenny Bruce, what the hell happened? Is it me or is it not funny anymore? Her husband mopes around like a kicked dog, that ain't funny. She jets off to Paris with nary a thought for anyone left at home and gets friendly with some drag queens, which could be fun I suppose. But it's all so ..... fake.  Yes, it's a TV show, and fake is TV and TV is fake and all that. But can we admit it's just a little too much?

Her family is rich, we saw that in Season One. Which means there is never a worry about money or child care or hotel bills or clothes or any of that. It's amusing for a few episodes but I have ceased to be amused. I now find it manipulative and exhausting. Midge is no longer funny, she is simply a spoiled brat, living the good life, making fun of everyone, not a care in the world unless it's a care about herself. Self obsessed she is and no longer laughable, sorry to say.

Well, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

.

Been home a week; was I ever gone?

It's strange to think that last Thursday I was in an airport, waiting to board a plane home. Did that really happen?

This week I worked a few days, ran errands, did laundry, walked the dog numerous times, neglected the stack of bills sitting right next to me as I write, slept, ate, baked some tasty things and ate some of them.  I watched the Bruce Springsteen special on Netflix, basically his Broadway show filmed for our enjoyment. (And enjoy I did!  If you are a fan, you will really like it, please watch it. If you are not a fan but still like good entertainment, check it out. If you hate Bruce, well, I have nothing to say about that except something rude so I will say nothing.)

It is just too easy to let vacations dissolve into a ghostly blur; real life (i.e. non-vacation life) crowds everything out with its demands and immediacy and in-your-face pushiness. Wouldn't it be so much better if all the mental snapshots of the vacation crowded out the grocery lists and the working hours and the laundry baskets of tasks we all deal with every single day?  If that vacation wasn't reduced to a couple of nice memories but instead took up as much time in our minds as worrying about paying the rent does?

But that requires work, it requires taking specific moments out of each day and concentrating on the vacation. So that's what I do. At this moment I am thinking about the village of Carcassonne, a castle fortress perched up on a hill, a perfect location if you want to watch for heathens storming your castle. Beautiful stone work, you can see where the moat would have been. Inside a chaotic scene of tourists and tourist shops, overpriced cafe's, too much noise and too many people. Obviously, heathens did storm that castle.

In three days it will be Christmas Eve, my favorite day of the year. My kids, lots of champagne, fresh crab, tons of tasty eats and more than tons of love. Christmas carols, dogs wearing funny hats, rain and pajamas. I cannot wait!

Back in the USSA

Gee it's good to be back home.
Leave it til tomorrow to unpack the case.
Honey disconnect the phone.

Packed flight out of CDG on Thursday but uneventful. Stayed at Gabe and Annie's, eye doc appointment Friday morning in San Mateo and then back to Santa Rosa yesterday afternoon. Home today, back to work tomorrow.

There is always the moment of happiness when coming home because of one's own bed, coffee, couch. But there is also that huge wave of sadness that sweeps over you (or at least over me) while driving home because that's it. The vacation is over. Life as I knew it for the past two weeks is done and life as I know it for the next 50 weeks is here. We work all the time and vacations take up such a small space of our lives when compared to the space that work eats up. 

It was very nice to be in a country that didn't understand me and sometimes the inverse was also nice: I didn't understand it. There are those random things that you never consider when planning a trip, those random things that totally make you crazy. On the Autoroute you have toll roads and you come up on them pretty quickly. There are three options, one for people with a pass, one for people who take a ticket and another for ....... I have no idea. But the signage is pictorial, there are no words explaining anything so the first time I encountered the tolls I quietly freaked out. I think I also drove through one and didn't pay because I was at a loss of what to do. This is a situation no one tells you about and therefore you are totally unprepared for. It does wake you up.

Oh well, in the end it matters little, I suppose. It was a good vacation, I learned things about France and about myself. I believe that if you don't learn something about yourself while thousands of miles away from your comfort zone you are probably either brain dead or a zombie, or both. 

But I am tired and tomorrow is a work day (bleah) so it is off to bed for me. Tune in tomorrow, more to come.



 I did not take this photo, but it sure is pretty.

.

Revision

this damned device makes me crazy although I am very grateful for the loan of it, thank you Margaret. For some reasons known only to the tech/iPad/mystical world of Devices of Communication (i.e. computers, tablets, phones, satellites, tinfoil rabbit ears, mind-melding, etc) these portals into intergalactic conversation sometimes overwhelm me, which is fairly easy. I wanted to edit the last post of about an hour ago but, alas, it ain't gonna let me.  Thus a revision.

My next journey will undoubtedly involve a car. But it won't be a foreign car.It will be either my car or an American rental car. I love driving, I love the whole thing about the open road, cruising (speeding) along, music loud, Springsteen or Lucinda Williams pounding out tunes, or opera or Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" chorus blasting down the blacktop. So I revise the last blog post in that way. I said my next journey would not involve a car; it will.

That's all, just wanted to put that record straight. Maybe it will be a drive from Minnesota to Louisiana, following the Mississippi River, or a long ride through Montana. Or anything in between.  

The open road, it is always calling me.
.

Marseille

Having visited France many times, I have never stopped in Marseille, a very big, busy city. Having been here for a day, I don't hate it (the setting, on the water, is gorgeous) but I don't have a lot of desire to return. The drive in, once off the Autoroute, was monstrous. I am a good driver but the streets are as narrow as a parking space, mostly one way or blocked at the end forcing me to back up or do a three point turn just to get the stupid car onto the next narrow-gauge alleyway, only to face another such turn at the next corner. At one point the street vanished altogether, appearing as a sidewalk with iron barriers that one has to maneuver through. No one pays attention, pedestrians wander everywhere, roads mysteriously are blocked over and over again by police vans, and by the time I got the car into a car park I was shaking and my head was pounding. Fucking awful. 

Parts of the old city are charming but to tell you the truth I am ready to come home, something I rarely say while on vacation. As I mentioned previously, I have learned some things about myself on this trip (and about traveling alone vs with someone else) and I am ready to come home and begin planning my next journey, which will be different in many ways. There will be no car involved, less "accidental" companionship, a better thought out route, a lot less stuff packed into my suitcase.

There is a scene at the end of the movie "The Accidental Tourist" where William Hurt is trying to deal with his heavy suitcase while in serious back pain. In a moment of desperation, his character stops on the sidewalk, unzips the suitcase and takes out his passport and a photo of his son and abandons the suitcase on the Paris sidewalk.  I have thought about doing that so many times. Why am I lugging all this crap around? Stupid clothes.

Back to Lyon to drop off the car in the morning, a train to the Paris airport where I will spend the night at an overpriced airport hotel and catch the 10:00 a.m. Flight  home. There may be one more update tomorrow evening.  Thank you all for reading along.

Learning as we go.

I guess that's life, we are always learning as we go. This vacation has clarified a few things for me:
1) I am definitely not as energetic as I once was.
2) While my mind wants to be adventurous, my body is a lot slower to catch up.
3) Traveling with someone who speaks the language is a whole lot better then winging it alone. It certainly opens up a lot more portals.
4) The concept of molecular transport would enhance travel by leaps and bounds.
5) Two words you do not want to ever say, especially while on vacation are "explosive diarrhea."

My friend Vanessa, who is traveling with me for a few days (which was not planned, but life intercedes and you just roll with it) speaks excellent French. (To me, anyone who can do more than ask to buy a croissant speaks excellent French and she can converse with anyone, about almost anything, how cool is that to have at your side?) Her linguist ability has changed my vacation immensely. She hasn't traveled much at all in Europe so she is still enthralled by small French towns and she likes to drink so walking through Cahors and stopping every hour or so for a glass of wine is her speed. Works for me as well.  In fact, this morning we headed out about 9:00, walked across a beautiful old stone bridge and we noticed folks heading towards the center of town, all carrying grocery bags. Ah, yes! It is Saturday, there must be a local market, let's follow these people and find it, which we did. What a great market! Produce, cheese, bread, meat, fish, wine, roasted chickens, pastries, the market had everything, We wandered around for about an hour, bought some bread, fresh cheese, cured duck breast, fruit. Then we sat at a cafe, outside, for another hour having wine at 10:30 in the morning!

Cahors is a very nice small town in the southern middle part of France. They make excellent wine from Malbec grapes. It's an old city, originally a Celtic city but was conquered by the Romans in 50 BC. Beautiful old stone houses, small French cottages as well. Good food and drink. It is really nice to be here. They have a big blues festival here every year in July and my brother Jeff was here a few years ago, playing in the festival and he reported that he liked Cahors.... I can see why.

Without a good navigator, it would have taken a lot more work to get here. My original plan of getting a car and meandering through part of France sounded good but I now realize that I am too scattered to do that kind of driving well. I am a good driver but not a good directionalist, if there is such a word. I am OK walking, I can always find my way back, but in a car I am much less certain and driving requires quick decision making actions, not my strong suit,  I am a leap-before-looking person, not what you need while driving 120 KPH in a foreign country. I am pretty sure that any foreign driving trips I take in the future will not be solo journeys.  Trains, yes, I can do those fine alone. Car trips in the US, fine by myself. But in a foreign land, nope, not gonna do it alone.

It was a lovely, cold clear day today. It is now 5:30 (17,30 in French hours) and we will venture out again in a few hours for more libations and consumption of tasty things.

Finally, I will leave those two words that should never be spoken while on vacation alone. That I included them above should be enough of a hint as to one of the maladies of foreign travel.  Maybe I should have avoided the water.


Another photo:

Car, Cahors and on the road.

The frustrating thing about this typeface is that it is so small I can hardly read it. But we continue on.

I woke up on Wednesday with a full blown head cold which made the day kind of a waste. So we move on. I will report more on that at a later time perhaps.  Or not.

Thursday morning I woke up feeling equally as crappy but had to leave the flat and get to the Gare de Lyon Part Dieu to rent a car and drive out of town. This sounded like a great idea when I was in California but seemed less and less so as I sat in the train station waiting for the appointed hour to fetch my car.  Finally it was noon, the hour of car rental and so I made my way to the office and said yes to an upgrade and to minimal insurance.  Yes, it doubled the cost of the rental but hey, it was a bigger car, an automatic (which would be easier on my bad knee) and what the hell, it's a vacation after all.  The tricky part came when trying to figure out to get out of the car park and through the streets of Lyon and to the Highway.  French streets and traffic signals and rules of driving are a bit different than in the US but I managed to almost hit only one pedestrian and run only one traffic light before I got to the Autostrade. My phone helped, I was on my way.

A friend of mine, Vanessa, was working at a winery not far from Lyon and our plan was for me to pick her up and we would spend a day or two together, just cruising around in my car. However, from the inception of this plan to the day of my arrival Vanessa quit her job and I was now rescuing her and spiriting her away.  Fine with me.

So here we are now in the lovely town of Cahors for the evening, and we will be here for maybe two nights and then, who knows? It's a journey of the unknown at this point.
But a good journey. I am not sure what I would have done without a navigator, it would have required a different plan, that's for sure. The last time I drove in Europe I had Tom as a navigator and we never got lost, at least not for long. By myself, it's a different story. Having Vanessa along has made it much less daunting.

Which brings me to the topic of taking this vacation by myself, but it's late and I am tired so we will cover that topic tomorrow.

Thank you for reading along. This a photo of Cahors. More to follow.

Food and film and getting fatter.

Remember yesterday when I said I didn't really go out to good restaurants by myself?  Hmmm, well that was a bit specious, I'm afraid. Sometimes I go out to an actual restaurant and today was one of those times.

Lyon has a specific cuisine of which they are quite proud and a set of restaurants called "bouchons" that specialize in this Lyonaisse cooking and when faced with such a situation one must honor the city where one is currently staying.  A person wouldn't go to New Orleans and skip crawfish or po'boys, or go to San Francisco and not try sourdough bread (unless one was gluten free, of course) so coming to Lyon and ignoring their special cuisine would be insulting. Plus, it was 1:30 (13,30 in Lyon time) and I was hungry (J'ai faim!)  One of the most well known bouchons, Daniel et Denise, is two blocks from my flat, how could I resist?

I was met with eyes askance (American woman alone!) when I walked into the restaurant and was curtly seated in a so-so area that I actually didn't mind. When I was finally given a menu, I decided to have the lunch "formula" which was a choice of starter, a main and a dessert. Having done my homework, I ordered the Pate en Croute because they had won awards for this creation of organ meats minced and baked in pastry. Served as simply as possible, with a bit of fig jam on the side and a couple of bites of the salad standby, it was delicious. I think the waiter was relieved that I not only opted for the three course option but that I ordered something typical for the area. My second course was their famous fish quenelle in a Nantua sauce which is basically bechamel flavored with the crayfish tails used in the quenelle. It was like eating a cloud of delicate fish bathed in creamy lusciousness, so delicious. All entrees come with baked potato discs and a gratin of their version of mac and cheese (penne with cheese sauce served in a little gratin pan.) I did not need either of those side dishes and did little more than taste them.  Wine was had with this, of course, a lovely and unpretentious Cote du Rhone in a small bottle.

It was so good but there was punishment to come, the third course, dessert of the day, which was possibly the best chocolate mousse I have ever had, thick and incredibly rich, served with a classic Madeline cookie. It took me about a half hour to eat the mousse, but I managed to choke it down. I swooned silently with every bite. I cannot believe I ate it all but I wouldn't have missed a single morsel.

With the wine, the lunch was about 45 US dollars and it was worth every cent. I was seated at about 1:30 and did not leave the restaurant until about 3:30. Of course part of the reason I lingered so long was because I was so full I could not budge, I just sat sipping the end of my wine, hoping I would not belch too loudly as I exited the building. I waddled back to my flat and unbuttoned my jeans as soon as it was socially acceptable to do so, i.e. in the lift to my flat.

Seriously, nothing else to eat for me today.

At 5:00 (17,00h) I was able to rouse myself from my food coma and visit the Musee Miniature et Cinema, a small, quirky, incredible museum about movie sets, costumes, models, miniatures and other trivia about movie production. It was educational and totally enjoyable. Lots of costumes and models of things actually used in films, so fascinating.

A good day in old Lyon. As I told a friend, I am sure the regular part of Lyon has its dry, boring, seedy side but here, in the tourist area of Vieux Lyon, it is charming and easy, historical and eye-catching. I am, after all, a tourist, and this is working for me.

Old Roman ruins in my backyard.

Train ride for the vacant mind and voila! Lyon!

Finding your way through a French train station is not easy if you don't speak the language but thankfully there are little icons that could guide you or confuse you even more.  For example, a little picture of a train and an arrow could indicate that your train is that way or it could mean that if you go that way there might be a train, not your train necessarily, but some train. In a large train station there might be several halls, as they are called, that might have your train, but there is no guarantee of that, you must either trust that a train could be there or shake your head in resignation that all is lost.  Then go get a coffee and a croissant and wait for enlightenment.

Being paranoid of missing my train, I was at the Gare de Lyon about an hour early, which was fine because it gave me time to get that coffee and croissant in plenty of time for the enlightenment. The other thing about the train station, unlike an airport, is that there is no announcement about trains leaving the station. The French expect you to be grownup enough to get your ass on the train without being prompted.  At about 20 minutes before my train was to depart I was tired of sitting in the Waiting for Enlightenment section (having finished my coffee and croissant) and I wandered over to where I thought my train might be and it appeared that people were casually walking down the path to the train. "Well then" I thought so I did the same and after stumbling around a bit trying to find Voiture 3 (car 3) I foolishly asked a railroad person for clarification and of course they (there were three of them in one group) all shook their heads collectively and did that French lip purse thing until one pointed at the train car nearest me that clearly was marked Voiture 2 and said "Ici." Then he said it in English in case I didn't know was "ici" meant which of course I did but really? I even showed him my ticket which stated Voiture 3 but he was undeterred. So I got on car 2 and went upstairs as he pointed and he was correct, of course, my seat number was there, although nowhere did it EVER say 3. I was grateful for his help but puzzled at the mystery.

Sigh.

Train rides are so lovely, so soothing, your mind can just go away for a while. It was only a two hour ride, I could have stayed on that train for another two hours. For me there is always something about traveling in a foreign country that makes me want to change my life and nowhere does manifest itself more clearly than on a train ride through the countryside.  Don't ask me why, it just happens. Four hours is the perfect distance, so this was short by half. But here I am, in what is definitely a person's apartment unlike the flat in Paris which was so casually sterile. I think it will be a good city for two days, at least the part I saw today was new to me, old to France, there's an old section (in which I am staying) and a newer one just across the river which is just across a bridge from my flat. I found snacks and a couple of places open tonight (it seems Lyon takes a break on Mondays) if I decide my snacks are not cutting it for dinner.

Here is a photo from my 6th floor flat and my snacks, which could be my dinner.

The idiosyncratic French and free museums!

The French have these ideas, cultural no doubt, that always crack me up. For one thing, they do not like to make any more change than necessary. For example, if the total of your purchase is something like 10,30 and you give the cashier 15 euros, the cashier will always ask "Avez vous un euro?" (Do you have a euro?)  God forbid you buy something cheap and hand over a 20! Last night as I was gathering up my purchases, the couple in back of me bought a box of cookies that were less than two euros and they handed the guy a 20 and you would have thought the couple had tried to pay with small stones! The cashier shook his head and waved his hands around and pursed his lips the way only the French can do and said something in French that was probably "This is too much, I cannot make this kind of change for such a small purchase, no, no you must give me something smaller, this cannot happen." The customer was American (but of course) and simply stood  there with the 20 in his hand until the cashier finally took it and disgustingly made change, obviously ruining his entire day.

You feel like you have insulted their entire cultural heritage when something like that happens. I have gotten that look when I order a glass of wine because I point to the price of a large glass and say "un grand verre du vin blanc, s'il vous plat." Ah, no, what? A large glass? What, how can this be?  That's the look I get. Now, mind you that a large glass is probably 10 ounces, it's not like a bucket of wine, and the regular size is tiny. Maybe 4 ounces, hardly even worth drinking, it is a mere mouthful! But they bring me my wine and I think they secretly think I won't be able to finish it! Ha! And this is a culture that drinks wine with every meal.... go figure.

The French are very serious about queueing up, waiting in line is serious business and they would never push to the front of the line. Other cultures do not have this stoicism, of course, and will not so subtly inch up to the front of the queue, displacing the French along the way but getting away with it because the French will make the insulted face but will say or do nothing to stop the intrusion. Italians and Spanish are the best at this stealthy move. It takes an American to step in the way of the pushy person and block their forward progress. ( I have done it often, quietly but firmly and it always works.) Germans just pretend they don't know where the end of the line is and they simply walk past everyone to the front. This works for them because no European wants to bully a German, too much history there. But it is amusing to watch this cultural dance, makes waiting in line so much more fun.

On another note, many museums are free the first Sunday of the month, as are many national monuments so I visited a few today. I also finally made it to the 10th arrondisment and got to see the St Martin canal at work. A small boat was coming through and the locks had to work to drain water from one level and add water to the lock so the boat could continue on. It was a treat to see it all happen and it made me so happy that I found a little cafe with outdoor seating where I had an order of foie gras and a large vin blanc for lunch!

Tomorrow I leave Paris, taking the train to Lyon for three days. It's a city I know very little about so I am looking forward to a new experience.

"Bon nuit" I say as you are all waking up.

Paris: Demonstrations, degustation, precipitation, ambulation

There were four things on my agenda today: take the Metro to Place Concorde to see Champs Elysees, visit W. H. Smith bookstore, walk to the Les Halle's area to find a couple of kitchenware stores and finally go to the Canal St. Martin area, a neighborhood I have been wanting to visit.

While on the Metro an announcement was broadcast that there would be no stopping at the Concorde station because of the out-of-control demonstrations that have been taking place for the past couple of weeks. The train stopped at the next station, Madeline, and I got off and exited the station to an eerily quiet boulevard. Blue police vans were everywhere, cars were nowhere to be seen.  There was no access to Place Concorde but smoke could be seen floating high in the air; it was either tear gas or cars that had been torched. I walked to Rue Cambon and was able to get into the bookstore, usually a very busy spot on the weekend. It was almost empty and was as quiet as a library. From there I walked up Rue Rivoli, closed to traffic, most of the businesses closed, very unusual for a weekend day. In the Tuileries was a Christmas festival, very poorly  attended. It was clear the demonstrations were taking their toll on commerce and public gatherings.

Finding the first kitchen store, Dehilleran, was easy and it's an old, dusty place with hundreds of items, from tart molds to knives, cutting boards, rolling pins and amazing copper pans, heavy as bricks. I hung around for a bit, touching things, then ventured back outside where the rain had begun falling. I decided to find a Metro station that would take me to the Canal district but realized that I was hungry and fortuitously passed a cafe that seemed to be whispering my name.

There are few things better than sitting in a French cafe, at the window, watching the wind pick up and the rain fall down, eating a perfect ham and cheese omelet on a Saturday afternoon. The French know how to take three ingredients (four if you included butter) and create something that smells, looks and tastes wonderful: the cheese is melted, the ham is warm, the top of the omelet is just a bit golden from the butter and a little of that butter glistens on the plate. Served with a simple green salad dressed in the ubiquitous French salad dressing (oil, vinegar, spicy mustard) with a little basket of fresh baquette on the side, and a glass of the house white wine and life is good.

Some people come to France to eat in upscale restaurants. If I am traveling with someone I do the same. But by myself, going to a restaurant is too daunting to face alone so I favor the smaller cafes or bistros, the kind that have similar food, where you can get a Salade Chèvre Chaud or Steak and Frites or onion soup. Or the omelet of your choice.  There is no rush for you to leave the table, sitting and staring out the window is not just tolerated but almost required.

Because the day had become much colder, wetter, darker, I headed back to my warm flat, deciding to walk instead of finding the Metro station. Turns out that I wasn't far away from my neighborhood and it would have required a circuitous train route, so it was quicker to cross the Seine, pass by Notre  Dame and meander up Boulevard St. Michel, ducking under awnings when it began to rain seriously.

It is 6:00 now and because of my lunch, there will be no dinner. I am a one-meal-a-day sort of person here in Paris, mainly because I usually pop into a local bakery late morning and get a croissant, which fills me up for hours. Bad for me yes, but I am on vacation and I have tangerines in the early morning and cheese and apples or pears at dinner time, so I figure that sinfully buttery, flaky creation is balanced by the fruit and the lack of dinner. Or so I tell myself, and really, I have no shame when it comes to real French croissants. None.