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.