7/2: Remember the Taste

My first full day in France started at nine-thirty, when I took a shower after far too long and got breakfast with Colin at the grab-and-go station of the cafeteria. We ate outside behind the Maison Internationale, while apparently everyone else in Paris was busy with their morning run. Virtually all we saw were runners and dog walkers, one of which made me think of my mom (an avid runner) and the other just made me miss my dog (an avid dog). The pre-packaged breakfast was ok, but by no means better than anything I could buy in America, so I’m going to try to avoid that section of the cafeteria if I can help it.

Breakfast.

Soon after, a bigger group organized to run to a nearby bakery and I grabbed a more proper breakfast, an incredibly sweet tartelette fraise. I’m not even sure what the ingredients were beyond strawberries, but I was more than happy without knowing. Afterwards, we went on a twenty-plus minutes trek to Hema, which some in our group described as “French Target” before going. It was a gorgeous day to walk through the streets of Paris, the weather being low 80s without any of the typical Virginia humidity (or mosquitoes!). We found it was actually in an indoor mall complex called Italie Deux (presumably the highly demanded sequel to the beloved country). I got hand soap and a hand towel for the room and managed to check out using a little French, which is a win in my book. On the way back we stopped into Franprix and I got some groceries to cook breakfast. Eggs, onions, gouda, and spices. Humble, but it works for an omelet in a pinch. It took us a long time to find the eggs because they don’t refrigerate them here, they just keep them on the shelf. Of course I did the same, in accordance with the rule (when in Paris, etc., etc.). The eggs are in my room above the fridge.

Muji (left), but far more interesting in the moment, Parisian Clarie’s (center).

We all saw Dr. Smith again after what felt like years at the Denfert Rochereau station near where she grew up. Her two kids, her mother, and Dr. Haffey were there, meaning we were all together for the first time since our first RER trip. We did more shopping, and I caved in and bought a shirt at Muji. Back at home, I have a shirt with dark navy blue and white horizontal stripes, which looks pretty damn similar to what an American might picture as “average French clothing.” I decided not to bring it, because in my mind it would be too on the nose and I didn’t want to look stupid. Well, here I am in Paris, and what do I find? Only that EVERBODY wears black and white stripes. Old, young, rich, poor, it doesn’t matter. A family of five walked past, and three of them wore the stripes: both parents and a child no older than five! So, of course, I felt left out. “It could’ve been me! It should’ve been me!” I thought to myself every time I laid eyes on those stereotypical, beautiful French stripes. And now it is. The shirt was less than €10, and makes a fine addition to my collection.

Honeeeeeeeey! (Yum!)

After Muji, we went to Monoprix (also described as “French Target,” this time by Dr. Smith). After that, the main event: Rue Daguerre. A pedestrian street with all kinds of shops: meat, cheese, ice cream, fish, fruit (we had some wonderful strawberries and goji berries), and honey. Ohhhh, the honey shop. It’s called Famille Mary, and I couldn’t have asked for a better place. Honey from all different flowers, countries, and colors. Some were infused with fruit or spices, others were raw and thick, and more were as clear as glass. Honey is a magical food, and the Parisians seem to know it. I learned about the thriving urban beekeeping movement in Paris, with the city’s many wildflowers, chestnut trees, and gardens providing an ideal opportunity for a metropolitan bee. I bought two jars, one of raspberry infused honey and one of heather honey. Both are delicious, though I’m certainly not hard to please. Even after they’re gone I know I’ll remember the taste.

Palais and Jardin du Luxembourg.

After Rue Daguerre, the group split up and I went with the majority to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Much like Parc Montsouris, the Jardin was filled with people. Both parks had more people in them than I’d ever seen in an American park, which is probably a testament to the amount of free time the French have compared to us. Either way, both parks completely outshined any urban park I’d ever seen (especially Monroe Park in Richmond, I’m sorry to say). Statues of Queens, saints, and more lined the edges, and the Palais du Luxembourg sat in all its stately magnificence watched over us. I need to go back and look at all the details, as it was we walked through it rather quickly.

We stopped for a drink (which evolved into dinner) at a place on Rue de Vaugirard, and I had charcuterie (which we all shared) and a pale ale. Both were amazing, and having only ever tasted mediocre beer back at home, I feel like I’m in for a great month but a rough rest of my life. Cosette can’t eat gluten, so had no bread, and Chloe and Kelly didn’t want a lot of the cheeses we were brought, so I indulged a bit. I was really only confident in identifying the goat cheese (which was labelled—I knew the French word for goat from a flute piece I studied in spring: Danse de la chevre) and the blue cheese, which is hard to miss. I’m hoping my skills are honed soon and I get to know my cheeses. Regardless, it was a great meal with great people, and I’m looking forward to getting to know them all.