Paris

 

Ok- time now for catching up. I think I last wrote in Turkey, from where I traveled haphazardly through Europe for a couple weeks before landing in Sweden, my location from now until when I go home. I probably won’t write in order, but there is a handy map I updated with the order of my journey if you’re interested. Cheers!

     Did you know that wine can stain lips? I feel as though Horace probably mentioned this somewhere (‘her wine-stained lips’ ?), but that I discounted it as poetic license meant to be interpreted that Horace loves women. Because in general, that seems to be the accepted interpretation of Horace.

Pistache, whom I lovingly address as 'fat cat'

     But it can! Maybe only if consumed slowly enough, or over enough time, or in Paris. All of which were the case for my second night in Paris. I was traveling with Kami, a long-lost sort of friend from middle school, and Matthew, a friend of hers from college. We decided that afternoon that the optimal, and optimally French?, evening would comprise French wine, cheese, baguettes, candles, and Cat Stevens (that last decision came later as the result of options on hand).

     The idea occurred when we encountered a line of shops, cheese and wine next to each other. We began in the cheese shop, where we were directed to select wine first (I think- Kami and Matthew speak French, so I, the deaf-mute, tagged along only intermittently engaged). We browsed the wine shop a bit by ourselves first, generally impressed by the low prices, but otherwise lost. Eventually we got the attention of the young man at the counter, who explained that he is just an economics student intern, but that he can more or less mimic what his boss tells people. A leisurely conversation later, we took two bottles of similar types (heavy, fruity?), but different years- a more interesting point of comparison. I stood by idly and admired the way French men dress (official theory: they are not necessarily more attractive than American men, they are just many many times more attentive to their appearance. With very positive results).

     We pull up our hoods to the rain and go just next door, where we wait our turn for the attention of one of three cheesemen. It only took a moment for him to ascertain that we were both going to speak French and were genuinely interested in learning about cheese, and he warmed up to us. I enjoyed watching him because although I understood very little of what he said, it was nonetheless very apparent to me how passionate he was about cheese. He spoke with his whole body, punctuating certain words with scarily widened eyes. He said for the wine we had chosen, we want a soft cheese with a less strong flavor, so as not to overpower the strong wine. We then asked for a recommendation for an inappropriately strong cheese, just to try. Somehow we were directed to munster, which now I suspect must have been a joke (maybe I should have known when he turned to me to provide a one-word translated summary: stinky). Unable to distinguish the munster from all the other cheeses in the shop, we happily took a quarter and left with both in hand.

     A few errands later (and increasing suspicions about the munster emitting strong aromas from Kami’s backpack) we were on the last train back to Le Val D’Or, the little town on the edge of Paris where we were staying in a vacationing friend of Kami’s.

     As planned, the evening was quite perfect. We uncorked the wine, roughly chopped the baguette, cleaned up the living room, located a cd player, cds, candles, rearranged lamps and chairs. Finally we sat down, overcame the moment of self-consciousness at our efforts, and commenced our evening.