Alizarine

Croissant Bread Pudding

Well of course croissant bread pudding isn't particularly good for you, but sometimes you need comfort food. You meaning Jeff and me. (Go down to the end of this post for a message from Jeff.) I've got a fun-sounding medical test coming up next week called a colposcopy, which is something you can look up on the internet. It's stressed me out to the point where I've made a playlist called CalmTheHellDown and crowdsourced a handful of my favorite women on Facebook for their advice. They have lovingly talked me down from the ledge, but still. Comfort food is definitely the order of the day (or rather, it's defiantly the order of the day, to use a common Facebook misspelling of "definitely" that never fails to bring a sneer to my face when I see it).

So you'll forgive me if I want to make a dessert that is loaded with ingredients many people try to avoid: dairy, sugar, eggs, croissants. But it's so heartbreakingly beautiful and easy. I hadn't made it in years, but last week our refrigerator contained all of the necessary ingredients, including some big frozen croissants that had been in there for months, probably, and egg yolks leftover from some mini-pavlovas I had made.

The recipe is by big bad Ina Garten, from her first Barefoot Contessa cookbook, and as is usually the case with her, it could easily feed a dozen people. But I only had four croissants, not six, so I scaled the amounts back to what you see here. I also used a smaller, 2-quart casserole instead of the usual 9"x13" baking dish. If you want to make that Ina-sized version, I've put those amounts at the bottom of the post. To make an even smaller version than mine, I'm guessing you could cut Ina's giant recipe in half and put it in an 8"x8" baking dish.

Ina's recipe includes a sprinkling of raisins throughout the center of the bread pudding, but I don't like baked raisins. I'm sure you could think of other things you could do to jazz up this recipe such as adding chocolate or cinnamon, but try it the simple way first. The bread pudding is incredibly comforting to eat while it's warm, but it's just as good if not better when served cold and kind of reminds me of vanilla ice cream.

Please know that you're going to need to put your baking dish inside of another, bigger dish or roasting pan, and you'll need to add water to the outer pan and make a big foil tent over the entire operation. Then you will need to be able to transfer that to the oven without tipping and sloshing. You will hate me, and I'm sorry. But can a single woman (who has always been secretly scared of the oven) handle this by herself? Yes. You can do it. Be brave.

Few things are as gorgeous and impressive as this is coming out of the oven. It's big and puffy--the puffiness will deflate as it cools--and if you want to take a photo of it at it's biggest, you'll need to do so immediately. (Sorry about the blurriness and cropping of this picture: I wanted to capture the bread pudding the second it came out of the oven, and I didn't have time to get fussy.)

INGREDIENTS

• 2 whole eggs
• 5 egg yolks
• 3 1/3 cups half & half
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 4 big croissants, preferably stale (or enough smaller croissants to crowd into your 2 quart dish with significant overlap)
• 2/3 cup raisins <--optional; I say they're gross

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. You may want to adjust your racks--you'll need about 8 inches of clearance for this dish. I set mine in the lower third of my oven.

In a large bowl, whisk together the whole eggs, yolks, half & half, sugar, and vanilla. Set the custard mixture aside.

Slice the croissants in half, horizontally. In your 2-quart baking dish (oval or otherwise), distribute the bottoms of the sliced croissants. I put in as many intact bottoms as I could, and then I tore the remaining bottoms into smaller pieces that I placed in the gaps.

Sprinkle the raisins (or anything else you'd like to experiment with) over the croissant bottoms. Then arrange the tops of the croissants (brown side up) on top of this. Feel free to overlap them a little. The baking process will meld them together. If you're using raisins, make sure that none are peeking out between the croissant tops or they will burn while baking.

Give the custard another quick whisk and pour it over the croissants and allow to soak for 10 minutes, pressing down gently. At first it will seem like you have way too much custard for the dish, and the croissants will try float like islands. But as you press down gently, you will notice that the croissants will absorb the liquid like delicious sponges, and after ten minutes of just letting the croissants sit and do their thing, you'll find that the flood has been reduced significantly. During the 10 minute soaking period, you can get going on the foil tent.

Place the pan in a larger one filled with an inch of hot water. Cover the larger pan with aluminum foil, tenting the foil so it doesn't touch the pudding. Cut a few holes in the foil to allow steam to escape. Tip: fold two big pieces of foil together along their long sides. Then drape that over the pudding and wrap it around the edges of your big pan. Tent the foil on top and poke your holes.

Bake for 45 minutes. Uncover and bake for 40-45 minutes more or until the pudding puffs up and the custard is set. Remove from the oven/water bath and cool slightly.

Top with a dusting of powdered sugar, fresh berries, etc., and enjoy!

INGREDIENTS FOR BIG 9"x13" VERSION

• 3 whole eggs
• 8 egg yolks
• 5 cups half & half
• 1 1/2 cups sugar
• 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
• 6 croissants, preferably stale
• 1 cup raisins

Above: Bun defends her territory from a fierce neighborhood kitty. Oh the yowling!

Thank you for all of the great comments you've made on my Paris posts, especially those of you who crawled out of the woodwork and commented for the first time! I just asked Jeff if he ever plans to write his follow-up post about how he planned the trip, but he got all pouty and shruggy and has this idea that nobody cares. If you do indeed care and would like to know how he did it, please leave a comment for him here. Otherwise he'll think--he'll know!--that nobody wants to hear from him. And come on people, you know you do. Look at how cute he is!

Paris Part 7

Thursday was our last full day in Paris. We hopped on a morning RER train to take in the sights of Versailles. Jeff's health was beginning to deteriorate a bit, but he was hanging in there with the help of his French cold medicine. I kept a bottle of water for him in my purse, along with some cough drops. The weather was nothing short of ideal, at least, and Jeff knew his way around Versailles. It was my first visit.

The train was about half-full but almost eerily quiet, and the ride was so smooth it seemed like the rails had been buttered or carpeted...whatever. We basically floated over to Versailles during this half-hour ride. Upon arrival we had a quick breakfast, sharing a muffin, coffee, and orange juice, and then it was a quick walk to the palace's golden entrance.

I hadn't realized that a city was connected to the palace of Versailles--for some reason I had assumed that it was in the middle of nowhere. We arrived just as it was opening for visitors.

The court of Versailles was the center of political power in France from 1682, when Louis XIV moved from Paris, until the royal family was forced to return to the capital in October 1789 after the beginning of the French Revolution. Versailles is therefore famous not only as a building, but as a symbol of the system of absolute monarchy of the Ancien Régime.

(That paragraph was from Wikipedia. I'm not much of a Francophile beyond its art and food, and I'll also admit that writing 1,500 words per day about Paris is wearing me out!)

Inside the gates: a massive courtyard formed by the U-shaped palace that faces the sunrise (Louis XIV was known as the Sun King, and this theme was repeated throughout Versailles). Jeff and I guided ourselves through the palace's beyond-grand rooms while reading quietly from his Rick Steves iPhone guide.

I tend to start strong in palaces, but after a while their gold-encrusted splendor and--I'm going to call it colored marble abuse--gets to me. The spaces are often so busy and vulgar that I can't imagine living in them. Versailles was no different, although the craftsmanship and time that went into the palace was not lost on me, and the paintings decorating virtually every flat surface were outstanding.

Chandeliers were everywhere. Since I enjoy painting shiny glass things, I thought it would be a good idea to photograph them for use in a future painting. Most of them didn't quite work out, but I do like the one above. I'm not sure if I'd want to paint it, though. You can see the kind of decoration going on in the palace here, but this room seems low-key compared with some of the others.

Say hello to Marie Antoinette's bedroom, every young girl's dream!

I'm not sure if those floral motifs were painted or embroidered, but either way that's a whole lot of work for some poor soul.

The hall of mirrors, seen here in a photo not taken by us, seems like the length of a basketball court, with seventeen huge, arched, west-facing windows on one side and matching mirrors on the other. At the time of its construction, mirrors were very expensive, so this gallery was a showstopper. And it's a showstopper now.

Since Jeff and I were there in the morning, the lighting wasn't as dramatic. You can kind of see us in the center of the photo. And you can really see Jeff here.

Lookin' pretty good for a sick man!

Jeff's previous trip to Versailles was in the afternoon/early evening, and he took a lovely photo of the moon rising over the palace.

Seeing that photo makes me feel sad, as Jeff was nursing a broken heart at the time, but at the same time I'm so glad he's with me now.

West of the palace: the formal gardens, the canal, and the rest of the grounds that go on for as far as the eye can see. As stupendous as the palace was, I took the vast majority of my photos outdoors that day. Early spring--what an amazing time to be there.

Dewy daffodils and tulips were in bloom in the formal gardens near the palace, and I mined them for future painting gold.

So fresh and beautiful!

It was like they weren't even real.

The dewdrops were so perfect it seemed like Versailles had employed someone to walk around misting the flowers all day.

I couldn't get over how peaceful it was, far from the bustling city, with an infinite number of trees and singing birds. It reminded me of Illinois, just a little bit.

We walked (there was so much walking that day) to the palace's summertime getaway, and beyond that was Marie Antoinette's Hameau de la reine, a model village with a mill and twelve cottages, nine of which are still standing.

The buildings were small, quaint, and situated near a pond with ducks, geese, and a swan.

"Watch me Thomas Kinkade the hell out of this photo," I told Jeff before taking the following picture.

More gardens, more flowers:

Jeff waited patiently for me as I knelt down and snapped away.

He took some photos himself, including this amazing 300 year-old tree.

And I took this one.

During the week we were in Paris, we saw dozens of trees laden with fantastic pink blossoms that looked more like pompoms (see top photo). I couldn't get enough of them.

We strolled around Versailles for three or four hours before we left for lunch at L'Angelique, the fanciest restaurant of our trip, about a mile from the palace. Do click on that link; they have some great photos.

This was another situation where we guessed and pointed at the inscrutable French menu and put our trust in the chef. After we left, we noticed an English translation of the menu in the window and took a photo of it. I've marked the items we selected with J and K. (My dessert wasn't included on this menu, hence no K down there, but please don't panic. I totally had dessert.)

I love "Menu for everybody" at the bottom.

Let's see what they made for us! Please excuse any blurriness--this place was so nice and I was trying to be discreet.

This was Jeff's foie terrine with artichokes. Nice.

When I ordered this, the only word I recognized was "Iberico," and I thought "veloute" might mean something soft like velour. I was rewarded with a creamy watercress soup. In the middle were five or six small slices of what I declared "the best meat I have ever tasted." I thought it was beef and so did Jeff, but it was that famous Spanish ham, so tender I could cut it with a spoon, and so flavorful I couldn't quite believe it. Major.

Next Jeff had a perfectly cooked piece of fish with beans in a butter sauce (bonus foam). On the top was what we think was a fried zucchini flower.

Mine (below) was a charlotte of scallops, and the only reason I ordered a charlotte was because I have always liked that word.

It was so beautiful! The scallops were arranged into a cylindrical form on a bed of baby spinach. Inside the charlotte: artichokes in a tiny dice. It was topped with lime zest and surrounded by an ethereal lime-butter foam. Divine.

Finally, dessert!

Jeff--surprise, Jeff!--had pears with sesame nougat and prune jam. Some kind of caramel component was happening. I can't get over that dried pear slice. Pretty as this was, I was the big winner this time around:

I mean, you can tell this is awesome just by looking at it, no? Ice cream of indeterminate flavor. Whiskey? I don't drink, but it was lovely. Cinnamon/caramel brushstrokes. Chocolate rolls, tightly coiled, that burst into many shards when tapped. The star: a soft caramel dome containing chocolate mousse, and hidden inside that? Hazelnut filling. Basically everything good in the world is in that dessert.

And there was much appreciative murmuring and affectionate cooing going on at our table. Writing about this meal makes today's leftover tomato soup seem very humdrum indeed. Humdrum recipe available here.

We returned to Paris on the train. Sitting across from us were two young women from Turkey who were puzzling over a map. Jeff helped them figure out which stop they wanted. He received big smiles in return and a couple of follow-up questions such as, "How do you pronounce the name of that river?" I love watching Jeff be a hero.

We got off at Notre Dame, walked along the Seine, which is pronounced sen, by the way, and shared a gelato from the famous Berthillon on Ile St Louis. What a gorgeous day that was. The bridge where this photo was taken had a fence covered with padlocks with the names of couples on them. (Painting idea?)

We peeked inside Shakespeare and Co. (hi Terry), which was too crowded to really enjoy...

...but I took a couple of quick pictures of the books because that's kind of my thing.

The Metro was having problems that afternoon, so we walked the rest of the way home, a couple of miles. We picked up a tiny rotisserie chicken and some clementines along the way and snacked on it later that night in the apartment.

It was our last night in Paris, and Jeff was coughing in earnest once we went to bed. He did what he could to medicate himself, and he managed to endure the insanity of Charles de Gaulle and the plane ride home the next day without seeming to suffer too much. (He's on antibiotics and a cough suppressant now and is well on the road to recovery.) 

Jeff plans to write a guest blog here regarding the ins and outs of planning a trip to Paris and how he saved us money at virtually every turn. He truly was the brains of this operation, and I am so thankful for all the time he spent making sure we had a great vacation.

Thanks also to everyone who managed to wade through my ramblings. These trips seem more real to me once I've written about them, and I try to do that as soon as I can after we return. I don't want to forget anything!

You can find the rest of our trip to Paris using these links. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6. And if you're so inclined, you can read about last year's Spain trip starting here.

Paris Part 6

Wednesday was Louvreday! We were excited to return to the museum Jeff had seen twice and I had seen once before, but after walking in the rain all day Tuesday, Jeff had developed a sore throat, not a good sign. He was determined to enjoy the day, and we took the Metro to the museum.

Jeff's sore throat made me think about the thousands of disease-spreading opportunities in the Metro system. I have germophobic friends who would shudder at the thought of us holding onto Metro poles, pushing buttons, opening doors, using escalators and walking up stairs while grabbing handrails, and so on, and then tearing baguettes apart with our bare hands and eating them on the street without even bothering to wash our hands first. What can I say? I probably have hepatitis now.

The Louvre, finally open after three days, was an instant mob scene, and we had made a point to get an early start. We had also read about some secret side entrances, found one, and avoided the line inside the pyramid.

If you've never been to the Louvre, its three multi-floor buildings/palaces are arranged in a U shape around the pyramid entrance. Each building could keep an art lover occupied for an entire day, and it's not like there's much "filler" going on. But here are the things that make the Louvre daunting.

• 15,000 visitors per day = crowd fatigue
• 652,300 square feet = foot fatigue
• 35,000 works of art = eye fatigue

With a starting-to-be-sick Jeff in tow, I made sure we hit the biggies, and this was enough to keep us busy for two or three hours (lost track). Highlights of the highlights:

The Nike of Samothrace (gorgeous photo by Jeff), my favorite Greek sculpture. It's at the top of a huge staircase. When I encountered it for the first time years ago, I approached it through a side door, and while I still cried when I saw it, talk about anticlimactic. I wanted the Nike from Funny Face!

So that's what we got this time. Bonus points to me for wearing red in the Louvre.

I was also reaquainted with Dying Slave by Michelangelo, which is the sexiest thing in the Louvre if you ask me, and Jeff and I don't think he's dying.

The Mona Lisa was in a different room than I had remembered, and she was busy being Bono.

Meanwhile other Leonardos went virtually unnoticed, such as La Belle Ferroniere.

She is soooo jealous of the Bono.

It is always a thrill to see this beautifully-painted, extra vertebrae-having Ingres:

I'd love to paint a portrait this beautifully direct (Ingres' Portrait of Louis-Francois Bertin):

One massive room contained two mural-sized art history favorites...

Eugene Delacroix's Death of Sardanapalus. His kingdom is under attack and he is about to drink poison while his possessions are destroyed (Jeff: "that white horse is like, I want no part of this"), and...

...The Raft of the Medusa by Theodore Gericault. Boating disaster, dead bodies, life raft, tiny rescue ship on the horizon incredible composition. And because we were in France and this post needs more nudity...

...it's Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People.

My main man Akhenaten (compulsory visit must be made to any Egyptian exhibit containing him) and his hot wife Nefertiti:

One ancient Egyptian scultpure I had missed the first time around was Seated Scribe, and I was so happy to see him (surprisingly small; I thought he was life-sized).

We got turned around and passed a row of identical Egyptian baboons a few times...

...all of whom seemed to be saying...

I am obviously leaving out so, so many others, and I feel bad about it, but how can you possibly hope to cover the Louvre in a blog post? How? These were the ones that amused us that day. We had covered two of the three buildings, Jeff was thirsty, and the hoardes of people were getting to us. Feeling like we'd had a good-enough dose of the Louvre, we decided to skip the third building. Again, we'd already seen it, and while I missed the Vermeers and Rembrandts, something about taking off gave me a playing-hooky kind of feeling.

Our vacation! We make the rules!

Plus we were hungry. Jeff led us to La Regalade Saint Honore, a small, slightly more upscale place than the previous day's restaurant. He found it on Paris By Mouth. While we waited for our table, we looked inside Gosselin, the patisserie next door, and I took many photos of their gorgeous cakes (I'm obsessed with these four)...

...and many other treats. Such as:

...and...

I was so blinded by the beauty of the green figs that I'm only just now noticing the little sign that says "DIVORCE." What kind of sweet thing calls itself Divorce?

At La Regalade, we were seated at the table by the left window, great for people-watching. Two waitresses who could switch from French to English *like that* took good care of us, smiling when they changed our spotless plates. The lunch menu was in French:

Excuse me, you printed your menu in Comic Sans?! Suddenly this place was slightly less intimidating.

We were offered a giant amuse bouche in the form of some pickles and chicken terrine, which we spread on baguette slices. It reminded me of something Mom used to make when I was a teenager, and I ate it for breakfast many mornings before school. Tasty and oddly familiar.

We threw caution to the wind and ordered things containing words we thought we recognized. Me: tartlette, supreme, chocolate/caramel/praline/Toblerone. Jeff: coquilles, supreme, souffle chaud a Grand-Marnier. We didn't realize we had ordered identical plats, as I had vascillated before deciding, but all in all it was fun to order this way. Trust the chef!

Jeff received on-the-shell scallops with herbs and Parmesan (he loved them).

My "tartlette" consisted of a flaky rectangular crust topped with an olive/tomato tapenade. On top of that was beautifully sliced, rare salmon, lightly dressed greens, and a parmesan crisp. It couldn't have been more delicious. Trust!

Oh my. This was our main course. Chicken breast wrapped around foie gras with gnocchi, mushrooms, and asparagus in a cream sauce. The gnocchi were extraordinarily delicate little pillows, the sauce was positively voluptuous, and the vegetables perfectly cooked. The portions were exactly the right size, too.

I don't think I'll ever get over this photo. That chocolate thing? That chocolate thing was mine: caramel pudding topped with a milk chocolate layer (ganache?). Inside: some kind of praline cookie and triangles of Toblerone. And look at Jeff's darling, perfect souffle, the first he'd ever eaten. I want to go back to there!

 

And do you know what we did next? We hit the patisserie next door and got more sweets (a chocolate tartlette for me, and a Paris brest for Jeff), which we ate while sitting beside a sunny Tuileries fountain. I was merely doing research--what were their tart crusts like? And Jeff wanted to eat a brest.

Jeff also wanted me to see the Orangerie, a small jewel box of a museum that is home to eight of Monet's large-format water lily paintings. I had seen these (or at least some like these) in Chicago years ago, so I knew what it was like to stand in front of them, but the Orangerie has two oval-shaped rooms built especially for them. One showed the lilies at sunrise, and the other showed them at dusk.

Up close, the paintings approached pure abstraction, with their complex, luminous surfaces composed of many colors scumbled on top of each other. If you go to Paris, you simply must see them.

I'm so crazy about that turquoise section.

Jeff and I have an ugly gray wall on the west side of our house, and the water lilies inspired us to possibly paint a similar mural on it. I think I might--might!--be able to pull that off.

The Orangerie houses many other Impressionist and Post-Impressionist second-stringers, but talk about having a hard act to follow! We toured the other galleries, but I was so blown away by the Monets that I can't remember much about them.

After another leisurely walk through the gardens, we went home. The apartment was becoming home to us! We hit a pharmacy near our building, where Jeff got some French cold medicine.

Later that night, in a snacky mood, we walked up Rue Moufettard in search of crepes. I have never been all that impressed with crepes, especially when you fold them into cones and wrap them in sweaty pieces of paper. They're useful as Nutella delivery devices, and I like watching people make them, but for the most part I found that night's crepes to be tasteless and rubbery.

Ohh, Paris spoiled us so thoroughly. Just looking at that photo makes me want to eat about 25 of them now.

Thanks for reading--only one or two more! You can find the rest of our trip to Paris using these links. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Paris Part 5

Tuesday was drizzly and dreary, and I was glad I had packed an old black raincoat that I purchased back in 1996 or some other unfathomably long time ago. It was just barely warm enough, and even with a scarf I felt a chill once we set out into the misty morning rain. A hike up Rue Mouffetard (oldest street in Paris, adjacent to our apartment) turned that problem around.

My main concern that morning, and all male readers should skip this paragraph, believe me, was this: it was a heavy day, and I was BLASPing. BLASP is an acronym I invented and it stands for Bleeding Like A Stuck Pig. I can take the cramps because who cares, but restrooms in Paris seemed to be few and far between, and I did not want tampon failure to hit me at some inopportune moment, i.e. any of the moments. So that morning I deployed the biggest tampon in my arsenal and hoped for the best.

We visited the Pantheon, which Jeff had seen before but I hadn't. Built in 1755, it's a church turned secular mausoleum (or "necropolis," a word we took a strange joy in reading). It houses the remains of distinguished French citizens in its crypt, including Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Emile Zola, Alexandre Dumas, and many others. I was happy to see Rousseau's final resting place because he wrote Emile, my favorite book I read for my educational philosophy class at the U of I. And we paused at the sculpture of Voltaire, whose rather wry expression made me smile.

The interior of the Pantheon is decorated with large paintings that tell the story of Joan of Arc and St. Genevieve, patron saint of Paris. I guessed one was by Puvis de Chavannes because of its kind of pastel, granular colors, and I was right. Nice to know I still have my art history chops.

Also in the Pantheon: Foucault's pendulum, a favorite of Jeff's. It's suspended from a 67-meter wire attached to the top of the Pantheon's dome, and its movements demonstrate that the earth is rotating. A cool gif of the pendulum's movements is here.

Something about watching this elegant, beautiful experiment in a grand building that seemed like a church but was not a church touched my heart and made me want to say, "Yeah, Mr. Foucault! Yeah, science!"

 

But for sentimental reasons, I will always prefer Rome's Pantheon.

Time for some chocolat chaud! Jeff had read about a tiny place frequented by students of the Sorbonne called Patisserie Viennoise. We walked in the rain down the shoulder-width sidewalk that led to the place and ducked in for a standing-up cup of warm chocolate goodness. It was less sweet than what we'd had at Angelina and not as thick. I added a couple of sugar cubes to mine, and when I hit the resulting chocolate-sugar debris at the bottom of my cup, it reminded us of our childhood days when we purposely mixed a little too much Quik into our milk.

One of my favorite sites in Paris is Sainte Chapelle, a stained glass lover's dream near Notre Dame. We had read that our museum passes would allow us to bypass the block-long line of visitors, but when we attempted to do so, we were rebuffed. Disappointing! We couldn't bring ourselves to wait in the rain for an hour, so we left, hoping the lines would be shorter on a day when the Louvre was open.

Instead we looked at Notre Dame's facade while Jeff read interesting tidbits from Rick Steves' Paris guide on his iPhone. Did you know that during the French Revolution, the sculptures of the 28 kings of Israel (lined up above the portals) were beheaded? A quick-thinking citizen buried the heads in his backyard to keep them safe, and the heads were eventually replaced. Fascinating! We had both experienced the interior of Notre Dame before, and we decided to get lunch instead.

A side note about Rick Steves. The first book I bought by him long ago was the above phrasebook, and that photo on the cover led me to assume that he was gay, and the giant-headed guy with the hat was his boyfriend, and there they were yukking it up in Paris. In fact, I didn't even know who Rick Steves was at the time, and for a while I wondered if the hatted man's name was Rick, and the blue-shirted guy was Steve, and their travel guide company was named Rick Steves. I later learned that Rick Steves is just one person who is not gay, but come on. Kind of misleading cover, there. And who is that other guy, anyway?

Lunch was at Au Bon Saint Pourcain (photos for this section found via image search). This is a tiny daughter-and-pop restaurant in a quiet area near the Saint Germain shopping district. Pop was a jovial, lavishly eyebrowed character who reminded me of My Dad times Goodfellas cubed. We were among the first customers of the day. He didn't speak English but asked us where we were from, and we said Chicago (it's just easier). "Al Capone!" he laughed. "Barack Obama!" Jeff said. So he was great, and he made us feel like we were in his home.

His daughter (above) kindly translated the day's menu, written on a blackboard near the door, and we selected foie gras, escargot, cassoulet, and boef bourguignon with creme brulee for dessert. We had fallen into a pattern of eating our big meals at noon with random baguette and candy snacking at the apartment in the evening, so we went all-out with this meal.

Also in the dining room: a happy young couple from Norway and a darling older pair from Arizona (celebrating their 45th anniversary in Paris!). A sweet little dog named Vikki worked the room, asking for and receiving bites of food from everybody.

Appetizers!

The foie gras was dreamy and rich as you please, with a fig(?) jam that added a perfect sweet counterpoint. The odd brown dish on the right housed the unshelled escargot, one snail per depression, all blazing hot in a butter, garlic, and herb sauce. We shared them and eagerly awaited our main courses.

My plate! I've made boef bourguignon before, but never with olives. Their bright saltiness permeated the sauce, and the beef was incredibly flavorful. Perfect comfort food on a rainy day. But what stole the show was Jeff's cassoulet.

That's a duck leg buried in a stew of sausages and white beans. An extra plate was provided for the leg, which Jeff removed from the bowl. And then the soft moaning began. Ohh this was a winner. We shared both dishes, but I'll admit I was jealous. The cassoulet was one of the best things I've ever tasted, with a golden, velvety sauce. It seemed somehow homey and familiar and yet so much better than any stew or casserole I'd ever had. It was just heavenly, as was the creme brulee, which we cracked into and consumed before I realized I hadn't taken a photo of it.

This was a perfect dining experience, the kind you hope to stumble upon in an unfamiliar city but never do. When does the owner joke with his daughter, hang out with the customers while they eat, shake their hands, and give them complimentary postcards when they leave? When do you make friends with decades-older people sitting at the next table? Magical.

I couldn't bring myself to ask them if I could use their restroom. That's how good it was.

Walking fatique setting in, we paid an abbreviated visit to the Musee D'Orsay (photo at top; it used to be a train station). It boasts an outstanding collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art, and as always I enjoyed playing docent for Jeff. I'd like to know what percentage of my brain contains art fun facts usable only in museum situations. Oh to have picked up a marketable skill while in college! Kidding. I love my fun facts.

Both of us had pored over this museum before, so we hit the highlights and called it a day. No emotional outbursts for me this time. I hope I'm not becoming jaded! It's a major thrill to see a favorite painting for the first time, like meeting David Bowie might be, !!!1!OMG IT'S DAVID BOWIE!!1!!!, but after that its impact isn't as overwhelming. It's more like seeing a beloved friend. Hey David Bowie, how's it going? I'd also seen some of the Musee D'Orsay's biggest guns (Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Renoir) at special exhibitions in Chicago, so I had encountered a few pictures as many as four or five times already. Still, Van Gogh's Church at Auvers, one of his final paintings, packs a real punch, especially that haunting, unbelievably blue sky.

Out in the rain in front of the museum, a couple we met on the flight from Champaign to Chicago and then from Chicago to Paris recognized us, and we had an odd little "we are from the same place and now here we are in this other place!" reunion. Based on visual clues, Jeff manufactured a backstory for them, Sherlock-style, afterword, concluding that they were recently married, second time for both.

 

Since we were in the area, we checked out the Grand Epicerie, a gourmet market. It was loaded with attractively arranged foods and beverages from around the world, but the atmosphere was kind of sterile compared with Spanish and Italian markets we had seen. Plus, I was told that I couldn't take photos inside after I had captured this apparently top-secret selection of cheeses.

Please do not prosecute me for sharing this photo, Grand Epicerie cheese police!

Male readers, look away. I'll see you next time.

And then, and finally then, ladies, we ducked into a department store several blocks from the D'Orsay where I could check out the tampon situation. The river was cresting, but levee had not yet broken, and this marked the first time that I had ever said thank you to a used tampon as if it were some kind of teammate.

Thanks for hanging in there, everyone who's still reading this! Two or three installments to go!

In case you missed them, here are the other installments. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6.

Paris Part 4

Monday morning was still Easter as far as Paris was concerned, and that meant no museums for us. Instead Jeff and I journeyed over to Sacre Coeur and Montmartre. The weather was cool, breezy and overcast--a huge improvement over the weather I had experienced when I was there, which was shade-free and stagnant with a 100 percent chance of skin-sizzling sky-lasers. (Jeff took the above photo during his November visit.) Sacre Coeur sits, cherry-like, atop the hot fudge sundae that is Paris. Over a decade ago I climbed three-fourths of the way up its many, many stairs in the merciless noonday sun before concluding that I preferred not dying of heat stroke to putting a check in the box for Famous Church #104,939.

Jeff showed me that life didn't have to be that way, and for a few euros we rode the funicular, a.k.a. Wuss Train, up to the top. My feet were really starting to hate me by then, after days of walking for miles and miles, and because of possible rain I wore my leather boots. They're knee-length, and I wear them with socks inside of tights. Their footpad is...acceptable. That day one sock decided that it didn't want to stay up, and it bunched itself into a little ball beneath my instep, enraging me.

Anyway, Sacre Coeur, i.e. Sacred Heart. Here's the view, once again from Jeff. The interior wasn't nearly as interesting as the exterior, especially its strangely elongated domes, which reminded me of my favorite pharaoh Akhenaten's daughters' heads. I've thought about Akhenaten at least once a week for the past twenty years and will mention him at the drop of a hat. Please do not question this.

Here's the thing about Sacre Coeur that I missed the last time I was in Paris: everything going on behind Sacre Coeur. One would assume that on the other side of this church you'd see a whole bunch of steps headed back down the hill. Totally wrong! On the other side is the bohemian area of Montmartre I'd come to romanticize while studying 19th-20th century art history. Let me just throw some green underlined names at you: Vincent van Gogh, Henri Matisse, André Derain, Suzanne Valadon, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Maurice Utrillo, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and African-American expatriates such as Langston Hughes worked in Montmartre and drew some of their inspiration from the area. And it was bizarre and to see their actual homes and studios, as if they were at one time real people in human bodies moving around and making things.

And how about their hangouts, such as La Maison Rose, which from a distance looked like a child's mural of a pink restaurant?

Or the Lapin Agile (the nimble bunny!), too adorable to be believed, where I sat on a bench, took off my boot, and pulled up that lousy sock of mine?

Too much.

Pablo Picasso, Amedeo Modigliani, and other impoverished artists lived and worked in a commune, a building called Le Bateau-Lavoir, during the years 1904–1909. According to Picasso biographer John Richardson, this studio complex sounds completely horrible:

"The place was so jerry-built that the walls oozed moisture--'glacial in

winter, and a Turkish bath in summer'--hence a prevailing smell of

mildew, as well as cat piss and drains....On a basement landing was

the one and only toilet, a dark and filthy hole with an unlockable door

that banged in the wind, and, next to it, the one and only tap...

There was no gas or electricity."

And yet, and yet, and yet...in that yellow-ish building (well, the original was destroyed by fire; this is a recreation), Picasso had his blue, rose, and early cubist periods. Les Demoiselles D'Avignon was created here. Modern art was born here. Ground zero.

It took my breath away, and eight days later I'm still reeling and near tears just thinking about this place and the dark, leafy trees nearby. No one else was around when we were there, and a small display in a window confirmed that yes, this was it. I was on holy ground, and for me this was the highlight of our trip. I will never forget it.

Wow. How about some candy? Please watch this video about A l'Etoile d'Or.

 

 

Denise Acabo, the sweetest woman in Paris, welcomed us into her tiny candy store and, since we couldn't understand the French descriptions of her many chocolates, we asked her to please select some for us, whatever she liked. We were the only customers at the time and received her complete, doting attention as she spoke to us in charming, broken English. We were touched by her kindness and her obvious love of her wares--she became visibly excited as she described each one to us. We left the store with a bag of candy and the feeling that Paris had just given us a hug and a kiss, and we ate the chocolates in bed that night.

Art history and sweets out of the way, Jeff was a man on a mission to eat the best baguette in Paris, and I'm going to let him take over for a couple of paragraphs.

On my last visit to Paris, I became obsessed with baguettes a la ancienne. I purchased a book by Peter Reinhart called The Bread-Baker's Apprentice and baked many a loaf attempting to get the flavor, texture, crust, and crumb right, with some decent success. So, on this trip, I wanted to try baguettes from a few of the places Reinhart, and others on Chowhound, had mentioned: Gosselin, Eric Kayser, and Julian, plus also Au Levain d’Antan, the winner of the 2011 Best Baguette in the city award-- in Paris, the size, shape, and ingredients of a baguettes de tradition are regulated, so it's easier to compare.

On our trips around Paris, we hit each of these boulangeries. I expected Gosselin to be my favorite, since it was the one touted by Reinhart, but while I found it good, the inside was too yeasty for me. The Kayser and Julian baguettes were similar--very good, large crumbs, a sweet inside from the longer fermentation process, and better than anything I could get in Illinois. But, in the end, I agreed with the judges. The Au Levain d’Antan baguette was amazing. The outside crust was hard, but crumbly, with strong flavor. The inside was all holes and sweet, moist bread that was delightfully chewy. We ate half of the baguette walking down the street to the metro, and the rest almost as soon as we arrived home. Just one more thing to haunt me now that I've returned home.

Madame Manners says, if you eat a baguette on the street, break off pieces small enough to place in your mouth; don't tear into it with your teeth.

[I'm back.--Kelly] After a walking past dozens of sex shops lining a street called Place Pigalle, which I had never heard of but Jeff seemed to very much know about, we let Montmartre in search of lunch in the form of Le Bistro Paul Bert. But--ack!--it was closed.

So we began a long walk in the general direction of our apartment. A few days earlier we had spotted a restaurant that served mussels, dubiously called Academie de la Biere, or Beer University (not to be confused with Bovine University). We walked at least a mile into the increasingly brisk and damp wind, craving protein and the absence of the increasingly brisk and damp wind. We hoped that Beer University would be open, and it was! We sat at a communal table--next to us was a group of about eight people leisurely finishing a big meal--and ordered what ended up being a mother lode of mussels. Restaurants vary wildly when you order mussels, we've found, and we were awestruck by the huge bowls of mussels and fries set before us here. We could have easily shared one order, but here were two.

(The fries, of course, did not meet Jeff's exacting Belgian standards. Sigh.)

But the mussels were great--a ridiculous 75+ per serving, we estimated. Mine came in a wine-cream sauce, and Jeff had curry. It took us a while to mostly-finish them, and we tore off pieces of our prize-winning baguette and dipped them into the sauce. Jeff ordered a Belgian framboise beer that he liked, but our waitress winced when he pointed to it. She pointed to a different framboise called Grisetta, quietly insisting that he order it instead, which Jeff did.

And now Jeff has a new favorite beer.

Warm, happy, and stuffed to the gills, we walked back to the apartment. With the aid of Dropbox and his computer at home, Jeff managed to stream the previous night's episode of Mad Men on his iPad. He hung it from the light fixture over the bed using his belt. Such is our love of and dedication to Mad Men.

Another lovely day. That night I wrote:

I feel so closely bonded to Jeff when we are in a foreign country. We kind of exist inside our own bubble anyway, but when our surroundings change, we don't know a soul, and we don't speak the language, a second bubble envelops us. And this place is so beautiful, romantic, and the food is simply incredible. I adore my husband.

In case you missed them, here are the other installments. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Part 6.

Paris Part 3

Our first full day in Paris was on Easter Sunday, and many cultural sites were closed (and they would also be closed on Monday because the holiday weekend was extended and some of them on Tuesday because they're always closed on Tuesday). So no museums for us, which was fine. We had a culinary scavenger hunt to complete, and as I established in my previous posts, it's always a good idea to start out with chocolate.

(I apologize for the yellowness of this photo, but we were in a dining room that managed to be both golden and dim.) When Jeff was in Paris, walking in the cold November rain by himself, he warmed up with frequent hot chocolate breaks. Parisian hot chocolate, or chocolat chaud, is not something you pour out of a packet and add hot water to it. It's more like pure melted chocolate, not too sweet, with just enough cream to make it pourable. I don't know if the photo here conveys its thickness, but if I had to compare it to something universal (and I'm sorry, this is jarring) I'd say it was like shampoo. A person can add whipped cream and sugar to the chocolate to taste. Some even ask for hot water to thin it, which strikes me as ludicrous.

Anyway, Jeff wanted me to try the hot chocolate that he'd been raving about for years, and he researched until he found one of the best in Paris, Angelina. Near the Louvre and the Tuileries gardens, Angelina is an institution, or at least that's what it seemed like to me. It reminded me of New Orleans' Cafe du Monde--packed with people at all times whose trip wouldn't be complete without consuming its beloved little treats. Near the entrance was a selection of beautiful sweets, which I admired as we waited to be seated. The decor: grand, bordering on rococo, with lots of decorative moulding, gold accents, and large paintings.

So let's try this chocolat chaud (off-puttingly pronounced like this). It was unbelievable and I quickly announced that it was the best hot chocolate I had ever had, including its Spanish sister. I wanted to inject it into my veins. I wanted to drop it into my eyes. I wanted to rub it into my skin. It was straight up chocolate heroin, and this song began to play in my head.

 

I added some whipped cream (in cute container on the left) to it, just to see if that was worth doing, and it made some nice swirly shapes on top but that was about it. I drank the rest of the chocolate, housed in that small pitcher in the center of the table, black. Brown, anyway. The cupcakey thing on the far right is a mont blanc--a domed network of skinny, coiled frosting atop a core of whipped cream and chestnut puree on a meringue base. I later read that Coco Chanel, Karl Lagerfeld, and Marcel Proust have all enjoyed this chaud/mont blanc extra-valu meal at Angelina. Oh, the mont blanc? It was pretty awesome.

Thus fortified, the two of us continued on. The weather was overcast and a little on the cool side as we made our way to the Paris Tourist Information Center to buy four-day museum passes. They would enable us to bypass the terrible lines at the Louvre, the Musee D'Orsay, Versailles, and places like that later on. This was a really good way to go, and we felt more like VIPs and less like suckers as we used the passes throughout the week.

The next hour or two involved lots and lots of walking, and my S.A.S. shoes did a fine job of keeping my big flat feet from turning into pulp. But it was still tiring. We had been told that Le Bon Marché, an upscale food market slash department store, was worth a visit. So we worked our way west, checking the map frequently because the city blocks in Paris are a mish-mash of triangles, kinda-trapezoids, and shapes with no names such as these...

...and if you're working the back streets, it's easy to get lost. But we didn't get all that lost, and when we finally found Le Bon Marche, it was closed for Easter. Sacrebleu!

We did some window shopping on St. Germain, the equivalent of Chicago's Magnificent Mile. Jeff and I are not big shoppers--indeed, we came home from Paris with nothing new in our spy luggage--but we had a good time talking about the clothes, furniture, and appliances we saw.

Snack break! How about we try the best macarons in Paris?

Oh this place was precious. Pierre Herme makes macarons and so much more, and lots of spring/Easter items were on display. 

They might as well have been museum pieces (shiny shiny glaze! want!).

We were dying to try one of the more unusual, extra special macarons called ispahan. It is that pink guy with the red rose petal in the middle.

Jeff had read a rapturous description of it on one of the food blogs he follows, so that gave us some idea of what to expect, which was great. But otherwise we do not speak French. Many times while we were in Paris, we read descriptions of food items and could make out maybe a handful of words. For example, this is how Pierre Herme describes the ispahan. I've highlighted the words I understood.

Biscuit macaron à la rose, crème aux pétales de roses, framboises entières, letchis. Subtile alliance de la crème à la rose, douce et suave, et de la note florale du letchi. En prolongement, la framboise contraste par son acidité et sa puissance, le tout dans une enveloppe moelleuse et craquante de macaron. Une des plus envoûtantes créations de Pierre Hermé, un équilibre permanent entre le capiteux et l'acidulé.

My interpretation: it's a rose-flavored macaron with rose petals, raspberries...some kind of "subtle alliance" (I freaking love that) and something suave is happening. It tastes like flowers. The raspberries provide contrast. An envelope? A good creation by Pierre Herme. They want to make it a permanent part of their menu? Was it in a contest?

Sounds like fun to me!

It came in its own special box, and we walked around with it for the rest of the day before eating it back at the apartment. It had suffered some mild contusions, unfortunately. Conclusion? It really tasted like roses, and Jeff didn't care for it all that much. I ate the rest of it and thought of my great-grandma Bradshaw, who always smelled like roses.

We also bought a bag of six macarons (caramel with sea salt, passion fruit, and hazelnut), sat on a park bench, and ate them immediately.

They were perfection. These little hamburger-lookin' sandwich cookies are so delicate and tender, with a rich filling that delivers on its promises and how. The passion fruit macaron, for example, managed to be the passion fruitiest thing of all time. How, how, how to make them at home? What have I gotten myself into?

Other places we visited on our Easter food tour: a deli where we window-shopped. I think I want to paint this young man cutting some Iberico ham, removing my stalker reflection, of course.

Across the street: Grom, where we shared a small gelato. We love gelato's unique stretchiness, as illustrated here.

Later on we had some merely-okay mussels from what turned out to be a chain restaurant (not our first choice, but we needed some protein and it was there). Jeff is crazy for mussels and a particular variety of french fry he had years ago in Belgium. Probably fried in duck fat, those frites haunt Jeff the way that perfect hamburger haunts Marshall on How I Met Your Mother.

 

So the mussels were alright, but as always the fries did not measure up. Thank you for ruining fries for my husband, Brussels!

Our legs completely spent, we went back to the apartment, done for the day, with our damaged macaron that tasted like Grandma.

In case you missed them, here are the other installments. Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.
Tastes like grandma

Paris Part 2

Let's hear it for jumbo meringues as big as your face! As someone who likes to make, eat, and even paint desserts, I can say that Paris is a wonderland of beautiful sweets, and Jeff and I felt like Hansel and Gretel most of the time.

In an attempt to adjust to Paris time quickly, we resisted the temptation to take a nap (I had been awake for 20+ hours by then) and headed in the general direction of the Eiffel Tower. Jeff's iPhone has an app that helped us navigate the Metro system--all you have to do is type in where you are and where you want to go, and the app tells you what lines to take and where to get off. Highly recommended if you have no sense of direction like me, and a nice backup if you know what's going on, like Jeff.

In case you've never been to Paris, the Metro is an efficient and reliable way to get around once you understand it, and if you enjoy surreptitiously glancing at bored Parisians without being some kind of creep, it's truly the way to go.

The Metro is also a great way to get The Metro by 80s pop group Berlin firmly lodged in your head for days at a time.

 

Jeff wanted to treat me to a couple of surprises before we did any actual sightseeing. "I think we should get some chocolate first," Jeff said, and have truer words ever been spoken? Does a more agreeable sentence exist in the English language? Soon enough we were gaping at an over-the-top variety of candy from chocolatier Jean-Paul Hevin. The small shop's interior, which looked sort of like this (forgot to take photos due to excitement), displayed the chocolates under glass as if they were precious jewels.

We bought a small grab bag (grab box) of variety chocolates and sat on a bench across the street and shared them, marveling at the unexpected flavor combinations and also loving the old reliables. Again I was too excited and hungry to take any photos, but I believe that blog photos of chocolate are a form of torture to most readers; wouldn't you agree? So here's a picture of the box instead.

Also photographed: my leopard (cheetah?) print gloves, big chunka Navajo turquoise, and red coat. Something about seeing those colors together brings me irrational joy, and when I wasn't surreptiously glancing at Parisians on the Metro, I amused myself by looking at my left wrist.

Chocolate appetizers devoured, Jeff led me to Le Petit Cler, a restaurant he'd researched that used pain Poilâne in its croque monsieur/madame. This was a huge deal to us because according to food writer David Lebovitz, pain Poilâne is "considered the best bread in the world."

The world!

Also we have had a four-year running joke about a dish I fix called croque monsieur bake, and loosely translated "croque monsieur" means "mister crunchy," and I'm sorry but few things are funnier to me. If you'd like to learn more about Mr. Crunchy, and I don't know why you would, please click here.

We sat in Le Petit Cler's very petit dining room (which was doing brisk, late-lunch business) and waited for our Crunchies to arrive, elbow-to-elbow with locals and a number of their children. Sidebar: French children were a revelation to us, and recent articles like this one rang true. Patient, quiet and exceptionally well-behaved as a rule, they made American children seem like entitled little monsters, I'm sorry to say. (And while I am not a parent, I worked in a middle school for years and witnessed firsthand the best and the worst that American children have to offer, believe me.) While in Paris, we saw one child throwing a legitimate fit while outside a toy store. His father consoled him while a sibling recorded the event on his camera--could tantrums be so rare in Paris that they are filmworthy? This outlier aside, we found a kinship with these serious mini Parisians and admired their cuteness.

HEY FOOD.

What you have here is a 4"x10" oval slice of the aforementioned pain Poilâne, its interior soft and complex, its exterior crunchy and slightly smoky, topped with a slice of ham and an exorbitant, indecent amount of Gruyere cheese that had been broiled until bubbly and golden brown, and crowned with an egg. It was one of those dining experiences where the food was so good and we were so tired and hungry that all we could do was gaze across the table at each other, slowly shaking our heads in disbelief.

And then we were off to find an Art Nouveau doorway Jeff's daughter Melissa thought we should see:

The address of this doorway: 29 Avenue Rapp, just a random street. Salvador Dali called this the most erotic facade in Paris, and it includes a bust of designer Jules Lavirott's wife in the center, Adam and Eve, and a giant penis. Oooh, dirty architectural joke, let's try to find it!

Soon we rounded a corner and WHOA EIFFEL TOWER HELLO.

In my previous trip to Paris, I had not visited the tower and was never anywhere particularly close to it, as my companion didn't want to do anything touristy. But honestly, suddently encountering the Eiffel Tower looming like Godzilla in the middle distance was a flat-out thrill, and ladies, I'm sure you know who I felt like.

 

We walked to the tower, becoming increasingly giddy. It's just so big. I've seen it a million times in books, movies, and on television, but those don't capture the scale of the thing, especially when you're close enough to see the underside of its lower platform. It occurred to me that the Eiffel Tower is like an upside-down tornado, and that idea made me love it ten times more.

Predictably, the closer to the tower we got, the crazier the number of tourists became, and we couldn't bring ourselves to stand in their endless lines. We enjoyed the tower from ground level and were more than content with that.

(The next photos of the tower were taken by Jeff when he was in Paris about a month before he met me.)

It started to rain, so we made our way back home. We pulled out the bed, checked our email, listened to some highly appropriate Lou Reed songs on Jeff's iPhone (it plugged into the apartment's alarm clock), and we fell asleep.

 

In case you missed them, here are the other installments. Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

Paris Part 1

For those of you who have been on pins and needles over the past two weeks, wondering how my Jacksonville show went, it was terrific. My best show so far! I wanted to post about it right after it happened, but I had a cartoon to make followed by a week in Paris, and I didn't have time to add blogging into the mix. But it will happen after this Paris series is over.

So! Paris! How about that?

Jeff and I (mostly Jeff) planned this trip for almost a year. He used his internet-fu to find a modern, inexpensive apartment and credit card frequent flyer mileage-fu to ensure that our flights were free. A former project manager, Jeff figured out a daily plan of action designed to pair places we wanted to visit with nearby, incredible food. I was happy to let him take over because (a) he does it so well, and (b) preparing for two one-person shows in nine months was kind of overwhelming for me. Jeff has helpful travel advice that he will either dispense throughout my posts or write as a stand-alone guest blog. He was sick during the last third of our trip, and he still is, and right now he wants to curl up on the couch and watch Lonesome Dove, and who can blame him?

Both of us had visited Paris before with other people. Jeff was in the process of breaking up with his person, and I had broken up with my person many months before the trip, but tickets had already been purchased, and how often does one get the opportunity to see Paris, anyway? Jeff spent a cold, drizzly week in November walking around by himself during a Metro strike, and I endured blasts of record June heat sandwiched between dutiful visits to every art museum in the city, plus the most important churches and a side-trip to Chartres. All that slogging around meant nonstop McDonald's haute cuisine eaten on the run for me, so I left with no real idea of what French food could truly be, and Jeff's person...let's just say she was a lot more disciplined than some bloggers you might know.

Oh hi.

This time Jeff and I employed a two-pronged plan of attack for Paris. Prong one: romance. Prong two: pleasure. Notice how neither prong involves crying, sweating, angst, boredom, fast food, forced marches, shivering, ennui, disgust, or resentment--I'm telling you, it's hard to have a good vacation with any of those in the mix.

So this time if it was mind-crushingly educational and we had already seen it, we usually skipped it. If someplace fun was a drag years ago, we aimed to right that wrong. Our rose-colored glasses were still firmly on, thank you very much, and we were set to have some damned fun in Paris for a change.

My parents, Melissa, and Jeff's folks kindly offered to watch Bun, Pache, and Q while we were away. Mom and Dad did most of the heavy lifting in that regard as they fed, watered, and medicated the cats (as per my ridiculous three page document's instructions) for five days. I'm so thankful for everyone's help--I don't think I could have boarded Bun at the vet's with a clear conscience. The cats were happy to see us when we returned home last night, and as I type this, Bun is sleeping at my side. We missed them every day we were gone.

Here we are, all smiles and energy at the very beginning of our trip. We flew out of the Champaign airport to O'Hare at around noon last Friday, and from there we traveled to Paris, arriving on Saturday morning.

We packed lightly: Jeff had a backpack and I had a smallish wheeled carry-on and a medium-ish purse. In fact, we packed so lightly that airport officials gave us looks of disbelief on two separate occasions. A Frenchman called us James Bond and Mata Hari--that's right, we pack like spies. I managed to cram four black dresses, extra shoes, and a second coat in my carry on, and I pruned my toiletries down to the bare essentials (tampons had to be included because of course they did).

The eight-hour flight to Paris was tough for me. Jeff fell asleep almost immediately after our kinda-supper. He chose the chicken, and I chose the pasta, but I should have chosen the chicken. A couple of hours later I started to get some low-level "what if it's food poisoning?" feelings. You know the ones. They're sweaty and you feel trapped in your window seat because your darling husband is sound asleep beside you and you can't concentrate on your book and your Kindle's little video game (Bubble Buster, five stars) is making you seasick and you start to think about the best way to throw up in an airplane bathroom and how horrifying that would be and the plane is dark now except for the movie and ugh if it's food poisoning that means you'll be violently ill four or five times before it's all over...what's your only option?

Mind control. Meditation. Go to your happy place and breathe and count. Failing that, watch what's playing on the entertainment screen way over there to your left and try to understand the plot without the aid of your headphones. The movie is a Pixar-wannabe animated feature called Rio and it seems to be about a blue parrot, and there's all kinds of rapid-cut flying sequences involving thousands of birds spiraling down into jungle vortexes and singing a lot...

 

...and best not to watch that anymore so let's meditate. Or maybe watch the moon move across the sky. Spend a couple of hours doing that before you feel like maybe you are out of the food poisoning woods.

We arrived without incident in Paris not too long after sunrise. Charles de Gaulle Airport was alive with a writhing mass of people hell-bent on spending Easter somewhere other than Paris. The intimidatingly long lines gave us no hope for an easy departure a week later, and is it just me or has CDG changed from the futuristic, roomy playground made famous by U2's Beautiful Day video (total dick move at 1:14)...

 

...to a baggage-ridden, concrete hellscape from which there is no escape?

Luckily, we found the right train that would speed us toward our apartment in the 5th arrondissement, a.k.a. the Latin Quarter. I was wearing the coat I wore in Spain--based on weather forecasts (highs in the 50s, lows in the 40s), light wool seemed like my best bet. Except it was red, and every "what to wear in Paris" website suggested that dark neutrals were the way to go. A couple seemed to think that red was borderline acceptable, but one should be prepared to stand out (indeed, this was the case). A few days before we left, I floated the idea of going rogue/rouge on Facebook and received 48 "likes," but by then my mind was already made up. I was wearing red.

Exact shade: effyou red.

We emerged from the appropriate Metro station and boom, we were in Paris, Luxembourg Gardens area. We grabbed an Eric Kayser baguette, rolled our spy luggage down long streets and through a medium-sized open market where some Italian guys applauded my coat, going, "Bella, red!" Ahh, affirmation.

Our apartment was at the top of a building that housed a library on its ground floor. After huffing and puffing our way up 100 spiral steps--Jeff counted--we arrived on time to meet Isabelle, our landlady. Hip, friendly, and speaking impeccable English, she showed us around the tiny but modern and cleverly designed studio apartment (approximately 16 square meters). It included a living area with a pull-out bed, a wee kitchenette, and a bathroom. New appliances. The apartment was spotless and just what we were looking for. A link to it is here. If any of you are interested in renting this space, let me know, and I will pass your info on to Isabelle. You can rent it directly from her if you like.

Everything had a function, and there was no wasted space. Free wi-fi! The ceiling slanted sharply down near the windows, which were flung open to reveal this view to the left...

...and this view to the right.

We were happy, exhausted, and ready to explore Paris.

To be continued!

In case you missed them, here are the other installments. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.