Day 11: Giverny, Le Jardin des Plumes, Birthday Surprise

Prepare for a ridiculously dramatic statement:  I can hardly write about Paris without feeling a wild desperation to return.  And by "wild desperation" I mean I can feel a physical ache in the central region of my chest and I ponder researching flights that leave the very next day--and then vaguely play out the childcare logistics in my mind, convincing myself that no one would really notice if I just...left.  Thus the reason I have put off finishing my blog entries on Paris.  I waver between just throwing up some photos on the blog so I can claim to be done with it...to procrastinating for months on end because I can hardly (deep breath) bear to mentally place myself there again.  With great angst, here goes nuthin'.

Day 11, Day 11.  I love you, Day 11.  What a superbly-ordered day.  Oh gosh, it hurts (deep breathing).  I can do this.

Emily, Grace, Mary Beth, Shannon and I decided to use the better part of one of our days on the trip to journey to Giverny, to the home and gardens of Claude Monet.  I really can't claim to be an art expert or to have even been significantly moved by any of Monet's paintings my entire life.  I know very little about art and I may think a work is beautiful but am rarely affected in a deep way by it--I would be more apt to swoon at a perfectly constructed thought or descriptive paragraph in a novel...or any kind of excellent food or drink...or a worship song with deep meaning.  I mostly wanted to go because of the gardens and because the thought of venturing out into the French countryside appealed greatly to me.  We hopped the morning train and in about 45 minutes we arrived at our stop.  From the train station, there are shuttle buses that regularly take visitors to Giverny (less than a ten minute drive).

Once we got inside the grounds, we went straight to the gardens and simultaneously became engulfed in gardening technicolor immersion.  Monet designed the gardens himself, which is impressive.  We posed on the footbridge, we oohed and ahhed at each different flower, we took in the scope it of it all.  I went slowly...at times wandered away from the group...I wanted to feast with my eyes.  'Twas was a bountiful meal.  This was a day of drinking from a fire hydrant of beauty.

There are a couple of paths in the garden which have a wimpy plastic chain in front of them which, for some French reason, they don't want people traveling down.  This obviously makes naturally-bent rule-breakers want to pass over the chain and do exactly that:

After we finished misbehaving in the gardens, we toured Monet's house.  Again, we weren't supposed to snap photos but seriously how was I not going to take a pic of that yellow dining room with the red checkerboard tile?  Does Alice live here with the White Rabbit?  Ahhhh, the colors, the life!!!  The blue and white kitchen with that massive black oven?  Imagine if you were a visitor and Mrs. Monet invited you into the kitchen to fix you a cup of tea?!  Fainting spells of joy!!  And then tiny details like the blue trim on those ruffled sheers gave me heart palpitations!

All those heart palpitations were really working up my appetite.  During my research for the Giverny trip, I somehow stumbled across a blog post detailing a small inn and restaurant in the area called Le Jardin des Plumes.  The writer raved about the restaurant and I believed her.  I made a lunch reservation for us and this seemed like a suitable pairing to follow our visit with Monet.  It ended up being one of the most memorable meals of the trip--pure French luncheon perfection.  Look at it.  It's Snow White's guest house.

Le Jardin des Plumes (Garden of the Feathers?) just about knocked us flat.  The 1917 house, the beauty of the dining room, the hunk of Bordier butter with its own wooden knife wedge thing that was presented with crusty-edged spongy peasant bread, the little amuse bouche course that came in single servings of what looked like hollowed-out black eggshells sitting in a little egg crate, the homemade crackers (YES) and the herbed goat cheese that quite literally evaporated over my tongue in a miraculous cheese blanket in less than four seconds, the lady with the sliver brush that rid our table of the eight crumbs which had gone astray in our groaning over the Bordier butter, JUST THE WHOLE THING.  Glory hallelujah.  

And I cannot forget to mention the teapot (above, lower right).  Let me just say this:  anytime Lesli goes to an American restaurant and orders hot tea, I wait.  I wait for it to be an unsatisfactory experience.  Water is tepid instead of piping, no teapot provided, the tea is brought to the table before my accompaniments which means my tea gets cold waiting for the server to return with my milk and honey, the server thinks that when I say "milk" I really mean cream, etc.  Tea is not that hard but so many American restaurant establishments just don't get it.  I expect to be disappointed.  And if I know a place which will simply serve tea--very hot, in a teapot, with milk and honey--I will naturally prefer that restaurant over and over again...because they do tea well.  So when Le Jardin set before me the most glorious porcelain-bodied teapot with an outer shell stainless steel top, lined with felt to keep all the heat in... I swooned all over myself.  Guy Degrenne teapots have been made in France since 1957 and Le Jardin des Plumes made a customer out of me on that divinely-appointed day.  Somehow I fit two of these suckers in my bags on the way home--only to find they are readily available on amazon.  You're welcome.

Reluctantly, we started back to the train station.  If I had it to do over again, I would've overnighted at Le Jardin des Plumes.  I have no idea what the rooms are like but who cares?  The point would be to get to eat at that restaurant once more.  Anyway, we had special dinner plans in Paris that night and our missing roommates--Claire, Jennifer and Jenny--had opted for a bike tour to Versailles but were due to join us for dinner at Le Comptoir du Relais, aka "Le Comptoir," aka quintessential French bistro/foodie paradise.  We started back to Paris.

Sadly, the Versailles women got thrown under the guillotine by someone named Louis and were unable to join us for din din.  Not really, but didn't the blog post get trés interesting for a half-second?  Their trip took longer than anticipated so it remained just the Giverny 5 for dinner.  Here are Emily and Shannon strolling by the Hôtel de Ville on our way to Le Comptoir:

We waited in line for a short while and eventually scored two tiny tables to crowd around right on the sidewalk.  Our servers were intimidating and the hustle/bustle effect was constant.  Admittedly, I was still a little satisfied as a result of Le Jardin so I wasn't starving--but my Salade Niçoise, bisque, wine and chocolate raspberry pot de crème were all magnifique!!  *kisses bunched fingertips and throws hand in the air with flair*  Sometimes if I want to have a Paris fantasy, I watch this video.  Allow me to share:  http://www.hotel-paris-relais-saint-germain.com/flash/us/

 Click on "Savour the Restaurants" and then click on "Le Comptoir" for a short transportive video.  If you're very quiet, you will hear faint cries of grief as my heart wails.  

After dinner, we Vélib'd it back to Maison 1400 like the cycling professionals we wished we were.  Every time I rode a bicycle through the streets of Paris I had a saturation of heart which felt like I was savoring everything to the maximum capacity.  It was exhilarating.  It heightened all my senses.  I felt utterly unhindered speeding through the wind--so independent, so able, so freeeeee!!!  It's probably the hardest thing I coped with not being able to do once I returned home.  Bike riding met the part of me that craves a big city and the ability to access the discovery of a place without being strapped into a large piece of machinery.  There's something so addictive about that feeling!  I think as a mother, I sometimes feel so tied to schedules, my house, my car, my people, my lists, other people's perceptions of me, expectations I have of myself...and for some reason when I was on a bike in Paris, I felt completely unchained!  I felt like the woman I am--but with the spirit of a ten year old girl!!  I've grieved the loss of that feeling ever since I boarded my plane to come home....

Action shot:  Us on the way home from dinner.  Mary Beth & Shannon got separated from us in traffic but Emily, Grace and I had pressed through victorious.  One thing we learned in our bike tours was to stick out your arm and hold your hand up to communicate "stop" and to do this to alert cars to stay back or wait for you.  Fat Tire Bike Tours affectionately refers to the move as "the palm of power."  The video depicts the exceptionally cute Emily Miller visibly bursting with pride that she had just successfully used her palm of power.  Yes.

Transcript:  {Emily enters beaming}  

(Lesli) "Awesome, I saw that palm of power!!"

(Emily) "I used it!!"

I would have been grateful to roll myself into my bed in the red toile bedroom.  The day had been so sweet.  But lo, something sweeter my way came....

I walked up into the living room where the other girls were gathered and they presented me with a gift in celebration of my birthday--as IF coming to Paris wasn't gift enough!!  When I opened the gift I found a hot pink feather boa, crazy glasses and a crepe papered, ribboned, embellished extravaganza of a birthday hat.  Beneath those things, there was a card.

I opened the card to read well wishes from all the ladies of Group 2 and there were two photos of something framed.  My eyes widened and I leaned in close to the card to examine the photos.  The photos were of a custom poster, lettered and printed by our gifted friend, Sarah Pattison of The Happy Envelope.  The poster was a result of Sarah having taken my words and having turned them into something visually beautiful.  The words were from a note I wrote on Facebook on the first Father's Day after my dad died, 2010.  It was about how my dad appreciated every little bite of his favorite foods and how I learned to savor delights from him.  I could not believe what I was seeing.  I think it was the first time I had ever seen my words in print.  My eyes filled.
    

The girls had gone in together to commission it and have it framed before they left to come on the trip.  The frame was waiting for me in Knoxville when I finally returned home after the trip and it now hangs in my kitchen (of course).  Truly one of the most meaningful gifts I have ever received.  I'm still in awe.  Girls, if you're reading this--I still can't fully wrap my head around the feeling of love I felt from all of you that night.  I know I'll always remember it.  Many, many, many thanks.

The gift was so significant to me for a hundred reasons--not the least of which was that it brought my father into the room.  To have traveled 'round the world on my 40th birthday and followed through with a life dream without being able to talk to my dad about it...in some ways this left the experience feeling incomplete.  I knew that if he were still here, he would've cheered me on to do it.  He would've acted so amazed at the concept, at me.  The man who taught me to notice and to savor and to be fascinated with food, as part of the fabric of who I am, wasn't reachable in the middle of a trip that was non-stop noticing and savoring and being fascinated with food.

I feel like this is a good time to stop and just say that CANCER SUCKS.

And with that, here are a few words from The Larry Beckham School of Food Appreciation:    

 Big time Parisian spirit-fingers and props to our friend, Sarah, and The Happy Envelope for a most excellent wordy creation with super lovely fonts, styling and meaning.  You are a wonder!!

And that's the end of Group 2!!  Well, sort of.  Jennifer, Shannon and Mary Beth would head back home the next morning and Emily, Grace, Claire and Jenny would depart Maison 1400 but had plans to stay in Paris a couple days more in a nearby hotel before leaving Paris for good.  So you haven't seen the last of them!  Group 2 moved out--and Group 3 moved in about an hour later!  More on Group 3 to come in the posts for Days 12-15 which, Lord willing, won't take another six months to churn out!!  







   

Day 10: From Heart-Singing to Heart-Pounding--Have Mercy, Dear Paris

When I think back on Day 10, I am a mix of emotions.  It was the most golden of days, it was the most harrowing of days.  Let's start with the golden....

Jenny, Claire, Emily, Grace and I decided to venture up to Montmartre and Sacré Cœur in the morning.  I was itching for a little quality time on the Vélib' bike and the rest of the group opted for a cab so we planned to meet up at Sacré Cœur.  The bike ride was great.  I mapped it from my phone, starting at our apartment in the Marais and soon found the path was clearly marked on sidewalks and along the streets--probably because it is such a popular path.  At one point, a guy who spoke English rode up beside me on his bike at a light and asked if I knew the way to Sacré Cœur.  I told him I had it mapped and we could go together.  So I had a little traveling partner for that journey--a biking friend.

Sacré Cœur is at the tippy top of Montmartre and offers spectacular views over the whole of Paris.  It's a must-do/see.  I rode my bike up to a point and then it was so hilly that I needed to walk the rest of the way.  I parked the Vélib' and started trucking up "the stairs."  I can't remember how many there are--200?  300?  Beaucoups of stairs.  But when you've been eating, sleeping and breathing pastries for ten days, you can get motivated to move.

When you get to the top of the stairs (above left), then you get to climb some more stairs up to the cathedral itself (above right).  The day you go to Sacré Cœur is a good day to plan a food indulgence.  What am I saying?  That's every day you're in Paris.  Never mind.  

I found Jenny and Claire and we stood there for a while, taking in the view.  And taking selfies.

 Actually, we were killing time while Grace and Emily chatted with two ladies they'd met in the bookstore the day before.  This happened a few times on the trip--where one of us would recognize someone we'd seen prior at another tourist spot.  It felt one part serendipitous and one part creepy.

We walked into Sacré Cœur.  I was prepared for a large church, lots of people, lit candles, mosaics, statues.

I was not prepared for the service that was occurring while we were inside.  Emily, Grace and I sat down and listened for a little while.  We let the tourist in us roll off and we entered into a momentary spiritual retreat.

The picture above was taken after the service was over, but while it was happening, they had sections of the pews roped off, both for the congregation attending the whole service and a different section for those who were willing to sit and be quiet and listen for a portion.  Most people who entered the cathedral just kept quietly filing around the perimeter of the sanctuary.

If you look in the middle of the photo, you can see wooden stalls up in the nave or front part of the sanctuary.  There were 12-15 nuns seated in this area.  While we sat and listened, there was a responsive singing happening where the nuns would sing/chant some words and then the congregation would sing a response.  As the nuns sang in unison and their voices filled up the whole space, my eyes closed.

I think there was a part of me that had been waiting for this moment the whole trip.  That for all the planning, excitement, strategy, researching, coordination, fighting the urge to be a tour guide, carrying expectations on myself for not only my experience on the trip but everyone else's experiences, thanking God repeatedly for the gift and feeling His joy on me and His provision...I realized I had failed to actually *dwell* in His presence up until this point in the trip.

And those holy voices...women's voices...filling and ministering...bathing my soul...summoning God and invoking His presence in that moment...just absolutely dissolved me and returned me to a place of dwelling.  As I closed my eyes and listened, I felt His presence.  And as I felt His presence, tears washed out of my eyes, giving equal opportunity to both my cheeks, forming little rivers which trickled down to my neck.  The depth of relief at the heart cleansing from Jesus which I felt cannot be explained.

I can still remember it as I sit here and type.  I'm so thankful and yet, I ache.

Needless to say, if you have the opportunity to attend a singing service at Sacré Cœur, that's something I would encourage.  I wished so much I could've gone back every day afterward.

We eventually meandered out and around to exit the cathedral and headed over to the Place du Tertre, also known as "the artist's square" which has several rows of amateur artists selling their work or offering to expertly sketch one's visage on the spot, many of them very affordable.  Great place to walk around.  Several of the girls did some souvenir shopping here.

I waited on the girls and as I did, my tummy began to speak to me about its needs.  All those stairs and bike riding and crying at the singing nuns and what-not....

Naturally, I followed my nose to a creperie.  Was there any way I *wasn't* going to get the Nutella-banana one?  Sheesh.  And then we sat on the sidewalk and ate our crepes and discussed afternoon plans.

Nearby was a vintage clothing store we'd come across during trip-planning.  We liked the idea of finding a fun vintage clothing piece or accessory item from Paris as a souvenir--so we made the walk to Mamie Blue.

Obviously, I thought the name of the shop was parfait, but once inside, it was a bit overstocked and hard to look through.  And the prices were more chic than cheap.  So we gave up the hunt and moved on with the day.

At this point, we parted ways.  I was craving a little bit of down time on my own and I wanted back on the bike.  Jardin du Luxembourg was one of those places on my list that I hadn't yet gotten to visit and I thought I would seize the moment.  Because of where our apartment was in the Marais, the Jardin du Luxembourg wasn't ever in our path on the way to anything else, which was regrettable.  It's one of those spots I would've loved to have had in my path.  And this is why:

This is a doctored up little shot I took while sitting in a chair in front of the octagonal pool (Grand Basin), which fronts the Luxembourg Palace.  The Jardin du Luxembourg is the second largest public park in Paris at around 55 acres and contains over 100 statues, monuments and fountains.  It has a children's playground, a carousel, and a marionette theater within the grounds.  The gardens were a frequented place of rest for Ernest Hemingway and have more than a handful of ties to literary figures and references, including Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables."  It is the kind of place which welcomes you and casts a spell, causing any further plans which would require you to depart to become suddenly unimportant.

At the octagonal pool, there are small sailboats that can be rented and are only powered by the ripples from the center fountain and long punting-type poles which children use to push their boats back out into the center.  Then they run around the pool to intersect their boat wherever it may come "ashore" and push it back out with the pole.  Watching them chase and run and wonder and laugh made me ache for my children.

I decided to face-time the kids while I sat and watched and was able to show them through the phone what these children were doing and bring them into my Paris world for just a little bit.  I missed my children so much on this trip...and yet I knew I would be home in a matter of days.  It was a delicate balance of emotions and reality reminders.  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may....  

Speaking of rosebuds:

Could've stayed for hours.  Hours.

Alas, evening was drawing nigh and I was on a bike.  It was time to head back to Maison 1400.  I had officially reached a level of comfort on a bike in Paris that was equal parts competency and exhilaration.  I knew how to navigate traffic and I knew the layout of the city such that I wasn't a slave to my phone having to voice direct me exactly where to go all the time.  If I could get the gist of a place and know where the Seine was, I could get home.  Seine, Notre Dame, Hôtel de Ville, Marais, Maison 1400.

I made a goofy video while riding in a fairly calm section of street to help myself remember the thrill.  The transcript of the video, should you need one, is:  "Ridin' my bike in Paris.  Liiiike a pro.  (and then a pause)  Whoo, wind in my hair!" (cut)

Look out, Spielberg.

Ten minutes later on my ride back to the apartment, dusk began to set in along with a light sprinkle of rain.  I was not far from the apartment, but I had encountered rush hour traffic in a construction zone.  Because cat-like reflexes aren't my strong suit, I hopped off my bike and walked it through the traffic to get to my street just a few feet away.  As I mounted the bike to take off again, a most alarming thing happened.

Upon placing my foot on the pedal to take off, I was stopped by someone forcefully pulling on the right arm of my jacket and railing on me, verbally, in French.  I bristled.  It was a lady shouting at me and pointing.  People on the sidewalk stopped to stare.  My eyes widened and heart quickened.  I half-stuttered:  "J-j-j-je ne parle pas F-f-f-francais!"  She changed courses and continued shouting in English, pointing behind me to the traffic.  "You need to come with me RIGHT NOW, Madame, and see what you did to my car!!"  My heart tried to jump through my breastbone and out of my chest.  I felt hot.  My throat started to close.  "I didn't do anything to your car!  I would have known if I had bumped into a car!"  My mind was spinning.  Dear God, what in the world should I do?  The woman kept shouting, "You need to come with me RIGHT NOW, I am calling the POLICE!!"

Sooo, let's all put ourselves in Lesli's place for a moment, shall we?  Foreign country, don't speak the language, shouting French woman, dusk, light rain, people staring on the sidewalk, accusations, confident I bumped no one with my bike, knew there were at least four others weaving bikes through that traffic along with me, knew that even though this woman had absolutely no proof of any wrongdoing where I was concerned that the whole 'American tourist on a bike' thing wouldn't work to my advantage in front of an officer of the French law....

As the lady shouted she needed me to come with her to call the police, she turned to walk back to her car in her fury, where I guess she presumed I would be following her.

I'm still not real clear on what happened inside me physiologically at that point, but my brain horse-whipped my feet and my feet attacked the bike pedals and...I :: TOOK :: OFF.

Before I knew it, I was pedaling like my life depended on it--in the opposite direction of the shouting French woman.  If I could've formed words, I would have shouted at my heart to GET THE HECK BACK IN MY CHEST.  As fast as my 40-year-old legs could move me, I flew down the street on my trusty Vélib' bike.  I did not look back.  I had two turns to make for home.  What was happening?  Was this even real?  I shoved my bike back into the Vélib' station and was shaking so badly I could barely shuffle to the apartment.  I looked over my shoulder in each direction every 3 seconds.  Where is Crazy French Lady?  Dear God, please let her be stuck in traffic.  Are the police coming?  I felt like I was in a movie.  Dear Mr. Spielberg, please see my contact information for the rights to this story.  Even with my natural bent toward the video arts, I promise to let you film it.

I pressed in the code to the front door, pushed it open, stepped inside and shut the weight of it behind me with so much relief that my knees almost gave way.  I slowly made my way up the spiral staircase while firmly gripping the handrail and knocked on the door of my landlord, Michael.  I knew that none of the other girls were home at this point, so thank the Lord for Michael.  I was in no state to be alone.  I tried to briefly summarize, without having a breakdown, what had just occurred.  And in his larger-than-life Americanness responded with a sympathetic hearty laugh and "Oh, honey!  You did the right thing!"  And then, "Do you need a drink?!"

He ushered me into his living room and directed me to sit while he fixed me the strongest screwdriver of my life.  I sipped and we talked about how Crazy French Lady had no proof and there was no way for her to trace my bike and then Michael called her some choice words.  I sipped some more.  I enjoy a cocktail or two for pleasure on occasion and do not often allow myself to medicate with libations, but this was beyond justifiable.  I desperately needed a reset button.  When normal breathing was restored and my heart had ceased to spaz as if from electrocution, I made my way up the stairs to my sweet red toile bedroom with the exposed beam ceiling...and carried the rest of my screwdriver with me.  I rested.  Here's a recap with general pictures--not ones from the actual moment (well, except for Michael's screwdriver):

At some point, the girls returned and having successfully dulled my panic of yore, I was nicely relaxed for their arrival.  If fuzzy memory serves, Mary Beth had a friend who lives in Paris to connect with and both Jennifer and Shannon had tickets to the ballet that night.  Emily, Grace, Claire and Jenny were supposed to come back from their shopping escapade and then we would all go down to the Seine for a little French picnic dinner.  The only thing was they sort of shopped 'til they dropped and were flat-out exhausted by the time they got back, which was totally understandable.  Except that left me a little downtrodden since I'd been waiting with my screwdriver for a blue moon for them to return and had really parked my heart on the evening picnic thing.  Grace and Emily summoned the wherewithal to indulge me and we headed down to the Seine, arms full of treasures from the food hall at Le Bon Marché.    

That evening just happened to be Nuit Blanche, which is an annual art & museum extravaganza all over Paris, all for free.  It's a holiday of sorts and is very popular--big crowds everywhere.  Watch your pocketbooks, ladies!  There were creative arts displays in churches, monuments and museums--dusk 'til dawn.  Many people use it as an excuse to imbibe and celebrate--which meant our quaint little spot down by the Seine was populated in short order by other...revelers.  We weren't reveling so much as just trying to eat and take in the scene.  We had cheese, baguette, butter, antipasti, wine, and a jar of specialty nuts in honey.  Mmm, dinner.  Mmm, Paris.

It was really lovely...until the three guys over Lesli's right shoulder decided to try to squeeze in between our spot and the edge of the bank next to the Seine.  They were celebrating a birthday in their group and had brought along their own little pic-a-nic with...how shall I phrase it?  More emphasis on the drink part than the food part.  It was soon apparent that they needed that spot behind us to be able to access the ledge below the bank to stand on and use as their own invisible urinal into the Seine.  Grand.

At one point they began to ask us questions and try to converse, which is how we found out about the birthday.  Really we were just being polite and wished they would jump off the bank and swim around in their man tinkle for a while so we could have some peace and quiet.  But somehow the birthday boy ended up wanting a photo op--so he leaned in, much to Emily's surprise.  Thankfully, I was ready with the camera.

How did we get here?  How did we get all the way from teary nun singing at Sacré Cœur to being accosted in the street on a bike to public tinkling men and picnics by the Seine?  My heart is spinning.  C'est la vie en Paris, friends.

After a walk back to the apartment (no more bikes for Lesli today) and such a full day (which actually felt more like a week in itself) we were ready to hit the hay.  In the morning, we would be splitting as a group with a few traveling to Versailles and the rest of us hopping a train to Giverny for the day.  'Twould come to be ranked among the most lovely of days on my entire trip and I am looking so forward to revisiting it through writing and photos.  Bonne nuit, tout le monde!!

        

Day 9: Bottom Line: We Made Croissants Today

Special breakfasts are a complete luxury to me.  Going slowly and starting the day in that way is a gift.  And special breakfasts are even more beautiful when shared with my husband or a friend.  When Dean and I are able to get away together, our breakfasts are always a highlight for me.  It's just something that never occurs when we're at home--alone in the morning, someone to serve us food and beverage, someone to clean it all up, someone to set out every little thing we need.  Maybe there's a newspaper involved, maybe we talk about our day.... For sure, there are lots of dishes on the table--a teapot, cups, silverware, little plates, medium plates, a jar of honey, a small pitcher of milk, a juice glass.  I feel like I'm playing dollhouse except it's really my life at that very moment--like I'm living in my own dollhouse-breakfast-world.  

So when I mentioned to Shannon the previous evening at dinner that I would be thrilled to nip away to a fancy hotel for breakfast one morning, imagine my joy when she said she'd love the same thing!  That happened today.  We got out of bed when we'd maybe have preferred to have been sleeping in and we headed back over to, apparently, the only fancy hotel in Paris I know--Hotel Le Bristol.

We walked slowly through the lobby with marble and beautiful furniture, flower arrangements and rampant displays of shiny, gold brass and mirrors to the breakfast room.  I approached the hostess stand and gave her my best, "Bo-jzhew (smile).  Deux personnes pour le petit déjeuner, s'il vous plaît?"  She smiled back and said something in French and led us to a table with two armchairs and a sofa surrounding it.  You know when you go to breakfast and there's a sofa at your table, you are in the right place.  

But did you read what I just said?  "She smiled back and said something in French...."  This is possibly the most conflicting experience I have had in Paris. I feel a rush of competency and Frenchness when I have offered something in the language to the point that I am responded to in full-on French.  It means my pronunciation was somewhere in the realm of acceptable, my accent was halfway convincing and I managed to give the allusion of confidence--it means I am viewed as being French-ish!!!  And then, the crushing, paradoxical blow:  I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE SAYING BACK.  

I am subsequently discovered as a lingual fraud because I have to then change my body language and my facial lines to portray my inner shame as I admit, "Je ne parle pas francais."  And then, as is my habit, I form a small space in the air with my index finger and thumb, and follow it up with, "Un petit peu," with a scrunched-up nose and face which silently asks, "Please don't hate me for deceiving you.  Have pity."  It is especially tortuous for someone who is used to communicating with words to not be able to do that in a foreign country.  I ache to say something beyond my basic phrases and preschool-level sentence structuring.  I keep meaning to google-translate something like, "This meal was life-changing.  I will never be the same again." In my fantasy, I would practice the translation until it's so convincing that the conception of the ignorant American they initially held of me is banished forever into the Parisian sewers to roam freely with the ghost of Javert.

So Shannon and I clinked teacups and spread Échiré butter on our brioche and sipped slowly and laughed and took in our surroundings and caught up a little bit on each other's lives.  It was bliss.

The only thing that distracted me from breakfast bliss was that I was partially fixated on repairing a loose button in a central location on my blouse which came loose while I was getting ready to leave.  I popped over to ask the front desk at the hotel if I could have a sewing kit and they graciously obliged.  So while Shannon was away at the ladies' room during breakfast, I tried to quickly sew it back on.  I do not sew.  But button-reattaching is within my grasp.  I eventually got it back on but not without piercing my thumb with the needle and consequently shedding blood on the white blouse around my button.  Blood on blouses--it's the new thing, so...organic.  Try to keep up, Paris fashion week-ers.

We headed out after breakfast to meet Grace, Emily and Mary Beth at the Musée Jacquemart-André.  It took a little longer than we had figured because, much in the same way as Beth and I mapped driving directions to use for bicycling (Day 7), Shannon and I mapped *driving* directions for walking.  We ended up walking about a mile out of our way on one-way streets when our legs could've just cut straight to the chase.  Somehow, we ended up on the Champs Elysées so we paused for a photo.  If you strain your eyes, you can spot the Arc de Triomphe in the distance.

Everyone sing:  "Aux Champs Elysées!"  If you've never heard the song or taken a French class of any kind, here you go: 

You're welcome.

Eventually, we got to the Musée Jacquemart-André.  Fascinating tour of an opulent 19th century residence-turned-museum in the heart of Paris.  We had a lovely lunch in the cafe, which was the home's original dining room.

Our next stop was La Cuisine--the site of our group class for learning the art of making croissants!  Everyone was excited about this.  But since we had a bit of extra time before the class started, I decided to use it for rest.  I began to feel sluggish and easily bothered at this point, feeling the effects of having not slept in that morning.

I looked down from Quai de Hotel de Ville to the Seine and noticed a nice landing with trees by the river, accessible from steps which went down from the bridge on the other side.  I'm not sure, but I think this spot was pointed out to me by our Fat Tire night bike tour guide, Theo, when Dean was here.  I remembered him saying it was a nice spot so I walked over.  Once there, I banished all feelings of weariness, plopping myself right down on a bench.

I pretended not to mentally reference knowledge of the unsanitary habits of certain French men who have no desire to find an actual toilet in moments when they probably should.  No part of the ground or public hard surface (or the Seine for that matter) in Paris seems to be sacred.  Sometimes you're so tired that your exhaustion overrides any mental battle you might feel and that is what happened for me.  While I rested there, I quieted.  I needed it.

As I left the spot, I noticed a few people in an art class taking inspiration from their surroundings.  They sat with little sketchbooks and small trays of watercolor paints and it was so quiet.  I was excited about the cooking class, but I really could've stayed down there another hour.

I made my way back across the bridge and noticed a couple of quaint restaurants on the way.  Sometimes I would see restaurants like these and even if I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to eat something--if only to get to linger in a cafe.    

But it was time for the cooking class!  Welcome to La Cuisine Paris....

Everyone except Jenny was game for the croissant class.  The seven of us went in to La Cuisine with our wonderful instructor, Diana, who was a pure joy--and who taught us how to make croissants.  We were given recipes and a pencil for note-taking, which I did for the first ten minutes--but then came to the realization that I would never be repeating this process at home, solely by virtue of the fact that I have three children and a regular lack of 5-hour time slots in which to recreate such things.  So I put down my pencil and just listened to Diana and tried to do what she said.  We laughed, we gasped, we whisked, we rolled, we sliced, we kneaded and we sampled our efforts.  And at the end, we had actual croissants.  Unbelievable.  I'm not going to say they were the lightest, flakiest, most professional-grade croissants I'd ever had, but darn it--they were croissants.  That was more than enough.

Shannon gets serious about her whisking. 

 Everyone was trying so much to do everything *exactly* as Diana instructed.  And then something happened--I think Jennifer had a snafu with the almond paste?  Anyway, everyone in the room was watching it happen and we all gasped as if something truly earth-shattering had just occurred.  And then our gasping made us howl with laughter!

 Beautiful pastry dough and pastry chefs!

Here is Grace pictured with Diana, our instructor.  At one point in the steps, we were instructed to knead the dough in a particular way which involved slamming it down on the counter with great force.  For whatever reason, Diana felt compelled to center on Grace's efforts with extended personalized pointers.  Grace's face!  We were all in stitches.  Diana was very...animated about this part.  

Ta-da!!  Can you feel the pride?  Many thanks to sweet Diana for all her patience and instruction!!

Dinner tonight was split because we were only able to get a reservation for 4 at one of the places on our list, Le 6 Paul Bert--the quintessential modern French bistro.  It was decided that the four of us who had been most involved in restaurant-choosing and reservation-making during our trip planning would go, since we probably cared the most.  Fabulous meal.  I recall a mushroom dish that was especially memorable.  

At some point in the evening, Emily spotted the owner, Bertrand Auboyneau.  Naturally, she chatted him up.

We were all so jazzed that we'd even gotten a reservation at Le 6 Paul Bert that when we first looked at the menu (which threw no English translation bones our way) we were mostly at a loss...but playing it cool was a priority.  In other words, I couldn't whip out my Google translate app quickly enough.  This was a mostly helpful exercise, but every once in a while, things didn't really translate.  In the photo, the one on the left was a Google translate misfire which sent us into hysterics.  The one on the right I had to figure out because we strongly suspected the sommelier (who spoke little to no English) was actually making fun of us.  I asked him in French.  It made him laugh.  This is called, "Americans giving it their best shot."  Guaranteed to please the French 98% of the time.    

And then there was that time Emily, who is a rep for J. Hilburn men's custom clothing, noticed a fellow diner's covered buttons and, in short order, was conducting an on-site inspection--much to his great amusement.  

Eventually, we looked at our watches and noticed it was 11:30 in the evening and we still hadn't paid our bill...and we were actually kind of overjoyed at that.  It was a very, very good night.  

And just in case you ever need to know:  Ce repas était un changement de vie. Je ne serai jamais le même.  {This meal was life-changing.  I will never be the same again.}

Bonus:  Taxi ride video on the way home.  Emily is scrolling our driver's cell phone and tries to have a conversation where he repeatedly indicates he is speaking about his "petit frére," which is "little brother" but somehow got interpreted as "girlfriend" or just "little friend."  Which makes the fact that 'she' was involved in WWE especially confusing.  Coupled with Emily's wrestling pantomime and Mary Beth's continual, "Oui, oui," AS IF we understood anything about this conversation brings me great joy in the hereafter.  Wish I'd taken more videos.