So I'm standing here thinking it's harder to take my picture in the mirror than it has a right to be. It's freezing outside. I've just come in and my fingers won't move--
I'm saying hi!
I'll be home Sunday. I intend to eat ice cream and Mexican for the next month.
Except for Thanksgiving, which reminds me, should I have my son order the turkey now, rather than wait? One year they were ALL OUT of the turkey I wanted--
But, what am I thinking? God.
I am still in Paris, with four more big fat days to fill...however, since I am so done with the rat race of sightseeing, I plan to just wander around.
Today I hung out behind the Notre Dame, my favorite place over there. The rear view of the church is so gorgeous. And the park, so very Parisian. And my first park in Paris. Found in a state of jet lagged shock, three years ago, and I love it.
Around front I stared up at the roof where one can climb. I did climb up my first year here. However, It was an ill-advised climb. It was spur of the moment. I had just come from a lunch of duck and butter. I was wearing high heeled boots. One moment before the climb started I'd patted myself on the back for being so spontaneous--
That climb was a nightmare of claustrophobia and burning thighs, of twisting and climbing that never ended, until it did, and then I was thrust out so high off the ground I practically took a swan dive off the edge just because it seemed like the corrective experience for the narrow, gagging climb I'd just survived.
BUT, what joy once up there! It was wondrous. The gargoyle and chimeras were amazing, having their own party, laughing at the world, forever. The huge wooden interiors of the towers where the bells were called me to hide and stay. The roof went on and on, out of sight from the ground, with statues of old saints in addition to the chimera, standing, guarding, protecting their world up there. It's big up there.
I'll never see it again. Unless they install an elevator in the church, and god knows they do have the room--
The musicians were out in force, as were the pigeons, which are an ISSUE here in Paris, turns out. There are efforts being made to curb the unsightly mess these urban creatures (I am, of course, referring to the pigeons) leave around, plans concocted by scientific animal lovers who are some of my favorite people. The plans are too complicated to go into here....
It was freezing cold today. Somewhere along the line I'd left my old gloves with the holes in the fingers behind. Maybe when I got the nutella crepe from the vendor? Maybe when I completed my conversation with the Scottish ladies? Maybe when I tackled the metro at Chatelet, which is the Grand Central station of metros, and not for either the squeamish or the faint of heart.
So, fingers now frostbitten, I set aside old resentments, and paused at the first Monoprix I saw. I took a deep breath and walked in. There, thank god, waving from the corner, was the perfect pair of cheap gloves, without holes in the fingers, to tide me over.
And miracle above all heaven, when it came time to pay, there were no French persons in line in front of me, each waiting to have their very personal and detailed conversation with the check-out lady. I even stood there after I paid, so lack of line was there, and put my money back in my wallet carefully, actually latching all the little latches so that there wouldn't be a pile of change at the bottom of my purse when I got home...taking my time to the extent that the saleswoman stopped her between-customers-bustling to inquire ever so politely "Madame?"
Which meant "move on, missy."
Back out in the cold, even though I was now back in St Germain, which should have been, just because, warmer, it wasn't.
So I descended once again, and caught the very convenient metro at Mabillion, which dropped me very conveniently at Vaneau, where back up above ground, I had to rudely shove my way through a gaggle of laughing, smoking teenagers wearing huge scarves.
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