I have wanted to visit Paris for a long long time, and here I am at last. I wanted to spend my thirtieth birthday here, but we didn’t have much extra money when we were living in Scotland. I wanted to spend my fiftieth birthday here, but July 2020 was a bad time for visiting Paris. But I will turn 55 on Saturday, and I will do it in Paris.
We are renting an apartment that was advertised as being in Montmartre. It is actually east of Montmartre proper, in a neighborhood full of immigrant families. One of the shops is called the Parisian Farm.
Dernit, I was trying to insert a picture and it did not work. Picture a little storefront, with a sign that says La Ferme Parisienne. Inside there is a whole flock of live chickens, with ducks in pens and free-range doves. You can walk right in and buy the freshest eggs in town.
I had it in my head that Parisian shopkeepers were chilly and distant and irritated by the influx of tourists speaking wobbly French, but the Parisian farmer was unexpectedly warm and friendly and he even complimented my French.
Today he spotted Stella and me on the street, where we were waiting for Elwood to exit the crowded grocery store, and he greeted us happily. I told him how much I’d enjoyed the duck eggs, and he seemed genuinely pleased. “See you soon,” I said. “Very soon,” he agreed.
(We also went to Notre Dame and a crêperie and Shakespeare & Company today, but you’ve probably read lots of other traveling bloggers’ posts about visits to Notre Dame. Don’t you wish you had a friendly Parisian farmer selling fresh eggs around the corner?)
Recent Comments