Day Seven – Last Tango in Paris

Paris Christmas 2009
December 27th 2009 - January 3rd 2010

Day Seven – Last Tango in Paris

I spent the night last night with a raging migraine – I’ve never had one before and didn’t enjoy the experience. Sufficed to say that I didn’t get much sleep and woke up a bit grumpy and out of sorts (after the two or three hours of sleep I did manage to get). Note for next trip – pack extra strength ibuprofen (and probably a full first aid kit, because let’s be honest, I can hardly go two days without doing myself an injury – this trip alone I’ve managed to pour boiled water over my hand, stub my toe at least three times on the fridge, knock various bits of myself in the shower, trip, hurt big toe walking too much, strain my back turning over in bed, and twist my neck).

Our first stop of the morning was the pharmacy just across the street for my super-french strength nurofen – the French don’t do drugs by half measures and I got the full 400mg dose box, which calmed down what was left of my headache in no time.

We took the bus from Jean-Pierre Timbaud all the way to Gare Montparnasse for a wander through the really nice market there. It constantly amazes me how the French manage to find enough fresh produce to do a quality market in the middle of winter (it was even snowing, as they sold leeks, beets and potatoes). We spent a few minutes trying to find the excellent restaurant we ate in the last time we were in Paris but were obviously on the wrong street – it was one of those excellent Parisian 7-table tiny restaurants that the chef obviously opened because he loves serving quality food, rather than trying to make a fortune (unlike some of our celebrity chefs).

We enjoyed the sights and smells as we walked through the market – we hadn’t had breakfast and the cooking chickens and sausages made our mouths water. At the end of the market street was the main entrance for the Montparnasse cemetery (we’d done the Père Lachaise cemetery on a previous trip). We spent a little while wandering around looking at the ornate French sepulchres, coming across Serge Gainsbourg’s grave along the way (sort of a French version of late, great Jim Morrison, grave complete with flowers, poems, photos, drawing etc, much as Jims is in Père Lachaise).

Having had enough of gravestones and freaking COLD winds, we left the cemetery through the opposite entrance, looking for a restaurant Jamie had found in one of her guide books. Unfortunately, it had both changed names AND was closed, however up the road was an interesting market street with just about the largest supply of butchers I’ve ever seen in one place (Rue Daguerre in the 14th).

We spent probably a bit longer than is reasonable looking at the chopped up bits of former animals, then had lunch at La Chope Daguerre. The chef, or owner (its sometimes hard to tell) welcomed us in, gave us a seat, and suggested the poulet with the tone of a man who has purchased more of the special than he now expects to actually sell. In fact, the poulet was also recommended by the waitress, and with two suggestions, how could we refuse? €14 got us a ¼ chicken with girolles mushrooms, roasted potatoes sautéed in some sort of delicious fat, and a bit of salad. More than either of us could eat. And wine, of course.

We almost literally rolled out of the restaurant and across the street to a little shop selling various types of fresh pastas and sauces – we’d enjoyed the pasta so much the previous night that we decided to do it again. We bought another €12 of tortellini this time with a basil and tomato sauce. I was complimented on my French by the guy at the store (I have an odd Outaouais Quebec/Western Canadian accent that Parisians seem to find mostly incomprehensible – the Outaouais region is the bit of Quebec just northeast of Ottawa – a sort of Canadian farmer French, but it’s what I learned as a kid). I felt very proud that I was understood – usually I get a blank stare and confusion...

From the 14th, we took the metro to the Latin quarter for the trying on of hats and photography of tourists and shop owners (I was thinking of getting one of those giant fur hats with the ear-flaps as it was so bloody cold, but after trying a few on I realised that 1. I looked like a monumental twit and that 2. see point 1). Photos taken, streets wandered, massive hordes of people bumped into, restaurant touts trying to get us to eat their particular skewers of meat ignored, and we decided that we were thirsty (by day 7, I’m sure you’re detecting a theme to our travels).

We found a sympathetic cafe just outside the heaving masses and sat for a bit enjoying a cafe crème and a bit of wine, watching the scenery walk past. There are very few things in this world as relaxing as sitting in a French cafe in Paris watching the world walk past.

Post beverage, we decided that what we really needed was a bottle of wine, so we walked up the hill to our old stomping grounds just below the Pantheon on Rue Des Ecoles and specifically La Petite Périgourdine, where we’d spent far too many happy hours (and euros) over the past few years. Not much has changed at La Petite – a bit of a renovation from the first few times, but some of the waiters are the same, even after 6 years...

We took the bus back to our little garret, stopping at the Marche Franprix on the way to pick up a bottle of wine and 6 boxes of gavottes (only three for me, the others for co-workers back in London – seriously, they are spectacular and you must have them if you see them). Dinner was excellent as expected, followed by an evening of photo editing, writing, and packing.

After a week in Paris with nothing in particular to do and nothing in particular to see, at probably not the best time of year to be here, we’ve both decided (or re-affirmed more accurately) that we both love it here – Canada will always be where we’re from, and London is where we live, but I think France is where our hearts are and where our livers will probably eventually give out.