Quiet Saturday

More happened yesterday than I could tell you about, and today, less happened than I will tell you about -- because I'll catch up for yesterday.

I slept until an ordinary hour today -- 8 am. That's big news, since I've been getting up between 3 and 5 every morning since I got here.

This morning, I read Dan Brown's OTHER book, Demons and Angels. A good read -- I'm familiar enough with Rome that I knew most of the aha! moments before they happened, and figured out the Church of the Illuminati before it was revealed in the text -- there was a twist or two that fooled me, however.

So, yesterday -- I ate my first food outside the apartment. It was not a big deal, except that food in Paris is always a big deal. I ate my first Parisian hot dog. That's what they are called, by the way -- "Le hot dog" Of course, you will hopelessly brand yourself as an unwashed heathen if you ask for a hot dog. Remember, in France, the final consonants are NEVER pronounced, except for when they are (like in Aix-en-Provence, where both the "x" and the "n" of the first two words ARE pronounced -- not only that, the "x" is pronounced like an "X", which is also something that never happens, since the "x" in French is sort of like a "z", even though they pronounce "s" and "z" like that, too -- oh, the hell with it, I'll never be able to explain it to you, because I'll never know it myself). So, that means that it would be pronounced "Ho Dough", except, shit-oh-dear, in that peculiarly French profligacy with letters, you don't actually pronounce the "h", either. So, after discarding exactly half the letters, this homely delicacy is an "O-Dough".

Any resemblance to an American hot dog ends at the name.

First, you start with un baguette tradition, split down the top where it was slashed before baking. This, in an of itself, is approximately a 1.436 times 10 to the 23rd improvement over a hot dog bun.

But wait, there's more!

A liitle moutarde de Dijon, then two lengthy (about 8") but skinny Frankfurters (much less spicy than American weiners, and so much less salty that they actually need a sprinkling of the stuff) are nestled into the bread; the whole thing is then covered in shredded Gruyere cheese, the French answer to Swiss cheese (nanner nanner, we have a universal currency on this side of the pasture). I'm told they are sold from carts outside the Louvre in spring and summer; boulangers (bread bakers -- fancy cakes and tartes come from un patissier, an entirely different profession) sell them all year. When you purchase one, you must ask for it chaud, or hot (the "o" does not imply that it will be "hot" any more than the "dough" implies that it is made from les puppy doughs). Then the cheese gets all bubbly and brown and, well, it's a pretty damned interesting $3 sandwich to eat whilst walking down the street.

Also, yesterday, I saw a Louisiana Cajun restaurant, appropriately called "Thanksgiving". And, a couple of days ago, I found an incredibly tiny shop called "The Real McCoy", which sells from a 75 square foot space all manner of things American, including Sugar Frosted Flakes, Jiffy Cornbread Mix, and Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix.

As I sit here writing this, I'm taking advantage of one of the most amazing technological advances I've ever seen -- it's called a SlingBox. I am, on my laptop, watching Cal play USC, real-time, off the TiVo in my bedroom in Alameda. I can pause it, rewind it, skip commercials (if I pause it long enough) -- all on my laptop over a broadband connection. Amazing doesn't begin to describe it.

So, today, I thought I'd eat in a restaurant. However, by time I finished the book, and it finally stopped raining, it was about 2:00. I looked up a restaurant that was in one of my books, and was also recommended by Karen as being a "neighborhood bistro" not usually found by tourists. My kind of place.

Now, you don't just drop into a restaurant to eat dinner in Paris. Yes, they MIGHT have a table, and they might let you sit at it. And, they might remember they left you there, an hour or so later, just to let you know that this is NOT how it's done here. So, I thought I'd take a walk to find the restaurant and also to make a reservation. If you don't speak French very well, making a reservation on the phone can be quite dangerous -- you will probably be understood when you ask for it, and if you ask properly, you will get what you want, but what do you do when they ask you a question in response to your request? So, the less confident among us actually go to the restaurant to make the reservation -- it also mean we know how long it takes to get there, so we aren't late for dinner.

Alas, Le Square was closed when I got there. It's on the opposite side of les Hotel d'Invalides, which is actually a military hospital that now houses the incredible military museum, and a gold-topped chapel with the sarcophagus containing Napoleon's often-disturbed remains. The photo above is of the top of that golden dome.

I began traipsing home, but got only about a block when I was stopped in the middle of a crosswalk by a family, asking me for directions.

I don't really understand why this happens to me so often. Perhaps it's because I dress like Mrs. Peel from the Avengers TV show -- I really don't know, but it seems to happen with great frequency.

These folks asked for the location of a Metro station. When I asked which one they wanted, they said "the closest one". I then had to apologize for my clumsy French, explaining that I was un etranger. We found La Tour Maubourg Metro stop was the closest (I pulled out my pocket map to show them), and I sent them on their way.

Two blocks later, they were clearly lost again, so I signalled for them to come over to my side of the street so I could show them the station. A very sibilant English "Ssank you very much" made me think they might be Germans.

This is not an unusual thing. This is a three=day weekend, and it would appear that every Parisian has left town, probably all headed for London. That's good, because most of the people I passed on the streets today had British midlands and Yorkshire accents....but these folks seemed perhaps German. I asked them (in German) if they were German, and got the most amazing blank stare.......

So, then I tried French, asking if they were French, and they laughed and said "but of course -- we are French, but we are not from Paris!" Thinking they might be from far away, I asked what part of France they were from, and they said "Normandy"......my response was "ah! Les pays du bonne cidre du pomme" (oh -- the land of great apple cider). I have no idea where that sentence dredged itself from -- I've never ordered apple cider here, but it certainly impressed the mom in the group. Soon we got near a Metro entrance -- I told them that the Parisians put a great deal of effort into hiding the Metro entrances in plain sight, and sure enough, it was I who spotted this one. We stopped one last time when I asked them where they were headed, and told them which direction to go and what station to change.

In the remaining 6 blocks to home, I was stopped twice more and asked for directions. It's just inexplicable. Must be the black shoes, black pants, black long-sleeved shirt, black jacket, and thoroughly incongruous brown wool felt farmer's cap.

So, another trip down the Rue Cler to forage for nuts and berries. I bought some clementines (you know them as mandarin oranges) from Spain. Brilliant orange, polished and fragrant, they are juicy and delicious, and I have eaten them all already. For dinner tonight, I made egg noodles with butter from Normandy, sage from Provence, cream from Normandy, and parmigiano from Reggio Emilio in Italy. A glass of Cotes du Rhone, simple and yummy. The tomatoes on the vine that I bought a couple of days ago all mysteriously split open, so I had to trim them up a little and had a great salad with Spanish oil, Italian wine vinegar, lettuce and tomatoes.

A side trip to the pork butcher revealed that they have an Italian ham -- most of you know about prosciutto, but Italians also make some wonderful cooked hams, stuffed with rosemary, and this was one of those hams. I had a couple of slices of that to start the meal, and a cup of fresh-made chocolate to top it off. (Bitter cocoa powder, sugar, and a pinch of salt, which reduces the amount of sugar you need, all dissolved in boiling water. Fabulous.)

According to the weather report, tomorrow will be dry. Cloudy, with a few bursts of sun, but dry. That means I will head over to the 6th, back near the Luxembourg Gardens, for the largest organic outdoor market in all of France, on the Boulevard Raspail.

I'll probably take some photos there; be prepared to see an amazing market.

Oh -- Paris was quiet last night. While I never found out where the 8 vanloads of police went, I have read today that a lot of officers were posted around the city in areas that expected problems based on monitoring of blogs and text messages. The vandals communicate not just by cell phone, but through text messages on those phones. Unfortunately, Paris' good fortune seems to have spelled a problem for Lyon, France's second largest city.

If you look at the box to the RIGHT of the Photo of the dome, you will see a box called "links". In there is a link to a current story about the problems in Lyon.

I'm certain we will be safe here -- the Chilean embassy is at the end of the block, and the Swiss embassy is near by, as are some others I've seen walking the neighborhood.

Until tomorrow....