As sad as we were to leave Provence, we were very excited to head back to Paris and our delightfully tiny apartment. We call it the pre-war apartment, as in pre-every war that’s ever happened. As teeny as it is, it still has a washer/dryer AND a dishwasher. These are the two things they cannot figure out how to get into pre-WWII apartments in New York. They CAN.NOT.FIGURE.IT.OUT. They just can’t.
After we unpacked, we popped out to explore our neighborhood and found we live off an adorable, pedestrian only street. It’s full of brasseries and fromageries, boulangeries and poisonneries, pharmacies and a StarBucks (they can’t leave well enough alone).
At the end of this rainbow lies a fantastic French playground in the shadow of a large Cathedral. It’s full of darling French children I can converse with in their native tongue because my French is at the level of a four-year-old.
A sample of my first conversation:
A Boy: Je suis le capitaine de le bateau! Non filles!! Garcons! (I am the captain of this boat. No girls! Only boys!)
Me: Mais oui? Je pense que vous etes un clown. (Oh yes? I think you’re a clown.)
A Boy: NON! Je suis le capitaine!!’ (NO! I am the captain!)
Me: Vous etes le capitaine de les clowns! (You are the captain of the clowns!)
At which point the boy burst into laughter, ran off to meet Madeline and buy himself a new Hermes scarf.
featured image: monet-rue montorgueil-wikipedia.org