The LA Times

When I was deciding seven months ago whether it made sense (financially and otherwise) for me to go to France for the second time in four months, I decided that a good way to justify it was to write a travel story.  After getting ignored by Budget Travel, I pitched a story to the LA Times back in April, sent it in in July, and now, in November, it finally came out in last week’s Sunday edition. 

I was nervous writing this story because riding the train was so underwhelming both times, and I honestly wasn’t sure if it was even a worthy story anymore.  I remember calling CD in a panic on the train, worried because the French train that billed itself as a party train did NOT resemble anything remotely like a party.  Thank god for having the voice of reason on speed dial. 

The Story: Partying on the iDNight train to Paris

There are my parents visiting Paris in the winter of 1984 with their new baby, me!  Despite the fact that my mother cut it up, isn’t this the most wonderful photo? My mother looks so joyous and beautiful and my father so handsome.
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There are my parents visiting Paris in the winter of 1984 with their new baby, me! 

Despite the fact that my mother cut it up, isn’t this the most wonderful photo? My mother looks so joyous and beautiful and my father so handsome.

A Sweet Day in Paris

Darlings, all I did was follow the sign

And I saw skinny jeans, heels, and a Maje shopping bag.  Add to that a Velib and I had myself a Parisienne vision

Did you know that the Velib is not actually as cheap as everyone seems to think it is?  It’s free for the first 30 minutes, but our 2-hour ride cost us 7 euros each. 

Wisps of hair

My lover and I make it a point to grab at least one falafel at Chez Marianne every time we’re in Paris.  We always also make the mistake of getting a strudel for dessert, forgetting that it has never been good and that we always throw it away

 

So much deliciousness packed into one pita bread that it makes the mess worth it.  I wish I could be a dainty eater, but I can’t ask for too much

Who do you think the Marais-ians were telling to leave them alone?

If you shut your eyes and have a superb imagination, it really can be a pleasant time at Paris Plage. 

I call this one Paris Pretending To Be Los Angeles

When I was in Paris this February, I finally, finally made reservations early enough to make it to one of Jim Hayne’s Sunday night dinner parties.  After years of reading about them, I was beyond excited to go, even though it was Feb 14 and my last night in Paris with the lover.  I was expecting lots of people, good food, and magical conversation.  There were indeed a lot of people.  So many, in fact, that once you were lodged next to the doorway or sitting on the armrest of a couch, you were pretty much stuck there until you decided to brave the thick crowd of bodies smushed up against each other.  The food was truly delicious.  The meal was some kind of vegetable veloute, salad, Moroccan chicken baked in filo-dough, and berries and cream.  Sadly, we had just come from an intense afternoon of fabulous eating at Chez Casimir, and my stomach was on the brink of ripping open (TMI, sorry).  It didn’t stop me from enjoying TASTING all the food, but I couldn’t finish anything.   As for the magical conversation that I expected, it was somewhat less than that.  Oh, it was fine, and people were nice, but no soul-connecting conversations about traveling or Paris or love or anything beyond asking and answering “have you been here before?”  “how did you hear about it?” “what are you doing in paris?” “how long are you in paris?” “what do you do?” Of course, after 25 years, I guess it was too silly of me to assume that the dinner party would still have retained the same organic feel that I’ve so longingly read about.  Our host Jim Haynes looked tired by the end of the night.  He looked tired of people asking him for pictures, though he said yes each time very graciously.  So anyway, the people in this photo were one of the couples who I was seated next to for a long period during that night.  They came from London just for V-day weekend but had forgotten their camera!  The lady looked so despondent as she told me this that I offered to take a photo for them and email it.  Guess what.  I lost their email address.  Quite frankly I don’t even remember their names, nor do i remember the name of the man’s band.  I can’t imagine that this will ever make it back to them, but I guess I’ll put it out there.  And duh, the gentleman on the right is the inimitable Jim Haynes. 
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When I was in Paris this February, I finally, finally made reservations early enough to make it to one of Jim Hayne’s Sunday night dinner parties.  After years of reading about them, I was beyond excited to go, even though it was Feb 14 and my last night in Paris with the lover. 

I was expecting lots of people, good food, and magical conversation. 

There were indeed a lot of people.  So many, in fact, that once you were lodged next to the doorway or sitting on the armrest of a couch, you were pretty much stuck there until you decided to brave the thick crowd of bodies smushed up against each other. 

The food was truly delicious.  The meal was some kind of vegetable veloute, salad, Moroccan chicken baked in filo-dough, and berries and cream.  Sadly, we had just come from an intense afternoon of fabulous eating at Chez Casimir, and my stomach was on the brink of ripping open (TMI, sorry).  It didn’t stop me from enjoying TASTING all the food, but I couldn’t finish anything.  

As for the magical conversation that I expected, it was somewhat less than that.  Oh, it was fine, and people were nice, but no soul-connecting conversations about traveling or Paris or love or anything beyond asking and answering “have you been here before?”  “how did you hear about it?” “what are you doing in paris?” “how long are you in paris?” “what do you do?”

Of course, after 25 years, I guess it was too silly of me to assume that the dinner party would still have retained the same organic feel that I’ve so longingly read about.  Our host Jim Haynes looked tired by the end of the night.  He looked tired of people asking him for pictures, though he said yes each time very graciously. 

So anyway, the people in this photo were one of the couples who I was seated next to for a long period during that night.  They came from London just for V-day weekend but had forgotten their camera!  The lady looked so despondent as she told me this that I offered to take a photo for them and email it. 

Guess what.  I lost their email address.  Quite frankly I don’t even remember their names, nor do i remember the name of the man’s band.  I can’t imagine that this will ever make it back to them, but I guess I’ll put it out there. 

And duh, the gentleman on the right is the inimitable Jim Haynes. 

The E.F.

There are very few tourists in Paris right now, even at the Eiffel Tower.  The lines looked tolerable, though I don’t anticipate wanting to climb up those stairs again.  Just looking at it from the ground is incredible enough for me.  But. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because the weather’s a little drab or because I’ve seen it so often, but my first view of the Eiffel T. yesterday did not give me the thrill that it normally has in the past.  That little feeling of extreme wonder and a little “eek!” feeling when I see this totally bizarre and enormous contraption in the middle of the city.   It could also be because I exited the metro at Champs de Mars instead of Trocadero, which, in my opinion, is the best place to see the Eiffel Tower.

I am in this fabulous Montmartre studio right now and this was my breakfast.  First of all, where can i find pear juice in the US?  Second of all, I can’t get enough of confiture de mirabelle.  Third of all, that croissant! That baguette with salted butter!
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I am in this fabulous Montmartre studio right now and this was my breakfast.  First of all, where can i find pear juice in the US?  Second of all, I can’t get enough of confiture de mirabelle.  Third of all, that croissant! That baguette with salted butter!

Jacques Genin, master chocolatier

Photo taken from David Lebovitz

So, I just found out that a kilogram of Jacques Genin’s caramels cost 110 Euros.

.

.

WHAT?!

That’s 2.2 pounds, so 55 Euros for 1.1 pound of caramel.

That’s an incredible amount of money for some candy.

However, having read:

http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2008/12/jacques_genin_opens_in_paris.html

and

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB126109555019996343.html

and

http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/601816

I feel like I absolutely must (MUST, like, I will maybe pitch a fit if I don’t) try the passionfruit/mango and the fleur de sel caramels, as well as the mille-feuille and of course some chocolates.  His atelier is walking distance from the apartment where I’ll be staying at in the Marais, so you can bet I’ll be visiting.  I just have to be prepared to skip a meal to support my sweet tooth.