Bonne Année 2016.

A "clean" family photo at Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany.

I had a dream recently that we traveled back to our home in California.  We were squatters in our own house.   The renters came home and were rather puzzled, and reminded us we didn’t live there at the moment.  Then I woke up in our new apartment.

We moved over the holidays.   It was not expected, though has turned out to be a very good thing.   To invoke a new-age term, our first apartment did not have good feng shui, for a lot of reasons.   We had the final walk through of this apartment last week.  The owners bid us adieu after verifying we had left all of the spoons in the kitchen, and hadn’t absconded with any of their bathroom towels.   The owner of our new apartment welcomed us with two bottles of his favorite wine and the use of his car.    Sometimes change is good. 

This little shop is in our new neighborhood.  I walk by it everyday and it just makes me happy.

To avoid thinking about our rental worries, Jim and I engaged in some holiday food festivities, including a cooking class.   Odile is a very nice French woman in our neighborhood, who offers cooking classes in her home.   On the day we attended, we made Chestnut, Pear and Roquefort Veloute, Confit of Lamb and Lemon, and Chocolate Mousse.   At the end, we all sat down to eat and drink.   It was really fun and the food was delicious.   We also met some really interesting people, including a woman named “Sandi.”

As soon as we got settled in Odile’s kitchen, Jim started to open a carton of milk.  He couldn’t see if it was already open, because he didn’t have his glasses on.  So, he handed it to me to check.  Sandi sees this, and says, “you two have been together for a long time, right?”  Gosh, I think, we are so well matched that we just ooze compatibility.  Then she says, “he can’t do anything himself, he’s completely dependent on you.”   My first thought is, “bitch”, and then, “hmm, she’s sort of right.”  

Sandi has opinions on everything it turns out.  How to chop, how to dice, how to stir, etc.    She starts to advise me as I’m chopping a zucchini.   I don’t always appreciate unsolicited advice.  So I stop, and immediately turn over the knife to Sandi.  She looks a little stunned, and protests, “oh, no, you go ahead”, but I insist.   I watch as she re-cuts the zucchini.    She soon discloses to us that she is a little OCD (no shit?).  “I’m also an engineer”, she says.  “It’s probably a good job for me.” 

A little while later, I’m finding Sandi amusing.   She clearly knows she’s quirky and starts sharing some things about her life.  Sandi lives here in Paris with her French Canadian boyfriend.    She tells us they have “theme” nights for dinner.  Monday is “leftovers”, Tuesday is “sandwich night”, Wednesday is “pasta”, etc.   She tells us (all of us here are parents, except her), how awful children are and how she is going to do things when she’s a parent.   The Tiger Mom has nothing on her.   Oh, how amusing it would be to watch this woman with her own kid someday.

Odile and us.  Jim in action.  Odile's Paris "refrigerator".  Me, with Sandi, just before she instructs me on the Zucchini.

We attend French classes twice per week.   My progress is embarrassingly slow, though Jim continues to make great strides.    Our teacher, Isabelle, is equally interested in helping us to appreciate French culture.   Just before the holiday break, she prepared for us a traditional French Christmas lunch.   Isabelle also has confidence in Jim’s language skills.  For the luncheon, she assigned him the task of purchasing the fresh oysters from the poissonnier.   I was assigned something less risky: butter.

Jim's Oysters!

On a foggy December day, in a luxurious Paris apartment, we feasted on: champagne and foie gras with dried figs; fresh oysters with lemon, rye bread and sea salt butter; scallops carpaccio with a mango, passionfruit and lime/soy vinaigrette; roast chicken with a morel cream sauce and a parsnip puree; a cheese course featuring Vacherin MonD’Or;  and Buche du Noel from Pierre Herme.  Each course was paired with a separate wine.  It was all sublime.   I still have time to up my language skills and make Isabelle proud.  And hopefully earn responsibility beyond butter procurement.

Beautiful friends, beautiful food. 

Because I may never in my life get to do this pose again. 

My final culinary adventure was a lunch at Le Comptoir du Relais, to say farewell to our friend Aviva.   Her family was just here for one school semester unfortunately, and they will be sorely missed.   I’m glad the stars aligned and we all ended up here  together for a little while.

After the girls got through final exams, and before we moved, we did some traveling.   We are on a quest to show our daughters as many major European cities as we can.   That’s not completely true.  It’s ME.  I want to see as many European cities as I can.   My husband is a happy participant and the girls are along for the ride. 

We flew to Vienna after Christmas.   While there, we climbed to the top of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, and toured the Catacombs.   We visited Schonbrunn Palace, the Belvedere, and the Hofburg Imperial Apartments.    We had Wiener Schnitzel at Motto am Fluss, Goulash at Café Schwarzenberg, and Apple Strudel at Café Central. 

St. Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna.

Statue of Poet Peter Altenberg, inside Cafe Central.   The "homeless poet".  Purportedly wore sandals in the snow and had a penchant for young girls.  

We learned about Empress Elisabeth of Austria (“Sisi”).   Emperor Franz was supposed to marry her sister, but got a look at 16-year-old Sisi, and changed his game plan.   Sisi was already happy with her charmed teenage life in Bavaria, and didn’t adjust well to her new royal duties.   She was 5’8’’ tall, weighed about 100 pounds, and had hair down to her ankles.  She spent three hours per day on her grooming.  That she exercised was considered scandalous.   Sisi had her own suite of rooms, and Franz had to ring her doorbell for permission to enter.   She was a bit of a narcissist and was eventually assassinated.   I think she was misunderstood, but it was so much fun to learn about her.

Cafe Schwarzenberg.  We were trying to capture the iconic waiter in the background. 

After Vienna, we took the train to Munich, Germany.  I’ve always been intrigued by this country (my maiden name is Blumstein after all, so perhaps its genetic).   I must say that I really like these German speaking countries.  They appeal to the rule oriented side of me.  Paris is all beautiful, disorganized chaos.  But Germany (the little I’ve seen), so clean and orderly, is its own kind of wonderful beauty.  And the people are so nice (except for the train conductor, who was a bit difficult about our tickets, but I’ll let that slide).

Munich, Germany

Polka band singing Lynyrd Skynyrd tunes.

We're not sure what these guys were singing.  Either the national anthem or some German fight song.

The Glockenspiel!

Selfie at Hofbrauhaus.

The Marienplatz.

Dinner at Ratskeller München.

We did an awesome, free, walking tour with this hilarious guy named Austin.  We watched the Glockenspiel chime, drank beer at the Hofbrauhaus, climbed to the top of yet another Cathedral, and survived New Year’s eve fireworks on the Marienplatz.  Seriously, there were bottle rockets flying in front of our faces.   On New Year’s Day, we visited the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial.   Whatever one thinks of Germany, they own their awful history and this memorial site is an appropriate tribute.  No other words are necessary, but I like this picture Jim took.

Dachau Concentration Camp.

On our last day in Germany, we ventured over to Neuschwanstein Castle.  Another palace, another misunderstood monarch.   They say this castle is the one that inspired Walt Disney.   King Ludwig II had it built as his refuge from reality.    Ludwig was a shy guy, passionate about the arts, liked dressing up, and enjoyed being surrounded by beautiful things.   He really wasn’t cut out to rule a country.  Unfortunately, he tended to spend state revenues on his artistic passions, to the dismay of his financial advisors.   He was eventually declared insane and deposed.  He died under questionable circumstances:  found dead in Lake Starnberg, along with the psychiatrist who diagnosed him.    Anyway, his legacy includes some of the most beautiful structures in Europe.  

Getting ready to hike up to the Castle.

View of the village and another one of Ludwig's castles.

These last ones I took after ignoring a no trespassing sign, climbing over a barbed wire fence, and walking through mud.  Bad selfie of me, but totally worth it.

The holidays.   Friends from home ask me what Paris must have been like during Christmas.    All sparkly and magical they guessed, like a Disney movie.   I will concede that it was very pretty, more lit up then usual.   We did visit several of the highly touted Christmas markets.   To me, they were a combination of the Jersey Shore boardwalk and the Sausalito Art Fair.   This is just an observation, not a criticism, as I happen to like both of these destinations very much.  Overall though, my attempts to recreate our family traditions felt forced.   Despite the smiling pictures, we all felt a little “off”.   

I know that we are not really expats.  Our tourist visas don’t warrant that kind of street cred.   However, I do have a new appreciation for families that make this lifestyle choice.  There was a time I would have been disdainful of anyone who dared to voice any sadness about living a life abroad.   Going forward, I may be less quick to judge.

Twinkly Paris.  Post Holidays.

A friend from NYC, who had spent a couple of years in Paris with her teenage kids, counseled me before we moved.  I had assumed they must have done a ton of traveling during their time.   All those school breaks!  Weekends!  “Don’t set your sights too high”, she said.  “Your kids will still have homework and science projects and SAT prep courses and AP English papers and dance rehearsals and sports meets.”  “They will still have all the same social drama.”  I filed all this advice in my brain, under the “my experience will be unique” heading.  I was a little naïve.

We are gaining much from being here.   But, it’s also had an impact on our family relationships that I didn’t expect.   The normal challenges of family life did not magically disappear, and in some cases were exacerbated.    Lets just say there have been some interesting observations and discussions.  It will all be fine.  And, in the meantime, we get to be in Paris.

À bientôt.

In Honor of Grilled Cheese

There are lots of clichés about Paris.   Many are not true, but some are.  Do not call your waiter “garçon”.  This means “boy” in French and it will insult the professional who is waiting on you (fortunately, I knew better then to ever do this).    At the moment, I am doing a very clichéd Parisian thing (or I’m a total poser, depending on your point of view).  I’m sitting in a café, drinking a glass of wine, and writing.   It gets worse.  I have a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast in my bag.  I really do.  I checked it out of the library yesterday.  I actually own a copy, but it got left behind in California during the box saga.   I’d never read it, and figured this was the time.   

I’m at a perfectly lit, little corner table.  It’s early evening in December, so it’s dark out, and the Christmas lights are twinkling outside on the little street.   The brasserie I intended to go to, where I was going to have a salad, was closed.   So, I’ve come here instead, to Le Nemrod.  “Nemrod” translates to “nimrod” in English, which is defined as both an inept person, and a skilled hunter.   So, don’t assume you’re being insulted should you be called this. 

I just ordered a croque-monsieur (though at this place, it is called “croque-poilâne”– it’s to do with the type of bread . . .).   So, here is an absolutely true French cliché, and a bit of personal opinion:  if you go to a French bistro, brasserie, café, etc., and you’re not sure what to order, always go with the croque-monsieur.   Always.   

Last spring, I visited Paris with my mother.   The primary purpose of the visit was for me to find an apartment for my family.   I dragged my mom all over, looking at apartments, while trying to make her first trip abroad memorable.   I was incredibly anxious about my impending adventure, and not sleeping terribly well.  In the mornings, we would rush out of the hotel for a quick coffee, but barely any breakfast.   My mom was a very good sport.

Many of the restaurants in the non-tourist areas of Paris are only open between noon-2pm for lunch, and not again until dinner at 7:30 or so.    Having only been in the tourist areas prior to this visit, I didn’t really know this – or I did, but didn’t believe it.   At around 2pm on our final day of apartment hunting, we wander around trying to find a place to eat a late lunch.   We were hungry.  That kind of hungry where you feel a little dizzy, like you’re on the verge of being ill.   Also, I felt bad that I didn’t make sure my sainted, 80-something-year-old mother was fed.  We find nothing at all open.   Really.   We make our way back to our charming hotel (charming means it is quaint and well priced, but no restaurant).  

Just next door to our hotel, is this little hole in the wall café.  You can tell its been there for decades, run by the same elderly couple the whole time.   Leather booths, tiny bar where the locals drop in for their afternoon verre de vin, before they have to go home to face the wife (really, that’s what the one guy at the bar told me).     We had been having our morning café au lait here every day.  Anyway, we see it’s still open, so with a sigh of relief, we go in.  The proprietor recognizes us, but says that there is no food, only the bar is open.   He is a kind man and only speaks French.  The look of us must have gotten to him because he immediately went back to the kitchen, and I could hear him having a discussion with someone.   He comes out and says something to me in French.  All I understand is “croque-monsieur”, and profusely I say, “oui, oui, merci!”

Ten minutes later, we are served hot tea and two croque-monsieurs.  Now, in my head, this is just a grilled cheese sandwich, with ham.   It’s not.   It was this perfectly prepared, albeit very basic, hot, cheese and bread perfection.  Maybe it was because we were so hungry.  Or, that they were so kind to us.   But, the sight and taste of this almost brought me to tears.   It was exactly the kind of comfort I needed at that moment.  It was perfect.  Since then, I’ve never been disappointed when I order this, no matter where. 

The name of the dish originates from the French verb “croquer”, which means “to bite”, and “monsieur”, which means “mister”.   It started showing up in French cafes in the early 1900s, and first appeared in literature in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.   As it happens, Proust was born in Paris’s 16^th arrondissement, the precise neighborhood where we happened to be (and where I now live).    I didn’t know any of these details about the croque-monsieur, at the time.  But now that I do, there is a certain symmetry to us being offered that particular meal, at that time.  To me anyway.  It’s the little things.

I started writing this two weeks ago and then got distracted by real life, but I also finished reading A Moveable Feast.   I have a bit of a book fetish.  I buy a ton of them, and justify it by telling myself I’m supporting a dying breed (book stores).   However, I’ve decided that while I’m living here, I’m only going to read books from the library (no, I don’t have a Kindle, and I don’t want one).    I figure this lends itself (no pun intended), to catching up on all those classics I’ve not read.  I decide maybe I’ll start with Proust.  Why not?  I figure I’ll go back to my little café, with my Marcel Proust.  I’ll order a glass of wine.  And maybe a croque-monsieur.

So, I go to the library with the intention of checking out In Search of Lost Time.  It is seven volumes and 4,215 pages.   That is a tremendous amount of grilled cheese.   And wine.

À bientôt, but first, a few photos . . .

Thanksgiving in London!   We saw a "Pleasure and Pain" shoe exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum, and the musical, Kinky Boots.

Christmas market in Reims.

The opera house, Palais Garnier. 

Studying hard during French class.

A visit from some California cousins and lunch at Vins des Pyrénées (legend has it that Jim Morrison frequented here).

 

A belated Turkey dinner, and our little Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

Friday the 13th

A couple of months ago, a friend here was giving me a ride home.   Along the way, she pointed to a terraced apartment above us and said, “a family from our school used to live there, they left right after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, they were too afraid to stay.”   In that moment, I remember thinking two thoughts: “what a shame they decided to bail”, and “I so hope another incident like that doesn’t happen while we’re here.”

We weren’t even in Paris when all the madness occurred.  Katie was returning from a cross country meet in Zurich Friday night, and we were in Strasbourg with Allie. Strasbourg is this Christmas-like village in northern France, near the German border.  Some friends joined us as well.  We did a boat tour, our friends visited a very quirky hospital wine cellar (yes, you read that right), and then we all had dinner at a traditional Alsatian restaurant.    We had plans for some fun stuff the following day.

We’re at the hotel that night when we get a text from Katie telling us she is back in Paris, at the train station, which is somewhat near the 11^th arrondissement.   Her and her friend are deciding whether to take the metro or an Uber home.   Then we see the breaking news headlines about shootings in the 10^th and 11^th.    Katie is unreachable for the next hour or so as the news gets progressively worse.  Explosions, hostages, people killed.   The news says there is a bomb scare at the Chatelet metro station.  If she’s taken the metro, this is where she could change trains.  We’re starting to panic a little.

Finally, she calls us from home.   Her and her friend had opted to take a cab, and then she immediately took the dog out, as we had told her to do.   It’s worth noting that this is the first time we’ve left Katie here solo overnight.   The kid did good.

I like to run among the tourists by the Eiffel Tower on Sunday mornings.   I have my American music in my ears and iconic Parisian scenery in my sights.   I run off all of the nonsense that accumulates in my brain over the week, and breathe in all of the obvious wonderful.  It’s a great way to start a new week.  When I began my run this recent Sunday, my intention was to take a bunch of photos of normal street scenes and post them on Facebook, with a “life goes on” title, or something to that effect. 

And I did.  

Then I read a harrowing account by a 23 year-old woman, who had been at the Bataclan concert Friday night.    There was such a disconnect between what this woman had survived and my silly, trite post, that I was embarrassed.  So, I deleted it.   If I were that girl, and someone said to me, “life goes on”, it would sound so cavalier, so clueless.    Her life will go on, but not in the same way I suspect.

I’ve been awed by all the people that checked up on us.  Facebook posts, messages, phone calls, texts.  From people in our life now, and some I don’t often hear from.    Funnily (to me), the very first person to check in on me was a guy from high school who, to be honest, was kind of a jerk to me back then.  We reconnected at a reunion a few years ago and he’s actually a pretty good guy.    We couldn’t be farther apart politically, but that’s ok, and I was really touched that he reached out.   Vive la difference!

“Come home now!”  This is the panicked message I receive from my friend Debbie.  I know this is because she loves me and is worried.   However, to suggest that we are any safer in the United States is not completely true.  Not anymore.  We’ve only been gone about four months and I think there have been at least as many, if not more, campus shootings in that period of time.  

Still, I’d be lying if I said our kids weren’t a little shaken by this.   Allie, a little more so.   It’s only the first day back at school, and she’s already getting annoyed with people telling her to “live your normal life, don’t let fear win.”  She says to me today, “how can I live my normal life when I’m afraid someone’s going to shoot me?”   Not a question I’ve fielded before from my 14 year-old.  

All I can tell her is I’m sorry this has happened.  That her safety is the most important thing to us, and if we believed we were in real danger, we’d go home.  I also tell her that, yes, there is no doubt that the bubble we live in back home is very safe, but most people have a very different reality.   She’s smart.  She knows all this, but it’s my best answer.   The day after, I hear her humming the “It’s a Wonderful World” song to herself, so maybe she’s not totally jaded.  Yet.     

Just before all of this happened, both girls said that they would consider staying beyond our one year plan, if that were an option.  Katie is still saying this, which I guess is good.  I’m not sure if it’s her chutzpah or denial, or maybe a little of both.    

Sure, we could run.  But that feels so wrong to me.  Disrespectful in a way.  As if we only came here to experience all the good things in France, but we don’t care enough to stick around when times are tough?   We love it here.  We’re finally getting a little more comfortable with the language.  Jim manages to have conversations with the market vendors and they are starting to recognize him.   The girls are hitting their stride in school and seem happy here.   Even Charlie has adjusted!  She struts down the city streets like she owns the place.  No longer growls at other dogs.  Her French poodle ancestors would be so proud.

Ironically, the tragic events have had the opposite effect on me.  They make me want to stay even more and support the French people.   As they have supported us.  Jim was walking the dog yesterday, at a little park we frequent a lot.  For the first time, he happened to notice this plaque.   It reads:

In tribute to victims of the attack of September 11, 2001 and testimony of solidarity with the American people, this tree was planted by Pierre Christian Taittinger and the municipality of the 16th arrondissement.

My poised, ultra polite sister-in-law, whom I've never heard utter a curse word, wrote to me yesterday and signed off with, "fuck the terrorists".  Word.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda . . .

A visit from some of our favorite people, Barcelona, and turning 17 in Paris.  But first, this happened . . .

Last year, I was on an “American living in Paris memoir” reading binge.   Obviously, we’re not the first people to do this, so there are tons of books out there.  However, my favorite was Paris, I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down, by a guy named Rosecrans Baldwin.   

When I read the reviews, the people that disliked it, felt he was a privileged guy complaining about something most people only dream about.   The people that loved the book had generally all spent some time living abroad, navigating real life in a city where you don’t speak the language.  I reference the book here (other then recommending it as a really good read) to acknowledge that I don't have the same challenges Rosecrans Baldwin had.  However,  I do have my moments.  And I might as well write about them.

Giverny.  The pictures say it all I think.

 
For example,  this week I received a letter from a collections agency.   Basically, it said they will use all means legally available to take me down if I don’t pay a 69 euro bill for a service I never received.   

A little background first.   Upon renting our current apartment here, we were going to sign up with a local cable provider.  We ordered the box and set up an appointment for the installation.  But then, our landlords decided to keep the service they already had and just bill us for our usage.  This was exactly what we were doing with our own renters, so it made sense to us.  The lovely Samara (our concierge, mentioned in previous posts), promptly cancelled our cable appointment and returned the box.  Still, a month later I receive a bill from the cable company for 69 euros.   

 

A "selfie" at The Dry Martini Bar, in Barcelona.

I had high hopes that this error would resolve itself, as I'd just had a positive experience with customer service in France.   We had recently picked up a box shipment from the UPS depot, after paying a 128 euros customs fee.  A week later, I received a bill from UPS for 128 euros.   I’d just gotten my new French phone number, so I call their customer service.   I try my best to get a human, but fail.   I’ve not told Jim this, but I made the executive decision to just pay the damn thing and be done with it.  I chalked it up to one of the overall costs of this adventure we’re on.   A mere two days later, UPS sends me back the check with a nice letter saying I’ve paid twice. 

So, I was optimistic that the bill from the cable company might go away on its own.   What I should have learned is just to pay whatever they tell you to, right or wrong, and fix it later.  

Another month goes by and I get a second bill from the cable company.   The little voice in my head says, “just pay it, make it go away”, but I don’t.  Samara calls the cable company to explain the error (because they only speak French).  No worries, they will make the correction, she’s told.   Another month, another invoice, two more calls from Samara.   Each time, the person on the other end of the phone telling her it’s been taken care of.   Then, last week, I get the above mentioned letter from the collection agency.

A wine tasting dinner with some French, a Swede, a Canadian, and us!

I’ve always been a relatively good girl.   When I was five, I stuck my tongue out at a girl who threw sand in my little brother’s face.  My mother only saw the tongue incident and punished me for it.  To this day, she is still puzzled as to why I never told her that I was defending my brother.   I’ve never been that woman who leaves her car in the pick-up line at school because “I’ll only be gone a quick sec” (no judgement).   That whole theory of “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness then permission”?  I can’t even.   The words “collection agency” don't sit well with me.   So this letter freaks me out.  I tell Jim I’m just going to pay the fucking thing.
  

For the record, in our relationship, I deal with all the paperwork minutia crap that it takes to keep our little household running.   I like it.  It works for us.   I don’t really involve Jim in the details, because they make his eyes glaze over.   Plus, he makes dinner, so we're more then even.  So, when I stated I was going to just pay this bill for a service we hadn’t received, he didn’t know any of the backstory.    He just saw that I was upset and tried to make a helpful suggestion.  I didn’t respond particularly well.  Poor guy.

Happy 17th to my beautiful daughter - who left shortly after this was taken, to begin her evening at 10pm.

Samara calls again and talks to someone higher up on the cable company food chain.   They confirm (again) that I certainly don’t owe any money, but that any cancellation of service must be made in writing.  Just send a letter and that should do it.    Samara overnights a letter to them.   The next day, I get a follow-up scary letter from the collection folks, threatening all sorts of torture on me if I don’t pay 69 euros.

Random Paris Scenes:  firefighters on their morning run, lady in red smoking on her terrace, a really wonderful wine bar and a "Je Suis Charlie" tag near our local market.

Samara calls the cable company again and they assure her that they’ve notified the collection agency that the debt is a mistake.   The letters probably just crossed in the mail.  Samara asks for some sort of documentation to this effect, but is told, that since I’m not a customer, this is not possible.  However, they give her an email address to another person in the cable company, and that person can send some sort of confirmation to me.

Samara composes a request in French for me to send.  I send the email and it gets kicked back.  Samara scours the cable company website for a better email address.  I try again and that gets kicked back too.  She finally fills out a form on their website with our request, but who knows where that ended up.    That was on Friday.

Barcelona!

Today is Monday.   We still have no documentation from the cable company.  Samara and team have admitted defeat, or perhaps they sense I wouldn’t do particularly well in a French prison.   Also, that outcome wouldn’t do much for their company’s marketing efforts.    

They suggest I just pay the 69 euros at this point.   Theorizing that it is less dangerous to deal with a cable company then a collections agency.  So, today I paid the 69 euros, which I should have just done in the first place.   Lesson learned.   Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

Just before we received the collections agency letter, we learned that our apartment lease won’t be renewed for the second six months of our stay.   I am optimistic a few stories will result from this.   Please stay tuned.

á bientôt

 

Barcelona "street art".

Montserrat

Barcelona food tour - a little Vermouth before lunch.

So much olive oil, so little time.

Sangria break.

Gothic Quarter, Barcelona.

Barcelona bike ride.

A Fall Sunday in Paris.  Just because.