Randy and Jack, neighbors from our time at Serene Lakes, invited me to join their Sunday gathering. How fun to meet at the Pantheon, where I waved to Voltaire as I watched people walk by. The five of us set off to find the Mouffetard district, a street famous for its food.
Randy has a Facebook group called Paris Cooking Guide and followers publish fabulous pictures of meals and recipes. I wasn’t sure whether we were going to one of the Michelin-starred gems he’s written about or some undiscovered bistro on a back alley. After perusing the little markets and fruit stand near the Mouffetard fountain, we circled back to a restaurant near the center of the area. Randy said, “Don’t get your expectations up, Jenyth, this is just a typical bistro.”
Jack asked the waiter to open the sliding glass door and we perched in our 6-top table with a clear view of the square. Others had entrees and main courses but I chose the “typical” coq au vin and it was anything but typical. Fortunately, no baby duck blood, just Bordeaux and slow cooking over a few days.
Randy and Jack have created a community in their 16 years of living in Paris half-time. Dan and Bill were perfect companions, articulate and literary. Bill retired from years in tech and his Paris retirement dream was only six months old. They shared their impressions of health care, socialized medicine, prices of food and restaurants.
Jack and I sipped an AOC 2016 Cabernet Franc while the others enjoyed a crisp Chablis from the Loire Valley region. About halfway into the bottle, I asked Jack, “Do you think I’d be happy here?”
He was quick. “Jenyth, you seem to be happy anywhere. I’m shocked you sold your cabin. That was your happy place. But Paris? You’d love it, for awhile. Just don’t expect to make Parisian friends.”
The others chimed in with stories of snubs and frustrations, then described the expat community they enjoyed. “Promise me you’ll come back and rent for a month before you make any big moves,” Randy added. “And your French sucks. You’ll have to find a French tutor.”
My share of the bill: 29 euros. Incredible. I needed a nap, so we walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens, took selfies in front of the fountains where children powered little sailboats with radio remote controls, and found some benches under the sycamore trees.
Actors with Charlie Chaplin outfits, a Blue Man, and a character with a silver-painted face strolled by. An older gentleman with a 3-piece suit stopped and played a song on his accordion. We dropped some euros into the cup carabinered onto the accordion’s strap.
The conversation was too lively to slide down the bench and take a nap while being protected by my friends. I left them at 4:30, thinking I’d just spent the happiest day ever in Paris.
An easy commute back to the 11th district, and my friend the Metro gave me no problems at all. As I walked into the Terrace in Paris, I had a moment of resignation. Here was the perfect Paris apartment, with its terrace, washing machine, and comfy queen-sized bed. The neighborhood was not the best, but the Algerians were friendly and the food amazing. Tomorrow, I’d have an early trip to the train station, then south to Switzerland.
I finished a bottle of the lovely Chablis and the rest of the Camembert as my laundry dried, watching the little bird watch me. Her babies would hatch after I left and I hoped the Sparrow Hawk wouldn’t hear them cry.
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