Salade Aux Lardons

Tags

France, cooking, college, stress, salad, eggs, bacon, croutons

It was a rough day at work.

I’ve pledged not to air dirty laundry on this blog, so let’s just say that it was the kind of day that makes me grateful that my students are so awesome.When all else is in shambles, they can usually be counted on for a laugh and a shot of optimism.

And when their positive energy is not enough, I turn to comfort food. On days like today when I can barely muster the energy to cook, I invariably recreate one of my favorite French foods – salade aux lardons. It is a glorious salad piled with eggs, bacon, and croutons (the French understand that a salad should never be a punishment.) It was the first meal Eileen and I shared last winter when we got off the plane in Paris, and it is my go-to dinner on days like today.

The French reputation for snootiness is, for the most part, undeserved – but the one time I detected a hint of disdain from a Frenchman was when we got onto the subject of America’s bagged croutons. And I have to say … I think he was right to sniff at us. Homemade croutons couldn’t be easier, or more economical, and the flavor far exceeds that of anything by Pepperidge Farm. I keep a plastic container on my counter filled with the cut up chunks of stale baguettes – they keep for weeks – ready to toss into a frying pan with some olive oil, a smashed garlic clove, and a generous sprinkling of salt. They elevate even the simplest salad to comfort food.

On days like today, even homemade croutons won’t soothe a harried spirit. Bacon might.

In college I rented a room in a Victorian house owned by a couple of young artists. Staying on top of their finances was a challenge between their sporadic freelance income and the new addition of an infant daughter. They carefully calculated every expense, set strict limits on the thermostat settings, and obtained most of their goods and services through bartering and bargaining. But I noticed that they never skimped on food – they used to welcome the whole neighborhood over for dinner parties, and they kept the refrigerator stocked with imported cheeses, plump green olives, and produce I had never heard of. And they always had bacon. The good stuff.

I don’t know why the bacon made such an impression on me – especially since I was a vegetarian at the time – but ever since I moved into their house, bacon has reminded me that it’s important to appreciate life’s little privileges.

Onions are another important ingredient in this salad. It took me a long time to warm up to onions. I never cared for them when I was younger – I didn’t like their bite, and I particularly disliked the telltale smell on my breath when I had eaten them.

A few years ago I learned a great trick that has turned me into an onion lover – soaking them in cold water for a few minutes removes just enough of the bite to make them palatable.

Eggs are the next layer in this salad. If I were a purist, I would poach them, but truth be told, I’ve never understood how to poach an egg. It’s not for lack of effort. I’ve watched instructional videos, read web sites, and cracked dozens of eggs into simmering water. They always fall apart. So I cheat and make my salade with eggs sunny side up. Bonus: they cook up quickly in the same pan that fried the bacon and croutons, so there’s one less pot to wash.

A purist would also whisk up a delicate mustard vinaigrette. But tonight I didn’t have the energy, and I find that it’s just as good with a sprinkling of balsamic vinegar, a drizzle of oil, and a shower of sea salt and black pepper.

My mind is still restless, but my stomach is satisfied. That’s a start.

Social Skills

Tags

dinner, France, friends, work

Tonight I attended a dinner party at the home of my good friends Genevieve and You Think of Something.

If it isn’t clear from my opening paragraph, I avoid revealing the identities of my subjects on this blog. Tonight I gave my friends the option of creating their alter egos, which is how our hosts came to be known as Genevieve and You Think of Something. Also in attendance were the couple Pancho and Pippin, their roommate Habib, and the youngster Lampshade, who is about to celebrate his twenty fifth birthday.

Pancho, Pippin, Habib, Genevieve, Lampshade, and You Think of Something are some of my favorite people. We gather on occasion for dinner parties where we mostly talk about work. You see, we are all members of the teaching profession in various neighboring communities. So no matter how hard we try, we tend to revert back to our area of common interest.

I knocked on the door at ten past seven with a bottle of Camille Cayran 2009 Secret de Campane, minus one glass, tucked under my arm. This, I believe, is terribly uncouth – but Genevieve, You Think of Something, and I have already established that our friendship does not depend on good manners. Thank God for that, and never you mind why.

Pleased as I was to see all of them this evening, I was particularly anxious to address two topics of immediate concern: first, Habib’s job security – he was given unofficial word last week that he is about to be laid off. He still has not been given formal notice from his school administrator, although word has already begun to spread through the community where he works. This is the danger of teaching in a small town. Second, the text message that Genevieve sent me last night, requesting my reference for a job application.

No doubt you can understand my eagerness to learn the details of these two topics. So I was stunned to learn, upon arrival, that a strict No Work Talk rule had been established prior to my arrival. There was to be no discussion of our primary teaching profession or our secondary jobs. The policy, which had been proposed by Pippin, had strict consequences: anyone caught talking about work was to be immediately slapped by the person sitting to his or her left.

The first few minutes were incredibly awkward. I initially made a few remarks of censored indignation, for I had not been consulted in this decision, and I was counting on this evening to get caught up on workplace gossip. Instead, we made some stilted attempts at conversation about our families and our summer vacation plans. Pancho talked about ducks for approximately ten minutes.

Do you know what you would talk about at a dinner party where work talk was forbidden – with colleagues, no less? It was an eye-opening experience. I was reminded of my summer spent in France, when I had to learn how to introduce myself without referencing my profession. They just don’t like to talk about work over there – at least, not until a relationship has been established. To hijack a social encounter with professional talk is considered rude. I remember the feeling of profound cognitive dissonance when a certain man (with kind eyes and a nice smile) put a finger to my lips, silencing my chatter, and asked me to tell him who I was – not what I did. I found his question incredibly difficult to answer, and not just because of the language barrier.

At the end of the evening, we teachers took a tally for journalistic purposes: Pippin was slapped once by Pancho; Pancho and Genevieve both slapped themselves once. Habib and I both talked unapologetically about work on the premise that his job security was more important than dinner party etiquette. Also, on a few occasions, Lampshade and I engaged in some thinly-veiled shop talk (using code names) while rolling our eyes. Only You Think of Something managed to stay true to our pledge, at least in the sense that he never once brought up the subject of work (although he did respond to the conversational prompts of others, on occasion.)

Also – and I note this strictly for journalistic purposes – Lampshade ate approximately one pound of goldfish crackers which, when poured onto a plate, look and sound a lot like cat food.

Useful French Phrases

Tags

France, French, language, Let's Go, Paris, travel

Readers, I realize that what I’m about to share with you hardly counts as creative writing. In fact, I’m not even going to try to pass it off as writing. What follows is in no way my own creation. But I couldn’t bear to pass up the opportunity to share this with you.

With my upcoming travel plans, I spend a lot of time performing internet searches on various European cities. That is how I stumbled upon the Let’s Go site, which contains a wealth of valuable information about popular tourist destinations, from where to sleep to what to wear.

I noticed that they have mobile apps for a few of the most popular destinations, including Paris. While I am reasonably well acquainted with the city, I’ve booked four weeks there this summer under the assumption that there is always more to learn. So I downloaded the Let’s Go Paris mobile app from the iTunes store to see what it had to teach me.

In addition to a listing of accommodations, restaurants, and museums, it contained a small phrasebook. What follows is the collection of French phrases that Let’s Go has deemed most useful for visitors. The list is unedited and presented in order. I considered including a running commentary regarding the utility of each phrase, but I decided against it. I think you will agree that there is so much to say, and yet sometimes no commentary is best.

Hello!/Hi!                                                      Goodbye!

Yes.                                                              No.

Sorry!

Emergency

Go away!                                                     Call the police!

Get a doctor!                                                Police station

Hospital                                                       Liquor store

Food

Waiter/waitress                                           I’d like …

Thank you!                                                 Check please!

Where is …

Other Useful Phrases

I am from the US                                        I have a visa/ID

I will be here for less than six months.         You are the woman of my dreams.

Your hostel, or mine?                                  I would like a round-trip ticket.

Can I see a double room?                            Where is the bathroom?

What time is the next train?                         What’s the problem, sir?

I lost my passport/luggage                           Perhaps I can help you with that?

Do you have protection?                              Where is the train station?

How much does this cost?                            Is there a bar near here?

Do you have this bathing suit in another size?

Please don’t arrest me!                                I’m in a committed relationship.

It was like this when I got here.                   I feel sick.

Actually, I’m from Canada.                          You talkin’ to me?

I don’t speak much French.                          Leave me alone!

I don’t understand.                                      I don’t vote for him, I swear.

Time Well-Spent?

Tags

France, Paris, plans, poetry, vacation

Tomorrow is arguably the last day of my vacation, if you subscribe to the logic that weekends don’t count, because they’re not workdays. This logic is somewhat flawed if you consider that working weekends are as common for me as non-working weekends, but given that I am trying to establish a sense of urgency, let’s just say that my vacation is almost over.

I had big plans for this week which included reading multiple books and Food and Wine magazines, watching at least one movie, and drinking several lattes. On Sunday I loaded Buck and a suitcase into the Mighty Yaris and we drove west to my parents’ house. In the four days that followed I drank several cups of coffee but watched no movies and read two chapters of one book.

Now, in my defense, I did engage in some perfectly worthwhile activities. I celebrated my grandfather’s birthday, hiked a mountain with my dad, and attended a concert with my mom. I also had a few nice meals with family and friends. All told, these activities accounted for approximately twelve hours, which makes me wonder what on earth I did with the other eighty four.

By my calculations, I spent approximately forty of those hours sleeping, eight of them writing, three cooking, ten watching TV, five wandering aimlessly around the house, ninety minutes shopping, and 6 hours on the internet. Which left approximately thirty minutes of reading time.

I understand why I read so few books in a typical week. What does it say about me if I can’t sit still for more than 30 minutes on a vacation to engage in an activity that I have deemed worthwhile and enjoyable?

One of my big accomplishments this week was to solidify my summer vacation plans. My six aimless weeks in Europe now include a four-week Airbnb reservation in a Paris apartment on the right bank with views of the Montmartre hill. I envision myself boarding the metro each morning with a book and a baguette in my purse, lying on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower, and reading poetry until the sun sets. This, to me, is vacation perfection.

The reality will probably look something more like this:

I sleep until noon and reach for my iPad. Mysteriously an hour passes and I have accomplished nothing. I board the metro with a book and baguette in my purse. I get off at the École Militaire stop and make it halfway to the Eiffel Tower before realizing that it’s freaking hot out and I have no water. I wander three blocks off course stopping at no fewer than four convenience stores before deciding that I have, indeed, found the most reasonably priced bottle of water in the 7^th arrondissement. Heading back to the Eiffel Tower, I get lost and walk in circles for 45 minutes, wondering how I could possibly lose sight of the tallest building in Paris. After winding up inexplicably on the right bank I reorient myself, cross the Pont de l’Alma, and brush my way past throngs of illegal immigrants selling cheap trinkets and gypsies waving newspapers in my face. I choose my spot on the grass in between a crapping dog and a making out couple and pull out my book, only to realize that the glare off the white page is blinding, and I did not wear my sunglasses. Moments later I remember that I don’t really like poetry all that much and think that I could really use an espresso. So I wander east along the Seine until I come upon the perfect little café or, more likely, one that will suffice given that my feet are killing me. Immediately upon sitting I realize that I am starving because I left my baguette on the metro. I order an over-priced salad and use the free wifi to access the internet on which I accomplish nothing.

And then I’ll blog about it.

Today’s Shopping List

Tags

Airbnb, France, grandfather, Paris, travel

I went shopping today. Shopping is generally not my thing. I strive to resist the siren song of consumerism. But sometimes even the most disciplined avoidant shopper needs to break out the credit card, because necessities do arise. For instance, today I purchased the following:

• 3 woven cotton handkerchiefs in varying shades of blue, because my grandfather is turning 88 tomorrow and has expressed the need for handkerchiefs.
• 1 bottle of moisturizer with SPF 15, because it is getting sunnier and I’m not getting any less white.
• 1 bottle of tea tree oil, which is useful as a mouthwash, scalp cleanser, and antiseptic.
• 1 flight with the famously spartan Ryanair, because they offer the best price on flights to Paris, and because their somewhat alarming “oxygen reservation fee” turned out to apply only to those who owe a surcharge for bringing portable oxygen tanks on board. (Actually, come to think of it, that’s also kind of awful.)
• A 4 week Airbnb lease on the spare bedroom of my new Parisian friend Javier who, I discovered after booking, is a renowned professional tango dancer and artist. (Do I really need to explain why this is a good idea?)
• 16 bars of Ivory soap, because they are cheaper in bulk and, well, I need soap.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Shopping is kind of fun sometimes.

What I Saw

Tags

Barcelona, Europe, France, photography, Spain, travel

Well, folks, seeing as how I forgot to bring my camera adapter on last week’s European adventure, I’ve been posting lots of writing without pictures. You know, the kind that you didn’t want to read when you were a kid. At some point I will probably go back and add some images. But for tonight I figured I’d overcompensate with a photo post. Here are a few of my favorite images from the trip.

Let’s get right down to business, shall we? I love food. I love just about everything about it: shopping for it, cooking it, eating it, photographing it, reading about it … it’s pretty much my favorite thing ever. Tasting the local food is a major part of my travel routine.

I am particularly fond of French food, of which we ate quite a bit while in Paris. It has a reputation for being fussy, but this reputation is not well-deserved. When done right, French cooking is elegant in its simplicity, staying true to the character of every ingredient.

I love the richness of French food, but I rarely feel compelled to overindulge. I wish I could say the same of Spanish food. The robust flavors made it nearly impossible for me to stop eating. My poor stomach is still recovering from a giant tapas hangover.

One of my favorite travel pastimes is to visit the beautiful cathedrals. Every European town has one, and ours pale in comparison. Whether you see them as a testament to God’s greatness or as artistic and architectural triumphs, they are truly awe-inspiring.

These stunning cathedrals are some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. But one of the reasons that I love Europe so much is that beauty is everywhere. From the architecture to the unexpected pieces of public art, there is an aesthetic quality to European cities that draws me back again and again.

These are the images that linger in my mind’s eye long after I leave.

New Friends

Tags

Europe, France, music, Paris, SNCF, travel

Leaving Paris today was bittersweet. We are very excited for the second half of our vacation, which we will spend in Barcelona, but we were sad to leave behind the people and places that had captured our hearts, whether for the first time or all over again.

Eileen is just discovering travel’s most magical truth, which is that the world is full of good people, and through the grace of chance or fate we will meet the ones we are supposed to meet.

We arrived last night at La Mère Agitée and were immediately greeted by friendly faces. Christophe and Julien rose from their dinner to kiss our cheeks and welcome us. Christophe introduced us to the proprietress, explaining that we were American musicians who had come to hear them play.

Our evening exceeded our expectations – not so much in terms of the music and the food, for we already knew that we were in for a treat in both respects, but because of the fascinating people that surrounded us. Christophe and Julien were performing in a converted wine cellar that comfortably seated sixteen diners. We eyed our companions with fascination – particularly the elderly Parisians who, despite their advanced age, were more stylish and cosmopolitan than … well … us.

While the duo played, we all enjoyed a meal selected by la mère agitée herself – pâté on toast over lightly dressed greens and a savory stew of veal and carrots in a delicate cream sauce over rice. Eileen and I noted that these were not dishes that either one of us would have chosen off of a menu, but it was one of the most unforgettable meals we had ever eaten. It just goes to show that once in a while we diners should set aside our prejudices and trust the chef.

Dinner ended shortly before midnight, and the room emptied out for a cigarette break. A woman approached me by the staircase and asked if I was the American musician she had heard about. She asked why I was not up on stage, and I stammered a response that was clearly unsatisfactory to her. (The truth is that Christophe and Julien had invited me up on stage several times already and, as badly as I wanted to join them, my mind went blank every time I contemplated what I might perform.) The woman, whose name was Domenica, peered at me through darkly-lined eyes and told me an artist can not be shy. She was, of course, completely right.

Domenica, who had moved to Turkey with her husband, was paying a visit to her parents who, in their late seventies, looked perfectly at home at a late-night jazz show. Accompanying them was a family friend – a flight attendant who Domenica had befriended years ago en route to Paris – and Domenica’s Turkish husband Cengiz, who seemed at once bemused by and completely in love with his vibrant wife.

One by one, performers and spectators returned to the little basement and, in lieu of a third set, we pulled our chairs into a circle and talked and laughed over bottomless bottles of the unlabeled house red. The language barrier was significant, and yet not. Words and accents mattered less than laughter and friendly eyes. We talked of Barcelona, and of our respective misadventures on the railway. I told her that I am no strangers to the SNCF, having embarked on a solo journey a few years ago. She rolled her eyes in mild disgust, and Cengiz explained that in her impatience, his wife favors the speed of flight over the slowly evolving landscape of train travel.

Well after 1 am, the proprietress shooed us out of her basement. Domenica pressed her phone number into my hand and urged us to visit her soon in Istanbul. Eileen approached La Mère to pay for our meal, and it was evident that the collection of money had been an afterthought.

Christophe hailed us a cab, and Julien accompanied us back to our neighborhood because the Metro had long since stopped running. Dazzled by our incredible evening, we got out several blocks from our hostel and enjoyed a giddy walk through the garish lights of Pigalle before returning to our beds.

Even in my sixth visit, Paris does not fail to enchant. Today I am sad to leave behind Domenica’s larger-than-life personality and her youthful, jovial family, I’ll never forget the way Julien sang through his violin or, if I am to be perfectly honest, the way my stomach flipped under his piercing gaze. Nor will I forget his father’s warmth and easy laugh. They will be filed away in my memory along with a variety of treasured chance encounters over the years.

Fascinating people are everywhere. Lots of them tend to congregate in Paris. Hopefully Barcelona, too.

Opera is Overrated

Tags

Europe, France, music, Paris, travel

Eileen and I are on our way to La Mère Agitée, a “nonconformist bistro” in the Montparnasse neighborhood. We are told that it is a very small and unconventional restaurant where, for a fixed price, diners choose between two daily dishes and eat and drink as much as they like.

This sounds like my kind of place.

We are going to La Mère Agitée to listen to a performance by our new friends Christophe and Julien, a father and son jazz duo upon whom we stumbled in Montmartre after being turned away from a sold-out opera performance. Which is to say that everything happens for a reason.

We were amazed to find that the Monday night performance of “Rigoletto” was sold out at the Bastille. Eileen waited in line at the ticket booth in case of a last-minute opening while I joined a crowd of other desperate shut-outs in front of the opera house, holding a sign that said “CHERCHE 2 PLACES.” All it got me were a few slightly suspicious once-overs from passers-by. We were amazed and slightly envious of a culture that packs opera houses on Monday nights.

We wandered aimlessly through the Marais, finding nothing to capture our interest. Live music was our ideal way to spend the evening, but we knew that our options were likely limited on a Monday night. I figured Montmartre was our best shot at finding a night spot with a suitable vibe, so we headed over on the metro and climbed the approximately 125 steps (we lost count) up the butte to the Sacre Cœur cathedral.

Behind the cathedral and around a corner we found Le Clairon des Chasseurs, a restaurant with mediocre, overpriced food and phenomenal ambience. In the corner by the window, Christophe and Julien were performing jazz standards on guitar and violin. After heavily courting our business out on the street, the maitre d’ seated us directly in front of the musicians. Their unparalleled skill quickly caught our eyes, and our enthusiastic appreciation quickly caught theirs.

Christophe, the father, is a virtuosic guitar player whose rapid and complex chord changes convinced me that he is the Johann Sebastian Bach of jazz. Julien’s passionate, virtuosic violin playing took on an almost hypnotic quality as he breathed with every phrase. We were utterly transfixed.

The two noticed our interest and our obvious familiarity with the songs, so they began soliciting song requests and asking about our musical background. They clearly enjoyed having an audience that understood their art form, and they played continuously for three hours, pausing only to ask us an occasional question in between songs.

The evening got even better when, around midnight, a teenage boy from the Czech Republic approached them and asked if he could sit in for a few songs. A second violin was procured – I never did figure out from where – and father and son welcomed this stranger into their band. They sounded as if they had played together for years. The boy was positively beaming as he and Julien traded riffs on their violins.

We stayed until the cafe closed, at which point we posed for a few pictures and Christophe informed us of their next gig at La Mère Agitée. He warned us that a reservation would be essential, given the small size and unique nature of this restaurant.

So we will spend our last night in Paris listening to phenomenal jazz while enjoying unlimited food and drink from a hole-in-the-wall Parisian restaurant with no menu.

Perhaps opera is overrated.

The Artist’s Dilemma

Tags

creative efforts, Europe, France, Paris, travel

 

Paris is a photographer’s playground. I have spent this day capturing images of sumptuous food, awe-inspiring art and architecture as well as a few arm-length self-portraits.

Is it weird for me to be writing a blog post about photography when I forgot to pack my camera adapter and can not share my work with you?

This is my first winter visit to Paris, and I find the long, dark shadows particularly striking against the angular rays of sun. Warmth and gloom coexist side by side, and I can think of no better way to describe this city. Other European cities may rival this one for grace and elegance, but it is the subtle melancholy of Paris that makes its beauty so compelling. 

No doubt, if you are a Facebook user, you have seen the now-famous photo of a homeless man and his dog locked in an embrace on a cold winter’s day. Eileen and I stumbled upon the real-life version today  we strolled along the Seine. The bitter cold had chapped our hands and driven us to seek shelter in a nearby cafe, but the dog slept peacefully in the arms of his master. 

Instinctively I reached for my camera, struck once again by the contrast between the stark and the beautiful. This is precisely the kind of photo that I seek when I travel. Had I captured the image it would surely have been my favorite of the trip. But my conscience told me not to. It seemed disrespectful of this very public private moment between a man and his dog. It pained me to walk away. I wrestled with the idea of asking his permission, and I eyed his change cup, wondering what would be a suitable offering in exchange for this moment. But I could not bring myself to objectify this man, as if he were just one more Parisian tourist attraction.

Mere yards away from him sat an elderly antiques dealer, peddling his wares in one of the green kiosks along the left bank of the Seine. He silently smoked his cigarette, pulling up the collar of his jacket to protect his craggy face from the cold. I was strangely captivated by him. But I did not take his picture.

More and more, the pictures that most capture my fancy a the ones I dare not take.

As a postscript: I’m not sure how the time difference factors into my pledge of daily writing. Were I at home right now, I would have been true to my aim. Here in Paris I have been drinking Bordeaux and listening to jazz in a Montmartre cafe until the wee hours of the morning. I’m not sorry I missed my deadline.

Au Pied de Cochon

Tags

customer service, Europe, France, Paris, SNCF, travel

Immediately upon our arrival in Paris, Eileen and I began to seek out a suitable place for lunch. Having just gotten off a sleepless flight and waged an unsuccessful battle with the customer service reps at SNCF, we needed to feel not just fed but cared for.

So it is hard to say whether chance, fate, or my subconscious led us to Les Halles, a shopping enter on the right bank, where we rounded a corner and found ourselves face to face with one of my favorite memories of this city.

I first dined at Au Pied de Cochon in 2008. It was my last night in Paris, and I happened to find myself without accommodations. At the time I could not afford any of the available hotels, and I was still afraid of hostels (largely thanks to the infamous movie.) So irrational was my fear of hostels that I decided my safest bet was to stay out all night.

Yes, I am aware of how stupid that sounds.

But you’d be surprised by how many options there are for Parisian night owls. Even on a Sunday night, I had plenty of options, including a well-lit and heavily populated park and several hours on a cafe couch. I spent the majority of my night (from approximately midnight to five a.m.) in a booth at Au Pied de Cochon where I consumed French onion soup, magret du canard, and a carafe of Beaujolais while engrossed in a book. The staff was attentive but made no effort to rush me out, even after I stopped ordering food due to a painfully distended belly. I was waiting for the metro to begin running again so that I could catch a train to Charles de Gaulle airport for my return home.

At five o’ clock, as the trains were just beginning to rumble underground, the maitre d’ fetched my suitcase from the coat check room. I walked out the front door of the restaurant and found myself in a light drizzle. I knew I had packed a travel-sized umbrella, and that it was probably at the bottom of my suitcase after a week of sun.

My waiter saw me through the window and came out to inquire if I needed a umbrella. Of course, he asked in French, and I didn’t speak much French at the time. In fact, the only word I understood was “umbrella.” I assumed he was asking if I had one, so I nodded in the affirmative. He disappeared.

Moments later, just as I was pulling my rain gear out of my suitcase, my waiter reappeared with a full-sized umbrella. He would not listen to my protests as he pressed it into my hand. The umbrella was mine to keep, whether I needed it or not.

I still have it to this day. It is not of especially high quality, so it has fallen apart and poses a serious danger to any eyes that come in closes proximity. But I will never, ever throw it out.

The kindness of the staff at Au Pied de Cochon did not end there, for I walked to the metro station only to find it strangely locked. I attempted to occupy myself by walking laps around the nearby park, but they had long since turned off thelights, and the safe garden had take on a more sinister quality. I soon noticed a man trailing me at a distance of several hundred yards. I briskly made my way back to the nearest well-lit area, which happened to be outside of Au Pied de Cochon where the maitre d’ noticed me pacing outside.

The maitre d’ – a large black man by the name of Remi – came outside to ask me if everything was okay. I replied that I was fine, but that I wasn’t sure when the metro was going to open, and that there was a man following me a little too closely.

Remi would hear no more. He fetched his umbrella and strode alongside me to the next nearest metro station, explaining to me that some – like theirs – open later than others. I arrived at the metro station safe, dry, and overwhelmed by the generosity of strangers.

So I was all too happy to pay them a visit today with Eileen. The food was even better than I remembered it – although they still served their signature meringue pigs alongside the post-dinner coffee. We were in no position to seek handouts or protection, but we were nonetheless deeply impressed by our waiter’s friendly and jovial demeanor.

It’s so nice to be able to return to a foreign city and feel like you are among friends.

—

Note to readers: my aforementioned lack of attention to packing means that I cannot share my trip photos with you until my return, due to the absence of one small but crucial adaptor. Sorry.