I am back in Paris to gather art and ideas for an upcoming sale that my art business, Michaux Fine Art, will be hosting in St. Paul, Minnesota in November, and also to see the city in my favorite season of the year.
When I arrived in Paris, it was sunny and clear and absolutely gorgeous! I wish I could say that I hit the ground running and accomplished incredible things upon my arrival, but I’m not that girl. The flight from Minnesota gets to Paris at the perfect time for travelers to experience the full flavor of the morning rush hour. After finding my luggage and my taxi driver, I promptly fell asleep in the cab and woke up an hour later in front of my apartment. I had tried to use my language skills and engage in stilted conversation, but kept yawning (considered very rude in France) and then finally gave up and closed my eyes.
Most of my neighbors in St. Paul, Minnesota have cabins “up North,” or in Wisconsin. Paris is our cabin, so I usually get here a day or two before my husband to do all the little things one has to do when they get to the cabin. We call it “putting out the dock,” but thankfully I don’t have to do any physical labor that involves power tools, lake water, or giant
mosquitoes! After I unpacked for three weeks, I assessed the apartment. Stocking the apartment and grocery shopping is all done on foot, so it usually takes me several trips to get even a portion of what we need. Strange how doing daily chores holds no interest to me at home, but here, I love the entire process.
My first trip out involved my newest cure for jet lag. Funny how I never see this written up in travel magazines, but I have found it works wonders. From Minnesota, I scheduled a massage at the Japanese place in my neighborhood. I wandered in a jet-lagged mess, and left completely wrung out and ready to go. My route back to the apartment took my by the (mostly) pedestrian rue Cler, where I could get flowers, cheese, butter with lots of salt (my current obsession), and a fresh baguette (for the butter, of course!) My arms were full and it was back up the six flights of stairs to the apartment—I’m hoping walking up the stairs counteracts the butter!
Later I went back out, but this time with my shopper to carry the heavy things. I love grocery shopping in Paris. I am fascinated by the strange products, the cramped stores, the tiny shopping carts, and the crazy checkout lines. I spy in other shoppers’ carts to see what kind of wine they are buying and to see if they really trust the eggs and milk that sit outside the refrigerated section. I buy different flavors of mustard and bottled sauces and load up on jelly for my husband. I have learned that I have to drop my shopper at the entrance (and hope no one steals it) while I fill my little cart and then retrieve it at the end of my trip and fill it myself. You are charged for shopping bags here, so if I think I will go beyond the confines of the shopper, I need to bring some from the apartment. I love the bags here though; I often bring them back as gifts for my friends J