Paris. I’m still in overwhelm from my week in Paris. My friend and I walked and walked in horrendous weather and it didn’t matter a whit. We stopped for lunch, sat outside under the awning, and watched people continue along in a torrential downpour. They weren’t crabby, annoyed or snarling at each other, they simply carried on about their business. I thought how different people are here, in North America when they get wet. (Wizard of Oz anyone?)

The displays! Fruits, vegetables, cheeses and wines, seafood … delightful sensual visual “please come and taste me” displays. Oh my!

I saw where Hemingway wrote, had real Chocolat des Deux Magots a l’ancienne at Les Deux Magots and ate Welsh Rarebit at Cafe de Flore. My friend, who had lived in Paris for two years, took me on the most splendid walks. Walks that showed how and where the great writer’s lived. I am in awe of, and grateful for, her knowledge.

I am missing morning croissant and cafe creme. Perhaps I’ll start a new morning routine here – perhaps.

And now, jet-lag has returned … Tia has been walked, Harold lounges in my lap. I am content.

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