Honeymoon Nov 11, 2012

SUNDAY NOV 11

WIW: navy sweater, jeans.

WRW: purple long-sleeved polo, purple sweater, jeans.

I woke up at 3:20 AM with terrible heartburn, probably from that 10 PM hot dog. Miserable pain in my chest and tightness of breath. Sat up in bed, hoped I’d fall back asleep, don’t think I did. I needed some Maalox, we needed to find a pharmacy at some point.

We saw the strangest thing that morning - - a huge procession of uniformed men on horseback, I would guess just under a hundred of them. They strode by right under our window, it was delightful. They were followed by a fleet of horse trailers and clean-up wagons.

Still no luck with the shower. We had breakfast in the hotel: a croissant, a roll, butter and jam, coffee, hot milk, freshly-squeezed orange juice. Divine. The thing about Paris - - every piece of bread is incredible. You can easily find bread this good in the US, but in Paris that’s the only kind of bread you find. Richard told me stories of his time in Paris over 25 years ago, those were fun to hear. Here he is in the breakfast room:

Richard called Philippe and we set up a date for later that day. We walked around and found a laundromat. Very affordable, and instructions in English, we love that.

We took the Métro over to Père Lachaise and met Philippe, who is such a delight. He and Richard dated for about twenty minutes and then became great friends. He works as a translator, both from French into English and English into French, has translated quite a few books. We walked around the cemetery somewhat aimlessly. We ran into Rossini, that was a treat.

We made a point of finding Yves Montand and Simone Signoret, they’re buried together. We spent a long time trying to find Maria Callas’s little ashes-in-the-wall plaque, finally did find it and it was so underwhelming.

Found Oscar Wilde - - his grave had been so covered by graffiti that it was surrounded by Lucite and a bulky fence in 2011. Very austere, proto-Deco gravestone.

We found a grave for a guy named Leopold Fucker which led to lots of yuk yuks. He was a Fucker from a long line of Fuckers. His father was a Fucker, his grandfather was a Fucker, all of his uncles were Fuckers. His mother was a Fucker, but only by marriage.

I wanted to visit Gertrude Stein and we spent probably a half hour walking around what at first seemed like a small section of the cemetery, but we never found her grave. That was a little frustrating. Richard, the darling, looked her up on findagrave.com, showed me the picture of her gravestone, and said, “Now you’ve seen her grave at Père Lachaise. Let’s go have lunch.” How sweet is that. And you know, spending a half hour looking for Stein’s grave and not finding it, there’s something very Steinian about that.

Here's a pic of the two of them by the entrance:

We found a little bistro for lunch. Richard had salmon, Philippe had steak, I had a salad nicoise. The tuna was from a can (which didn’t bother me), but the anchovies were real. Very good. Incredible bread, of course.

Philippe is so charming. He and Richard caught up on everything. He invited us over for dinner the next night, and we might also take a day trip with him (he and his partner Jean have a car) and go to a play.

We went to a pharmacy and Philippe got me some Maalox. We said goodbye to Philippe and looked forward to seeing him again the next day.

There are lots of marvelous antique stores and furniture stores in our neighborhood. We walked past a store with hideous bright yellow chairs in the window. Richard said, “Wouldn’t those look wonderful in our dinette?” I pointed to the street sign above the store and said, “That would happen on the Rue de Nevers.”

Back home. Took my Maalox, which comes in a tiny tube - - you empty it into a glass of water and drink it. Weird. We had a little cuddle. Richard emailed Philippe and I got the things together for laundry. We walked to the laundromat together and Richard helped me load the machines and more importantly, he helped me figure out how they work. He left, walked around while the stuff was in the wash, and I got caught up in my journal.

He came back bearing a gift - - a crèpe filled with Nutella. So good. We started walking home and decided to stop for dinner at Les Deux Magots. It’s a Paris landmark, Sartre and his set used to sit on the sidewalk, drink coffee, smoke, and talk for hours. We ate inside, we did not drink coffee, nor did we smoke, and we talked for just over an hour. It was the first great meal in Paris - - one of FIVE!

I think we must have gotten some kind of starter, but I didn’t write it down, so I don’t know what it was. I had the duck breast for my main course, which was served with lovely roasted potatoes. Gorgeous duck, so firm and tremendous you’d think it was beef. Richard had scallops, served with rice. The highlight of the meal was his side dish, a pretty little pile of rice, probably made with chicken stock and heavy cream, maybe a bit of cheese, and definitely some lemon juice. It had a strong but not overpowering lemon flavor. The most delicious side dish I’ve had in my life.

A funny-looking older American woman was at the table next to us, looking at a big coffee table book about David Hockney and dropping her dinner onto it. Big smile whenever the waiter came by, she was cute. She left and was replaced by two cute 70-ish French ladies who ordered only coffee and talked constantly on top of each other. They were a riot.

I didn’t think I was hungry enough for dessert (further proof that we had a starter), so I asked Richard if he wanted to split one. He said no, he wanted one to himself, and besides they were very small. He got the coffee ice cream with Kahlua, I had baba au rhum. I’d never had it before, it was magnificent. It’s a spherical spongy cake served with a capsule full of rum sticking out of it. It looks like a small breast with a very large nipple. You remove the capsule and pour the warm rum over the cake. Whipped cream on the side. Heavenly.

Next day...