Yesterday I went to a flea market in the 18e arrondissement. It went on forever. I expected to see second-hand and was surprised to see how much new merchandise was for sale. As I got further from the entrance, the new gave way to the old. And at the far reaches antique shops, some quite expensive, replaced the second–hand stalls.
Today I went to the Marché Bastille outdoor market. So much beautiful food, and all looking so much better than what’s available at the little supermarket around the corner! Stalls selling nothing but oysters! I spent €45,08. I bought my alimentation (groceries) for the week. I hope I didn’t buy too much – three peaches, three pears, five figs and eight bananas; two cheeses – a camembert and three small crottin de chevre. I’m buying cheeses I never ate before and keeping a list. I’ve had camembert, but not camembert made with unpasteurized milk because you can’t get it in the U.S. When I ordered it, the seller poked it with his finger. I don’t know if he was testing it for ripeness or showing me that it was ripe. Mine is definitely ready to eat. I could smell it on the subway on the way home.
I also stocked up on some menu items I can reheat during the week – fully cooked (if I understood his French correctly) pickled pork ribs, lasagna and stuffed squid. Stuffed with what, I have no idea. I didn’t buy vegetables because I don’t want to take the time to cook. I noticed that at the market they were selling fully cooked beet roots. Perhaps I should have bought one or two. Oh well, bon appétit!
I took the Lonely Planet Guide literary walking tour of the Latin Quarter today. Not being a Hemingway fan, I really didn’t care about all the bars where Papa got sloshed, but other than that it was pretty great. I saw places where James Joyce, George Orwell, Ezra Pound, Henry Miller and Kathryn Anne Porter lived. But what was greatest was seeing where Pablo Picasso painted Guernica, where Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir hung out, where Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas held their literary salons, and the hotel where Oscar Wilde died. Although not of literary significance, 56 rue Jacob also was on the tour. That’s where David Harley, George III’s representative, met with Benjamin Franklin, John Adams and John Hay on September 3, 1783 to sign the Treaty of Paris recognizing American independence. This evening I went to a concert and mass at St. Eustache, the church with the largest organ in Paris. When they pull out all the stops, that thing really wails. Stirs the emotions. Amen.
Paris is expensive. A glass of beer on rue Jacob cost me €9.50 (about $14.70 at today’s exchange rate), and it wasn’t even a big glass. And this evening I went to the laverie (laundramat) for the second time. A small load of laundry cost €6.50 (a little more than $10.00) to wash and dry. Restaurants, bars, cafés, brasseries and salons du thé charge different prices depending on where you sit (or stand) and what time of day you go. I probably sat in the most expensive place at the most expensive time. Ate the squid tonight. Heated it in the microwave because I can’t get the oven to work. Not a problem. Delicious.
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