Every morning, we stop off at the corner boulangerie for our croissants, and since this is our last full day in Paris, we decide to theme it around food and go track down the best there is, according to my well-researched list for cheeses, breads, macaroons, and chocolates.
We took the metro down to the Tuileries station and wandered around Jardin des Tuileries. The day was a bit grey, so it didn't make for the best picture-taking, but it fit the mood as we made our way into Musée de l'Orangerie. It's an incredible collection of Europe's 20th century art and is best known for it's amazing impressionist collection which includes 8 of Monet's water lily murals. Thankfully, it wasn't very busy.
We stayed in the room, shaped in a giant oval, staring at these paintings. We must have been in there for an hour, sitting, standing, shifting our gaze, taking in the big picture and every tiny brush stroke which made up this amazingly calming scene on the walls. His intention was for people to find peace when looking at them, and he accomplished that well. It was one of those periods in your life where time doesn't really exist - you just try to understand how a few brush strokes in what seems to be the exact same color all over the walls broadens into something so evocative and beautiful.
The museum had some beautiful pieces from other famous artists of the era, including some wonderful work from Manet and Degas which were on loan.
First, bread. Everyone knows the French perfected the croissant, and Eric Kayser certainly is one of the places to see what one of the best tastes like. Butter. That's the only word that is important.
Onward to the best macarons we can find! Pierre Marcolini was highly recommended, and I absolutely understood why people sing their praises from the moment we walked in the door. Their macarons are DIVINE. Some of them are literally glittering. We bought 4, then strode down with them (feeling very fancy) to the water to sit and share them. We ate two - a red velvet and a caramel one - using the tiniest bites we could (to savor the flavor AND for respect for the price...we're not just swallowing these gold nuggets in one bite!). We hauled the other two along on our journey, wanting to string out our experience as long as possible.
Putting a padlock on to the Pont des Arts before throwing the key into the River Seine has become a tourist tradition in recent years, but we had no interest in joining the trend...doesn't mean they don't photo well.
At the recommendation of none other than Anthony Bordain, L'Avant Comptoir was our next spot for incredible small plates, the days menu hanging gloriously from the ceiling on little placards. This restaurant is crazy bustling, but is rather well hidden behind plastic strips in the doorway that make you feel like you're entering a walk-in freezer. An ACTUAL MOUNTAIN of butter greets you at the counter, and you can avail yourself of their free bread. Order a bottle of wine, and if you can manage to find two inches at a counter to yourself, grab it and order. Then order more. One of the best meals we've shared abroad - such a unique place!
Truffles. Because why not. Or, because you know your mothers will expect you to think of them as you saunter around all the amazing food, so you really ought not show up empty handed. And because you can only pass up so many chocolatiers before you have to give them your money. If you want to personally avoid the calories, too bad. This is Paris. This is no place to lose weight. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
** Side note - We nearly never buy things for others and bring them back. We make extraordinarily rare exceptions to this rule, but we don't believe in trinkets, especially for others. Our policy is to buy one item for ourselves to remember the place - ideally a handicraft or unique item to that area that represents the people or culture - and we try to find ornaments for our tree, which now represents many beautiful places around the world. We love people, but it's never worth it to haul things back, even for people who are grateful, because of the space it takes up, the difficulty in getting it back unscathed, and people's lack of true appreciation and understanding for where it came from. We love you, yes, but you're not getting anything when we come back. The sooner you come to terms with this, the better off we'll all be :-) **
Now for cheese. I knew just where we needed to go - we had passed it earlier in the week and I made a mental note to circle back when it was open. Fromagerie Laurent Dubios on 47 Ter Boulevard Saint-Germain is the absolute best place to go. We read that their experts will help you choose your cheese - this isn't a self serve kind of spot. We gave her some ideas and she picked us out a lovely harder cheese (whose name we've long since forgotten) and a soft Camembert which did not smell wonderful but was the most popular cheese in the area. We had them sealed to take home (yep, they can travel overseas if they're preserved correctly - they'll wrap them for you).
Next door was a wine shop, so we picked a cheap bottle of red to enjoy in our room at the end of the day.
Now, we've unfortunately recognized that one cannot do everything in their visit, so we decide to skip the famous Notre Dame Cathedral in favor of the Paris Catacombs. THIS NEXT PART IS IMPORTANT. They close at 8:30 pm and their last admission is at 7:30 pm. They restrict visitors to 200 at a time, so even if you get there two hours before they close (which we did), you still may not get to go in. The line wrapped around for what seemed like a half mile, and as we stood there with throngs of people, had the sinking recognition that we'd wasted our last chosen stop on something that would not work out. What to do?! Well, go to a nearby Aussie pub and drink your cares away, of course! Cafe Oz Denfert did not disappoint.
So, forlorn that our last stop didn't work out, we walked all the way back to Notre Dame, just to look at that magnificent building one last time in the dusk, and LO AND BEHOLD, there was a line forming in front of it. Police officers and military personnel were checking all people going to the line by funneling them through gates. Well, heck, we didn't know what was going on, but if they were going to open the Cathedral at night (it's only open in the day), then we'd better get in line! After about 30 minutes, the doors opened and we were ushered inside. They gave us a pamphlet at the doors. It was in French. And Latin. Sooo, basically useless to us.
The church was very dark, lit only by candles - you couldn't see the ceilings. It had never really occurred to me until then that all natural light is needed to really see a church at its best - electric lights really aren't prevalent in older churches in their sanctuaries. We sat in some wooden chairs and settled in, unsure what we were about to witness. It hadn't really occurred to us that this was an Easter service - on vacation, your days get a little mixed up, and besides knowing we were leaving the next day had forgotten it was a holiday weekend at all.
The service started with an incredible bonfire in front, flanked by two dozen men in white robes. They prayed, describing the fire as the sanctifying of Christ (to be honest, I'm guessing this is what it was about...it's in French, remember?). When I realized I might miss it while sitting indoors, I grabbed the camera and sneaked out of the church to take photos and left Derek behind inside. I nearly didn't make it back in, the place was guarded so thoroughly, but I was grateful for the added security given all the bombings and terrorist attacks that had been taking place.
We sat, taking it all in, for awhile. It was surreal, getting to worship in such a way. Half a world away, in another language, in this incredible place, Christ was being Glorified. He wasn't just risen for Americans, or people who speak English. We get so self-centered in our image of who God is. When you fully begin to recognize how big he truly is, no words can describe that feeling.
The service was going to be at least 4 hours, and as magical as this was, we weren't really benefiting from hearing it in a language we couldn't understand, so we made our way back to our hotel to drink our wine and pack. But then, the worst thing imaginable happened.
I left the two macarons. From Pierre Marcolini. The pistachio and passion fruit flavors. UNDER. MY. SEAT. Back in the church. I was in such a hurry to sneak out without disturbing people that I didn't grab them. And I mourned them, verbally, for a literal hour.
But there we have it. Our trip has come to an end. It'd be nearly a year before I'd have another macaron. I'd share my cheese with friends back home who would, unsurprisingly, not appreciate where it was from, and think it was too stinky. We'd hang our poster from the Moulin Rouge in our new house after a move to a new state. And we'd await the day that France would host us again, just a year later. We simply can't get enough of this place.
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