Last year, for my birthday, X, Rose and I drove south, so this year, we decided to point our compass north, and go somewhere that neither of us had been before. Someplace that we could get to in two hours or less, and ideally, that would include water and sunshine.
It was going to be a typical Saturday morning – hit the President Wilson market, eat a Nutella crepe on the way back, and make something that afternoon with what I found. Truth be told, I wasn’t hopeful about what I’d come home with, this being that seemingly endless between-seasons time of year.
I love doing my souvenir shopping at supermarkets, wherever I happen to find myself. I’ve bought olive oil and saffron in the supermarket in Madrid; Lavazza coffee in Rome; and Fat Boy soy sauce in Chiang Mai — and when I’m headed back to Texas for a visit, I still stop by the stinky stinky Franprix (above) for French staples that you can’t get in the U.S.
Here I am, washing vegetables on Day 1 of culinary school in Mexico City.
This was before things got weird. When I tried to take a photograph of the place from the outside, I was scolded by a “security guard,” and told that photos were not allowed. I won’t even try to describe it, either, because I don’t want to get into trouble.
Yesterday we went for a walk in the forest in nearby Louveciennes, between Versailles and St. Germain-en-Laye, and I couldn’t believe the snow (we had lots of snow the day before in Paris, but it didn’t stick).
The weeklong yoga workshop with yogi David Swenson – the rockstar of Ashtanga yoga — and his equally fabulous wife, Shelley Washington, behind me, I returned to Paris, unpacked, repacked, and immediately hopped the 6:43 a.m. Eurostar to London, naturally first grabbing a croissant and café at Paul at the Gare du Nord for the 2:29 hour journey.