Settling in to a new apartment is always a surprise; this one exceptionally so. A 16th century building's thick-walled rooms decorated in Fontainbleu meets Mrs. Haversham, supplemented by a cave/basement bedroom which merges cozy/moldy into shabby dank. But there's a garden being courted by this uncommonly warm weather: hyacinths, snow drops, daffodils and lavender are splashing color around like Matisse's kin. The dining room makes each meal into an experience: candles reflecting on timbered ceiling, clacking footsteps on cobblestone streets, creaky upholstered chairs. Yes, the ancient bed made for shorties has a mattress surely knitted by Mme. DuFarge: warped, tangled and possibly dragged from The Bastille by some enterprising ancestor. It is meant for neither sleep or love; a virtual bed.
Laughing in the kitchen, pulling the heavy courtyard door open, journeying down the time warped street is all sweeter because we are in Paris. Because the market offers variety not just in fancy places but on every corner; bread: fresh, thin, natural, sweet.
Chickens and their parts for every conceivable preparation, six butchers and at least twelve bakeries within three blocks. Supermarkets are tiny, the selection is small, yet everyday two kinds of duck, quail and their eggs, and a few regional cheeses compete with vegetables from all over the world.
Our days have run away: eyes packed with vistas, hearts loaded with beauty, stomachs groaning under the weight of countless scraped and sopped platters. We are refugees fleeing excess and finding bounty.
