avant Saint-Valentin

Last weekend Kira and I had coffee and rosé cidre at the cafe next door to Shakespeare & Company as we awaited our two Humboldtian friends. They metro’d from the 12th arrondissement to Maubert–Mutualité, where we met up on boulevard Saint-Germain. We had a jolly old time together, gathering in the spirit of Humboldt (minus the weed) for one night together in Paris. After Shakespeare & Co., we crossed la Seine to meet up with another friend at the RER. Walking over, we noticed the doors to the Notre-Dame cathedral were ajar with a few men standing guard out front.

We slithered in to the cathedral during it’s Sunday evening mass. There was some singing, some chanting, some oogly tourists, some bored-out-of-their-gourd children, and a stage-full of robed old men swinging smoking lanterns on chains. The service was like a Lego movie; all this tiny ritualistic fanfare beneath some menacing 115-foot tall naves. I couldn’t resist a little video to capture the vibe.

After mass, we met up with a fifth friend and mobbed a couple blocks uphill toward the Pantheon for a cold pint at The Bombardier. Kira got her classy London Stout and pour moi ’twas a Banana Bread Beer (don’t hate it ’til you ate it). This just so happened to be quiz night, and not just any quiz night. The Bombardier was participating in an attempt to set the Guinness World Record the largest multi-venue pub quiz. I grabbed a quiz sheet and scribbled our team name at the top, The Lumberjacks. About three questions deep, we realized this [rather LENGTHY] quiz was designed to sell a lot of beer, and we were pinching pennies. Instead of buying another pint we scurried down the hill to a kebab shop that in fact, didn’t sell any kebabs at all. Kira was smitten by a foot-long hotdog nestled in a toasted baguette, half camouflaged by emmental cheese. It was a self-described “traumatic weiner” in Kira’s world. The innards were slathered with some mystérieux white custard and a deluge of spicy Dijon mustard (Kira is a disciple of ketchup, like Jonas). I ate a crêpe with fried eggs and ham.

After dinner us five femmes crossed le boulevard Saint-Germain to meet up with the charming bald Parisienne who Jen and Morgan were staying with in the 12th, Pierre. We met him at Le Caveau des Oubliettes for a Sunday Blues Jam Session with “Big Dez“.

The next morning Kira and I woke up to a beautiful, blue, cloudless Paris sky, complete with the sun shining bright. We picked up some breakfast to-go at my favorite joint and headed out for a sunny walk to the Jardin du Luxembourg. My choice neighborhood patisserie in the 7th is run by two sweet old ladies in red striped aprons. They sell all the normal French pastries and breads, plus hearty lunch things like sandwiches, chicken wraps, salads, etc. Kira got a cheeseburger for breakfast… Of course Kira got a cheeseburger for breakfast in Paris. I got my ab fave– the Paris Brest!

Biggest pair of Brests I’ve seen to date. 

A word on the origins of the Paris Brest: aside from le lengthy Tour de France, there is a 1200-kilometre bicycle race in France held every four years. The course goes from Paris to Brest and back to Paris again. This is the oldest bicycle race still being ran, starting in 1891. That same year, a pastry chef created the delicious Paris Brest, and shaped it like a bicycle wheel to celebrate the new race. These are buttery choux pastries dusted with sugar and almonds, filled with praline cream. Heaven. If I get married, the cake will be a hula hoop sized Paris Brest.

Post burger and a Brest, Kira and I pressed on toward the gardens past Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides and through Saint-Germain. As we approached the Church of Saint-Sulpice in the 6th, dark shadows moved over the city and it began to rain.

Fontain Saint-Sulpice, in front of the church

Kira and I lost in a footrace with the storm, and by the time we arrived at the Luxembourg Gardens* the rain was blasting down full throttle. As the sun had punked us when leaving the flat earlier, we were merely armed with one umbrella and zero rain coats. So we ran to the metro for shelter. We dried off underground riding from Cluny-La Sorbonne to Ecole Militaire. My fingers were still blue and white, but that’s another story.

Of course once we emerged from Paris’ underworld, the sky had finished pissing l’eau and the grey clouds had pressed on to water the suburbs. We decided to go home, make the bed and train back to Normandy. Life is cheaper there, and we’re semi-pinching centimes.

Kira’s taken a liking to the boulangerie Paul, which is all over the place similarly to Starbucks** in quantity but far superior in quality. Everyday we buy a baguette (or two) and a pretzel (or three) for Kira. Since V-day is hittin’ town soon, Paul is oozing with hearted things– cheapest holiday option being the chocolat brioche pictured above. It was delish***.

Blushing fresh French roses from mon petit ami via Kiro.

Now Kira and I have a week of epic travels ahead of us. From Paris, we catch a flight to Rome this Saturday morning. Two days there to bathe in pasta and Valentine’s Day chocolate. Then onward-ho to Dublin, where my island-dwelling whiskey-enthusiast of a sister has scheduled us a tour of the Jameson distillery. From Ireland, we hop on over to Scotland. First we plan to stay with a woman named Edith in Edinburgh… Edithburgh!!! She’s offered to cook us up a full Scottish breakfast. After we jam our bodies full of beans, blood sausage and fried eggs like proper Scotsmen, we’ll catch a train that chugs along the east coast. We’ll stay one night in Inverness, where the River Ness meets the Moray Firth. After gettin’ our fill of medieval castles and lake monsters, we’ll train down to Leeds and stay a night with our mum’s old friend Denise, see another Humboldt homie at the uni, and get a fresh pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord****. The next day we’ll utilize our open Britrail pass to train where ever the Queen’s winds blow us. At some point we’ll end up in London for the night, and on Sunday, scoot back to mothership France.

I must note, this trip has been completely schemed up by Kira in the spirit of my birthday. Merci beaucoup Kira, although you won’t read this blog post, as I know reading pains you like salt does to snails. Still, I thank you from the bottom of my butt (it’s bigger than my heart).

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s high time for tea time and a spot o’ Cockney lessons.

*The effing Lux Gards weren’t even open.

**There are nine Paul locations in Rouen, and 317 locations sprinkled about elsewhere in France.

***Microwaved, with a pat of extra salted Normandy butter.

****As I’ve been ordered to do by Sir Casburn.