My mom and I went to the Grand Palais one morning to see the Rodin centennial exhibit, only to find the line an unbearable two hours long. I’m not an over-planner on vacation, but I should’ve realized this exhibit would be popular enough to warrant advance tickets. I went on to my phone and purchased us timed-entry tickets for a few days later, and as we stood in front of the massive building wondering, “Well, what now?” my mom pointed across the street to the Petit Palais and said, “What’s in there?” In one of those classic happy-accidents, the Petit Palais ended up being a delightful (and free!) experience. The building itself was gorgeous, with a lush, newly-blooming round garden and café in the middle, and more intricate tile and skylights inside than I could handle. The permanent collection includes paintings and sculptures from the Renaissance through the 1900s, including Courbet, Pissarro, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Cézanne, among others. I deeply regret not purchasing a little notebook with Georges Clarin’s portrait of Sarah Bernhardt on it in the gift shop (next time).

After we left, we headed down the Champs-Élysées to Concorde, and then walked the whole length of the Tuileries. The blue skies were out in abundance again, and neither of us felt much like doing anything other than soaking them in. We were eventually coaxed inside by the prospect of lunch at Angelina, though we were quickly back outside and en route to the Palais Royal for another sun-soaked stroll. The bright pink magnolia trees were in full bloom, and everyone seemed to have the same idea we did; the gardens are so photogenic, especially in the spring.

What is there to say that I haven’t already repeated ad nauseum by now? This was my ninth trip to Paris, and I’ve been blogging long enough now (six years! I failed to adequately celebrate, or even mention, this anniversary back in February) that I’ve shared every trip with you guys, going back to my second, way back in May of 2012. Hell, I’ve even shared photos from my very first trip, back in 2001, when I wasn’t even aware blogging was a thing. I’m sure in the intervening half dozen trips, I’ve exhausted you all with my endless praise of the city, the teary-eyed love songs I’ve penned to the love of my life (can a city be the love of your life?).

So for today I’ll just say that I adore the Île Saint-Louis, and that the Marais is creeping up my list as well. I always thought that arrondissement was over-hyped and over-touristy, but I’m starting to come around. This trip, for only the second time, I ate at Café de Flore. I know, I know: talk about over-hyped and over-touristy, but don’t judge me until you’ve had the Jockey au Chester, a croque monsieur drowning in melty cheese. Sit upstairs, if you go. That’s where the locals eat.

Oh, Montmartre. My beautiful quartier. I’ve sung its praises at every turn (here, here, and here, to name a few) and it always feels like home. The Franprix on Rue Caulaincourt where I bought groceries, the crêperie at the bottom of Rue Lepic that makes the best crêpes in the city (a strong assertion, I know), the fromagerie on Abbessess, every precariously steep street and adorably winding alley. I hate to play favorites in a city that boasts so many wonders, but Montmartre is it for me.

My mom and I took the 80 bus from École Militaire our second morning, and wandered up Rue Caulaincourt to the Musée de Montmartre, a gem of a museum nestled on Rue Cortot that I had walked by hundreds of times but had never actually visited. Home to a number of artists over the years, the Suzanne Valadon studio and Renoir gardens alone make it worth the price of admission. It overlooks the Montmartre vineyards on one side, and has views of the top of Sacré-Cœur on the other, and was filled to the brim with old posters by Toulouse-Lautrec and menus and playbills for Le Chat Noir and Le Lapin Agile and the other cabarets that dotted the area in the 1880s. It was a delight, and I highly recommend it. We were the only people there for the majority of our visit, which blows my mind (though maybe I should keep it a secret? Too late).

Afterwards, we stopped at Sacré-Cœur and wound our way down the steps to Rue Yvonne Le Tac, eventually snaking our way to Abbesses, where we popped into Kusmi tea. A lot of people rave about their tea, so I figured it was worth expanding my horizons beyond Mariage Frères, where we’d already stopped the day before to refill our tea tins. Try new things, they said! It’s great, they said! Guys, the lemon verbana mint tea I bought tastes like feet. Non merci. The store itself was cute, but I have learned to stick to my Rouge Metis bubble. Afterwards, we had lunch at Le Nazir: two salades bergères, with runny eggs and the tangiest vinaigrette, over which we marveled at the leisurely French lunch break. Eating a sad yogurt at your desk while you continue working (my life)? Not here.

I had a sugar crêpe for dessert as we walked to visit my old apartment, and then we hopped on the bus back to the left bank, but not before stopping to shop around Madeleine and have tea and macarons at Ladurée. I had the loveliest conversation with an older French woman at the table next to ours, who told me I speak French very well. Several French people said the same this trip. Not to toot my own horn, but LE TOOT TOOT.

Apologies for the delay; I landed back in Philadelphia last week and immediately went to work, where I stayed for the next 10 straight days, including one 12 hour day and a full weekend. I’m not complaining, I knew what I signed up for (#auctionhouselife), but it definitely impede my ability to edit Paris photos from my trip. My mom and I landed on the 21st of March, the second day of Spring, and oh, oh Paris had turned it on full-strength. The majority of our stay we enjoyed blue skies and 65 degree temps; perfect Paris weather for flâneuring. Our first day, though, we got reacquainted with our neighborhood, the swanky 7eme. I was just there in December (and actually stayed around the corner from our hotel) but I am sure I’m preaching to the choir and sounding like a broken record when I say that Paris feels new every single time I’m there.

We got smacked head-on by jetlag by the late afternoon, and though it was glorious outside and we felt guilty, we bought an entire pallet of strawberries from Rue Cler and a rhubarb tart and ate them in bed before falling asleep at the ungodly hour of 8pm. We woke up refreshed the next morning and ready to take on Montmartre (my sweet, sweet old neighborhood).

À demain!