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Bonjour! I’m Erin.
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Yearly Archives: 2017
Years ago, I did one of these posts for a summer vacation in La Ciotat that takes place early on in my book. My inner French girl takes the train from Gare de Lyon to Marseille, spending the three hour train ride reading. Well, how’s this for life imitating art: I’ll be making the same trip in real life in just a few months. I booked my train tickets (€44 round trip!) and hotel, and am already mentally packing my suitcase. Doubtful I’ll look this chic, but a girl can dream. I’m already excited about the uninterrupted reading time.
Hi! I’m alive! I’m so sorry. I never intended to be gone from here for over a month, but there was always something else that felt more pressing in the rare times I found to sit at my desk–writing, chief among them. I’ve missed you! Tell me, what’s been going on? Besides work, the things that are occupying my time are mostly listed above. Oh, and writing. So, so much writing.
Three years ago today, I landed in Paris for a two-month stint to work on my novel and, as cliché as it sounds, “find myself.” (The jury is still out on whether I should have come home.) It’s crazy to think how long ago that was; of all my Paris trips since (there have been five), that one still feels the most vivid and still with me. The weeks that I was there were transformative beyond words–literally. I wrote and wrote and wrote while I was there, and that still wasn’t the most important part of my experience. It was one of the happiest stretches of time in my life before or since, and my frequent trips back are, on some level, desperate attempts to repeat that magic, to find that feeling of absolute calm and certitude. It’s hard to explain to people the feeling that every day, you should be somewhere else, that your life is happening somewhere else without you, but it’s even harder to live it. That’s why I bounce back and forth so frequently.
(Also the butter.)
These photos are a bit belated (I’ve been back for over a month!) but about two weeks after I took them, I booked another flight back to Paris. I leave in 139 days. I’m going alone, again, and planning on taking a round of French class at the Alliance Française there and ducking out of town for the weekend and heading to La Ciotat, along the southern coast by Marseille. A large portion of my book takes place in that tiny town, and it would be nice to see it in person.
Until then, I’ll be reminiscing about the beautiful weeks I spent in Paris in the spring and early summer of 2014, about the gorgeous light, the view from the top, and the wonderful, unexpected moments that all feel like it was just yesterday.
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).
I’m leaving for my 9th trip to Paris in under two weeks, and if there’s something I’ve mastered after this many séjours, it’s shopping and stocking up on my favorites (it certainly isn’t the ability to not collapse into tears at the first sight of the Eiffel Tower). I’ve had plenty of opportunities over the years to settle on my favorite French finds, and my trips back involve returning to the same stores (Mariage Frères, Maille, Ladurée, City Pharma…) to restock my depleted supply of tea/mustard/candles. Both Mariage Frères and Maille will refill your empty pots if you bring them back, for less, obviously, than the cost of buying a new one (well, not including the flight). Everything is better in Paris, even (especially!) the butter: thick, full-fat cream with large flakes of salt sprinkled throughout. I buy it at Monoprix, it’s never more than a few euros, and it lasts for a few months at home if I portion it correctly. In terms of indulgences, it’s less expensive than, say, my newfound love of luxury handbags.
January was a great month for reading; I’m on my fifth book of the year so far, and, surprisingly, not one of them was about, or set in, Paris. Lest you think I’m slacking on my Francophile duties in 2017, here are just a handful of books on my to-read list. Some of these were gifts (my family knows me so well!), some are in my library queue, some were purchased with gift cards (again, people know me well), and one of them (“Shakespeare & Company”) is on my to-purchase list when I get back to Paris (45 days!). I’m trying to expand my literary horizons this year and read books outside of my comfort zone, but I can’t resist the pull of a Parisian page-turner.
What are you reading these days?
I’m not usually a fan of designer lines for chain stores. I remember the Moschino for Target collaboration from a few years ago actually started fights in the parking lot and in the aisles between women hoarding towels and plates and notebooks emblazoned with the brand’s iconic stripes. People lined up around the block for the Balmain event at H&M. As nice as some of the pieces looked, they were still made by H&M, and why would I want to spend money (more money than usual, actually, for H&M) on clothes that would invariably fall apart in three washes?
But as far as diffusion lines go, the new Cynthia Rowley for Staples totally won me over. I’m much more easily distracted by beautiful desk and writing accessories than I ever will be by clothes. Look at all that moody floral goodness! A gold stapler! When was the last time you actually stapled anything? Doesn’t matter, it’s gold, in the cart it goes. I cracked and bought a two-pocket folder to use for my French homework (#nerdalert), which cost me a whopping $1.60 with tax. And I didn’t even have to wait in line for it, because Staples lets you order online and pick up in store 1hr later. Pas mal!
January 20, 2017 / design /