“Feeling dressed up until I step in dog poop”

E
fter some years as a Parisian, I have adapted to the French and start my weekend already at half past two. I shut down the computer and pick up tonight’s dinner at the butcher Polmard (2 Rue de l’Abbaye), the Friday bouquet at Le 69 Bac (69 Rue du Bac) and cheese at the historic – but smelly – Barthélémy (51 Rue de Grenelle). The greatest happiness of living in Paris is the French’s love of food. In the stairwell I run on my neighbor. She smokes indoors and I kindly ask if she can imagine doing it out on the street? She slams the door in my face. The late autumn heat lingers in Paris, my boyfriend and I unpack dinner on the balcony. Enjoying a classic camembert from the cheese shop for dessert, with the Eiffel Tower’s spotlight in the background. Satisfied, we fall asleep to an episode of the TV series Dix pour cent. (adsbygoogle=window.adsbygoogle || []). push ();