One summer morning here in Chicago, walking by the outdoor terrace of a cafe serving breakfast, the scent of frying eggs and butter and warm bread transported me back to August in Paris, and the outdoor terrace of a cafe on rue du Bourg Tibourg where M. and I enjoyed a scenic, leisurely breakfast.
A couple of years ago, for our summer vacation, we rented a tiny studio in Paris. From the kitchen we had a view of the apartment building's interior courtyard, an empty, quiet place, except when the bells of the nearby church of St. Gervais-St. Protais rang out the hour.
We ate in the main room, which looked out over the rue du pont Louis Philippe, which lead of course to the pont Louis Philippe, which lead to the glorious sight of the backside of Notre Dame (her best side, non?). From the main room we stood before the open windows and checked the weather each morning and watched the foot, bike, and car traffic passing by.
We ate in the main room, which looked out over the rue du pont Louis Philippe, which lead of course to the pont Louis Philippe, which lead to the glorious sight of the backside of Notre Dame (her best side, non?). From the main room we stood before the open windows and checked the weather each morning and watched the foot, bike, and car traffic passing by.
We'd usually return to the apartment for lunch, breaking up our sight-seeing and strolling with a simple meal of whatever we'd picked up at the local Monoprix or Franprix on rue St. Paul. Renting an apartment means living like locals--albeit, locals with no jobs and plenty of time to wander, wander, wander...
