Often I sit in the departure lounge to write. I like to enjoy each place fully and the experience isn’t over until the call to board the aircraft. This time we left Paris by train which meant I didn’t have the mundane airport or the back of an airline seat to stare at. Instead, the landscapes of Paris gave way to the landscapes of Belgium and after only an hour, the ride was over. So here I am in Brussels, Belgium writing of Paris. But let’s pretend I am sitting in my new favorite Paris cafe, Fondation Cafe (the one with the mint green cup and saucer on my Instagram), sipping my cafe creme and writing to all of you.

Here goes:

It is no secret that I love Paris. My college roommate and her friends were French and we became fast friends and I fell in love with a Frenchman. In the summer of 86, eight of us traveled together throughout France. They brought me to their homes, second homes and bateaux on the Riviera. It was a dreamy experience and there was a time when I might have lived here. We have since fallen out of touch but my love for Paris hasn’t wavered (much).* I love the grand boulevards, thank you Mssr. Haussman, and the maze of the Marais; I love the flowers in the markets and storefronts, the gardens and squares, the food and wine; I love the sweet soft sound of the language and the sensuality implied in all of it. Andy and I traveled here when we were still testing our relationship, we passed obviously, and we returned several times alone and with Tania and our girls. The last time we were here, Rose was 3 and Lauren 5. This is why they wanted to return. They didn’t remember it and they felt it was a key place – “How can we go around the world and not see Paris, the Eiffel Tower?” So we came. We saw the sights. The Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo in the Louvre. Impressionists at Musee d’Orsay. The Tour d’Eiffel and Place d’Etoile, Pont Neuf and the bridge of secrets (locks). Cathedral Notre Dame. And then we just walked a neighborhood or two – crepes at nowhere special in Quartier Latin, benches in the Place des Voges, more crepes on the Isle Saint Louis. And we went to some old faves – two challah from Rue des Rosiers, a chocolat chaud “L’Africain” and a Mont Blanc from Cafe Angelina, a new dress from Catherine Andre :-).

Four days go very quickly and, as with every visit to Paris, I leave vowing to return.

*Much – because in Cape Town we saw the rudest French people EVER. The line for the cable car up Table Mountain was long, even with the pre-purchased tix, and it was hot hot hot like 95F and this snotty little group of French cut the line! The audacity of the move floored me. How can I explain it? Ok, let’s say the line was 100 meters / yards long. Well, they cut in at the 5 yard line! I threatened to learn a new language and eschew les francais, completement. I would learn to speak Japanese or Canadian – the two politest nationalities I’ve come across yet.

But here is what I have learned since Table Mountain. The wealthy french are traveling (and rude) while those actually in France are working and lovely and often immigrants. The Polish waitress, lovely. The Spanish sales clerk, helpful. All of this is anecdotal but in the Cape Winelands (South Africa) we met a french couple in finance who explained that there are no jobs in France. The finance people have moved to London and Paris is just a shopping and tourism city. A nice place for the wealthier set. I’d like to say its not true; but in my heart I know I’d be lying.