Sometimes when I can't be there, I picture myself rolling out of bed in Paris, throwing on something do-able and walking down to the open-air market under the metro for a tiny quiche Lorraine, some fresh lettuce and scallion for a salad, a small column of chevre to slice and dot my green salad and a freshly-creamed, golden stick of salted butter to spread on chunks of pain complet. I know, I know, the French never put butter on their bread when there is so much cheese to be had... but I do. Then I search out the perfect little fruit tart to follow my delightful afternoon lunch. I imagine leaving the dishes in the sink while I curl up on the blue couch with a cup of herbal tisane and a book on the history and back streets of Paris or a riveting historical fiction by a must-read author that I've been waiting to delve into. I fall asleep staring at the Blue Mosaic print on the wall behind me and dream of piecing together artworks in Pompeii. And when I wake up, it's off to the Marmottan for the world's largest collection of Monets, followed by a walk along the Seine to a cafe within viewing distance of Notre Dame for a spell of writing, pen in one hand, and coffee, then kir, in the other and arriving just in time at the American Library in Paris to hear an author of French novels talk about their writing process. Where to go for dinner is an entirely different daydream meant for another day, dream and post.
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