Je mange dimanche

I did the laundry this morning. This is particularly interesting/important because I messed up. If I'd done it right, nobody cares, least of all me. The darks went fine. While the machine whirred away, occasionally engaging in a bout of serious banging and rocking around, I took the required video-course on concussions for Stanford athletes. I earned a certificate. All was well. Then came the whites.

As my second batch grumbled on, I helped organize a picnic with some other students. Realizing that if I were to walk all the way to the Tour Eiffel, and buy baguette on the way, I had to leave in approximately negative-five minutes, I tried to stop the machine, and then open it. It wouldn't open. Maybe it had developed an affection for my undies. Maybe it was feeling recalcitrant, or was irked to be stopped right when it was really getting going. I will never know, but the fact remained that it refused to yield. Well, I can be as stubborn as the next person, so I stuck my proud nose in the air and left.

I walked all the way, stopping near Champs de Mars to acquire a couple baguettes (and, of course, rip a tiny chunk off the end--part of my delivery duties involve quality assurance). After (of course) failing to find the others for twenty minutes, we converged on a lovely bench, and the picnic commenced.

Food Picture A: lunch

Featured here, you will find baguette (courtesy of Lauren), camembert and brie (courtesy of Kim), tomatoes (courtesy of Jon), chocolat (courtesy of Natasha), and biscuits (courtesy of Kim, who was an overachiever, for which we are grateful). You will also note a knife (courtesy of Lauren).

Incredibly cheap, ridiculously delicious, and très français, this is a lunch that comes highly recommended. Unfortunately, it grew colder and colder, and our fingers became rather numb. To warm up, we decided to walk to Jardin de Monceau, a terribly chic park laden with elegant statues, aging arches, and the occasional bridge, fountain, or other delightful ornamental feature. With the crowd, we strolled the periphery in the general manner of an ice-skating rink (that is, everyone sticks to the edges, moves in a circle in the same direction, and frowns at the one vagabond who dares to go the other way).

En route to the park. Very San Francisco here.

This is a house. Someone just lives here, for kicks, I guess.

At the park, this sort of decorous architecture can be found lying around.

And, of course, any elegant park is nothing without a glorious bridge

Or trees reflected in fountains (although they are empty until February, alas).

Our sunny day became somewhat cloudy (but no rain, fortunately!)

In the park, it is frequently necessary to dodge rogue soccer players, who, along with scooters and baby carriages, appear to rule unchallenged. These soccer players range in age from 2 to 62, and play in groups of two to five. I can't help but think they could be more efficient if they split into three teams and played a game, but who am I to offer my opinion? The other predominant activity is scootering. Children seem to have adopted this form of transportation as their main means of getting to and from school, and, in the park, their parents frequently join them. In fact, there is a special scooter arena just for the pursuit of this glorious sport.

The future of the Paris soccer team

This pigeon appears to know how to get ahead in life...

I assume this means that, if you have particularly long blades of grass sprouting from your heels, you ought not walk here. Alternatively, you could take it to mean that you are welcome to tiptoe, but heels-first smashing is not permitted.

Of course, nothing stokes the appetite like a frigid stroll in the park, and luckily one of our fellow adventurers had spent the summer doing an internship and living in the neighborhood, and she knew just the place to purchase excellent cookies. A minuscule storefront, La Fabrique does, indeed, have the best cookies in all of Paris, and café à emporter (that is, espresso to go) for the astounding bargain of €1.

Food picture B! My cookie caramel-beurre-salée, or caramel-butter-salt, and my lovely, warm coffee

Happily sated with our snack, we continued towards the Métro to make our way home. It just so happens that, from this neighborhood, there is an excellent view of the church Sacré-Coeur.

Sacré-Coeur tonight

There is a conservatory in the area, so a pedestrian passes music store after music store. You can purchase any instrument here, or get it fixed.

I miss my dear violin. 

These are, perhaps, a wee bit too small for playing...

I got off the Métro early, figuring there is no better way to purposefully stumble upon an adventure than leave a station having absolutely no idea where you are. Unfortunately, I never pursued this adventure because I emerged from the depths of Paris just outside the gate of a welcoming little park. Thinking I would take a peek, I stepped in, found a bench, and, my weary legs egging me on, figured I would sit and read for a moment before continuing. When the security guard came by to roust me because the park was closing, I took the Métro home.

For those of you as interested in food as I am, when my famille d'acceuil got back from their weekend at the Normandie seaside, they brought with them handfuls of fresh produce fresh from the farm, and a beautifully prepared fish fresh from the sea. Served with a side of diced potatoes and carrots, it was beautifully done. I would take a picture, but I get so excited about the food, I forget! To finish off with a Neuchâtel cheese and a crème à vanilla and a good conversation is an excellent and très français end to a meal and to a day.

Neufchâtel cheese. Yes, it is shaped like a heart.