Day 3: Green Wine, Fish, and Gooey Cheese

Woke up late...whoops those 20 miles yesterday really got to me. To update, the breakfast of champions has been revised: toasted baguette with butter, yum. Hold on, I take that back. I mean, come on, it’s french butter. So really, I should be saying "yum YUM!"

My feet were utterly destroyed from yesterday (see Day 2 post for clarification) so we took the metro to assuage the bulging blisters. We aren’t masochists here.

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Arriving close to Reid Hall where class is going to be, we stopped at a small café on the corner to read the long and extensive lectures so as not to fall behind later. At least that was the intention. People watching is like a communicable disease, it is infectious and fascinating in all respects.

One café (i.e. one espresso), no sugar of course, reading and an hour and a half later, we left for Reid Hall, a beautiful little sanctuary just around the corner. Behind baby blue doors sits a modest courtyard with pure white walls, trapping the light and illuminating the surrounding peaceful greenery. Our "atelier journalistique" with Balla Fofana of the journal Libération commenced and we received our metro passes. Yippee...no more blisters, or at least that is what I'll have you think.

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The new stress for the day. Finding a random Parisian in the park or some equivalent and speaking with them for thirty minutes. An utter stranger and an apprehensive American student. Imagine that. Un portrait is what this is referred to in French from a journalistic point of view. A feature would be the equivalent. Am I nervous to approach random French people to complete the task; that is for you to decide and for me to feel.

The Luxembourg Gardens were the place to think this task through. Not for long though because the wind kicked in and went piercing through my denim jacket.

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Walking home should not be too long we thought... Dinner in a few hours...some time for a nice late-afternoon stroll from the 6ème to the 7ème. To the river first was the goal to then trace back to the apartment. A beautiful little bookstore was on this corner close the gardens called Le Point Traversé. Full of old French books, there were subjects ranging from les Beaux-arts, to Mai 68, to erotica. What more could be asked for?

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Now, I said we were not masochists. Apparently I lied. The walk back was long and, let me tell you, my feet and legs were feeling it. Not as long as yesterday, but another 10 miles were racked up.

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Dinner was served by the gracious hosts, quiche à la Lorraine, légumes, pommes de terres cuites, et le poission. Served with green Portuguese wine that my partner in crime brought from islands off of Portugal and cheese to top it all off from the same set of islands.

À la française.