Last week, though, I went to Paris! It was simultaneously wonderful and not-so-great. The wonderful part was exploring the city. I had done a lot of research about different restaurants and patisseries before I left, so I got to check out a few off-the-beaten-track neighborhoods in my pursuit of them. One of the first places I went was Pierre Hermé, where I got a slice of the Ibiza, which is made up of pistachio dacquoise biscuit, almond génoise, orange mascarpone cream, turrón mousse, and crispy almond nougatine.
The nougatine was surprisingly my favorite element, not least of which because it provided a solid delivery to my mouth. Of course I decided to eat this in the Jardin du Luxembourg, which meant that not only was I that person photographing my pastry in the park, but I was also trying to eat a very fine and complex piece with my fingers. I'm sure no one else cared, or at least didn't seem to notice, since they all looked like this:
The weather was quite good the entire time and the sunlight at this time of year is some of my absolute favorite. I went on a boat cruise around 4pm and the light was so good I wanted to whoop. But I didn't.
I also went to Ladurée (I love their website), where I had to restrain myself to only six macarons. I had the woman select for me, so I ended up with orange blossom, chocolate, pistachio, red fruits, caramel with salted butter, and lemon. Next time I would probably try for more exotic flavors, but these were all quite lovely and luckily just this side of sweet. The red fruit was probably my favorite because the flavor was so concentrated and spot on.
Plus now I have a super cute Ladurée box to keep my bobby pins in.
I had dinner the first night at La Bastide de Odéon, where I had eggplant millefeulle (flavorful, but lacking any texture), roast chicken (delicious), and roast figs (too sweet, but not bad). I would gladly go back there. The next night I was too tired to go to dinner where I intended, so I got a hamburger and beer at a cafe near my hotel. The last night, I had dinner at Aux Lyonnais. I guess I must've accidentally reserved a table for two, so there was a fairly long wait between when I was seated and when the server came to check on me. He was apologetic for the mix-up, even though it was my fault, and was incredibly kind the rest of the evening. Maybe he pitied me a little. I had a charcuterie plate to start, and if you know me, you know I'm a huge fan of cured meat. I even got my own brown jug of cornichons with a special pair of wooden tongs to retrieve them. I felt like a jerk for not finishing the plate, though. For the main I made a dumb rookie mistake and ordered calf's liver. This was a mistake because I saw the word for calf and thought I was getting veal or steak, so was quite surprised when I cut into the meat. I'm not sure how the word "foie" did not clue me in on this. However, it was a fortunate mistake because it was very good. I haven't had calf liver before, so I have nothing to which I can compare it, but the flavor was at least on par with the better steaks I've had. I also had a few glasses of the Beaujoulais Nouveau, which had been released just less than a week prior. I am too lazy to do full reviews of any of these places, and there's no dearth of people willing to do so, but I would still enthusiastically recommend them. One day I also had a crepe that was filled with a fried egg and a big piece of chicken. That was undoubtedly one of the best things I've eaten, although my extreme hunger might've had something to do with it. Also the best falafel I've ever had came from L'As du Fallafel in Marais. So messy, but so good.
When I wasn't wandering outside in the perfect light or stuffing my face full of croissants (an absurd amount, believe me), I spent most of my time in museums. I made it to the Louvre, Musée d'Orsay, and the Musée de l'Orangerie. I'd intended to get to the Pampidou, also, but I spent that money on the boat cruise. Sometimes real life can be better than art.
At the Orangerie I came across some Matisse paintings that startled me with how much they resonated with me. I'd always thought it odd that for as ubiquitous women are in paintings, I never saw myself in many, if any, of them. This, though, was something.
What I found particularly striking about this piece and its neighbors is how evocative I found the eyes, despite their real lack of definition. In a certain way, more attention is given to the violin or even the wallpaper than to the eyes, which are barely even dashes or dabs, but something significant is captured in them. The sense I have of this is the same of what I imagine my own eyes to have, that if someone were to look into them they'd see everything trapped inside me that I simultaneously seek to express and withdraw. A sort of articulation of the inarticulability of inarticulability. I guess that weird Frenchman/would-be-seducer on the street did try to look deeply into my eyes, but that is a different story.
I guess the not-so-great part was that I was on my own. In part this was itself wonderful. It inspired a kind of confidence and self-reliance that I haven't felt in quite some time. Navigating a huge city in a language one doesn't speak is quite intimidating. If I had been with another person, I could've tried a lot more food, or at least have talked with someone while I ate. Actually, it was awfully lonely sometimes. Still, it was good to be forced to deal with myself for a few days.
And now I'm back in Freiburg. The other day I walked near the area where I'd lived the last time I was here. I hadn't yet been back to my old neighborhood, and it was a bit jarring how immediately it seemed like no time had passed at all. In the three and a half years since I'd left, the music on my ipod is basically the same, I wear many of the same clothes, and I still feel homesick in the same way. But I realized how proud I am actually to be doing what I spent months at that time applying to be doing. I'm at one of my first choice schools, writing (well, supposed to be at any rate) my dissertation in philosophy. I am doing exactly what I imagined myself to be doing, and what's perhaps more important, I'm happy doing it.
Then I see blog posts like this one and wonder whether I am really happy, or happy being a coward.
