How about the second day?

Sabrina? What if it rains the second day in Paris, is that okay? More like a drizzle, though hard enough when I first looked out that people hurrying to work carried umbrellas. By the time I walked along the Seine (stopping at the Pont d'Arcole to--well, watch the river, always, but also noticing the mark on the wall, showing how high the water got in the flood of 1910--to the top, essentially) it was just fine mist in the wind. It had been enough to bring down some of the golden leaves along the rue de Cloître de Notre Dame. At the flower market the vendors were busy finally putting their wares outside the covered greenhouse spaces. By the time I came out of the Crypt Archéologique the sun was out.

(Nerd Alert) That having been highly recommended by both Shannon and the Access Paris edition here in the apartment (there’s a whole shelf of various guide books, in addition to my Lonely Planet I lugged from home), but really—the place had me at the word “archéologique.” Not ONLY are the massive Roman wall, the foundations of buildings from the Roman period up through the medieval and later periods, remains of a hypocaust, and part of the first stone quai visible—there are scale models of Paris at different periods in its history! (I don’t know what’s so fascinating about miniatures, like doll houses: is it the control and manageability? In this sort of case, having a three-dimensional birds-eye illustration?) Nerd happy dance! There it is in the early 18th century, with all the buildings still crowded around Notre Dame. There it is with the wall of Philippe Auguste, and under the Romans, with the impressive forum and all the baths and the theater and amphitheater. And there it is in the beginning, taken all the way back (yes!), the little settlement of the Parisii, mainly on the islands (of which there were still three), surrounded by open country, forest—hills. The Butte de Montmartre being the highest, but also the sort of ridge that became Belleville, Montparnasse, Mt. Ste. Geneviève, Chaillot . . . And (Louisiana folk will relate) a wide former branch of the Seine, that had reached almost to the foot of Montmartre, was still basically wetland (hence the Marais, toward the eastern end, that apparently remained marshy the longest). Sigh. Love getting back to the bones.

In the afternoon, having been stood up time number 2, cooked, with okay results from the typical fumbling around in a new kitchen, discovering a skillet didn’t have a lid, etc. Then walked, in that breezy sun, around the Latin Quarter a little, hit another Franprix for a few more provisions, and went into Shakespeare and Company. It’s a bit overwhelming at first: really small and crammed and busy, and yet—talk about drowning happily in books. Though it’s already somewhat jolting to pass through a door into some place where everyone is speaking English. I stood for a minute or two apologetically blocking a minuscule passageway, where all the “roommate wanted” and “language/music lessons” and upcoming events seemed to be posted higgledy-piggledy (me with my little canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out like a sheathed weapon); frankly, I think it’s easier to find what might be going on there online. I did stand for another couple of minutes spot-reading through a copy of Golding’s The Spire, which I had read decades ago—seemed eerily apropos.

As it was getting dark, having been stood up (by phone, with explanation at least) time number 3, went for a stroll instead of drinks, around and about the Ile St. Louis. With excellent New Orleans jazz from three street musicians back on Cité trailing after me, and puzzling over some sort of installation going up on the Pont St. Louis. Watched a couple of dogs being walked down by the water interact (like dogs, duh—the big blond one standing very still, the hyper smaller black one getting all in its face and hopping around, once it had insisted they be allowed to meet). Took a few photos. Stumbled across Berthillon, which I’d intended to visit—sometime, but hadn’t thought would still be open. Very nice. Very sedate. Cones aren’t allowed inside, where I chose to sit, and you must have two scoops (Nougat au Miel and Créole). And it’s very, very good—but, say, Brocato’s in New Orleans, or Alba’s in Brooklyn, are easily in the same league, plus with more interesting and longer pedigrees. So there.