LETTER FROM PARIS #30 - not everything is roses.

My reputation as a cranky misanthrope is at stake. I spent years honing my image as a curmudgeon. At least that has always been the perception, and I don’t deny that I dined out on it. But for the past few weeks I seem to have been in a state of thrall. I dance merrily from one joyful experience to the next. Nothing in Paris seems to be wrong.

True, during my first week or so, I oozed some of my usual acidity, but I soon recovered enough equilibrium to see more of the sunny side. But things have taken a turn and I think I’d better get it off my chest right now, before I return to lyric albeit sometimes fulsome praise

The latest shock to my Francophilia came when I tasted what we had brought home from our “favourite” boulangerie. Shirley and I have been doing that most difficult of restraints: trying not to overindulge in treats. Yesterday we threw it all away in one mad, caloric tumble. All we wanted when we went in, was a baguette. We walked out with: two scrumptious looking millefeuilles, two flaky sugary palmiers, a confection slathered in slivered almonds, and a little bag of sugary beignets. Having overeaten at lunch, we limited ourselves to a munch or two of this forbidden pastry instead of dinner. (We are discovering that the French custom of having a larger lunch does indeed lead to much less indulgence at dinner, sometimes to the point of not having any.) Meanwhile, the millefeuille is supposed to flake apart in puff-pastry goodness. It didn’t. The crust was like a graham cracker. The beignets were like ordinary little buns dusted too lightly with sugar and the palmier – my very favourite sugary delight – simply less than ordinary.

What is happening? Are we getting accustomed to excellence and refusing to settle for less? Is the sheen wearing off?

There have been other levels where I have had to give my undying affection a downgrade. I was unforgivably late for a doctor’s appointment at Hopital Saint Louis. I got lost on the Metro. Arriving more than an hour late I found of course, the doctor had left. The best thing I could say about the nurse who dismissed my anguish was that she was haughtily indifferent. Suggested I wait downstairs. If she had checked she would have known that the doctor had not just gone for lunch. He had left for the day.

On the Metro a few days earlier, where politeness seems to overwhelm us, Shirley and I were in a crush to board an almost full car. She, because of her newly bad hip, walking with a cane, was simply crowded off to one side by a young man whose eagerness to board exceeded his concern about this slightly impaired lady. We did get on. I was angry. In French I said: “Did you not see the cane?” He gave me no response. Not a twitch. Not a murmur. He just stared straight ahead.

I gave this a lot of thought/. Should I be getting cranky in Paris? Shouldn’t I also remember the jolly waiter at Brasserie Neil who seemed startled that I was surprised that the label on my demi of red wine said – in Hebrew script – kosher for Passover? I didn’t realize until that moment that the place was packed for a huge brunch and that most of the patrons seemed to be Jewish.

How about that the pretty young woman who, with more than enough smiling patience, kept bringing shoes out for Shirley so she could finally make her decision. The girl could only, and did only – smile.

Maybe I’ll get the idea. Paris is Paris and while it is chic and clever and boisterously French, it can be rude and thoughtless. I think I’m over my cranky spell. And the roses are everywhere, growing with the speed of weeds, arching over the arbours on our boulevard. I can;t stop taking pictures.

This week – Normandy.