Sunday Shopping

The sun is still shining, but that doesn't mean we can shed the layers yet.  In fact yesterday was nearly as cold as it had been back in January, but the blessed sun was blazing in a pure blue sky and we decided it was time to go back to the Sunday street market at Bastille and stock up on food.  It's been months since we were there and I craved the sight of fresh vegetables and fruit, shining fish and spring flowers.

Pulling our wheeled market basket behind us, we walked to the bus stop where any one of three buses would take us directly to the market in 10 minutes, but we hadn't counted on the effect of the Paris Marathon, which crossed the bus route and thus cancelled the buses for much of the day.  We'd been eating out for more than a week and were determined to do some cooking this week and I had my heart set on the bounty of the market, so down into the metro we went.  After lots of stairs and corridors, and one transfer, we emerged into the Place de la Bastille at last.  It was clear that we couldn't return the same way once our basket was full.

I had forgotten how much fun shopping this way is, moving down the rows, dodging old ladies and meandering tourists to reach the vendors I liked.  A bit of this, a slice of that, un morceau of the other, a kilo of those and half a kilo of these and we were ready for a coffee.  Sitting in the Place, looking out at the traffic and the passing pedestrians while sipping a hot café crême was an accessible bit of heaven.  Just a lot colder than I thought heaven would be.

Oh, the buses began running again just as we were ready to leave.  Heaven's transportation works.

Bits and Pieces

Got up yesterday and decided to go out to breakfast, so we walked over to BHV to return something and to have our coffee and croissant at le Pain Quotidien, a Belgian chain that is a big hit in Paris and is now all over the world, including the US.  We've occasionally been getting croissants from the local boulangeries but haven't found one we liked.  Pain Quotidien's flaky, fresh, beautiful croissant is the one we've been looking for.  Luckily it's not just around the corner; that would be way too dangerous.

Oh, and the weekly report on service at BHV?  Still good.  This time the woman actually spoke English to help Gene out.  Without being asked.  She seemed to be enjoying it.

               

The sky continues to look like this and we continue to marvel at how lucky we are to have this weather.

We've been taking buses when we aren't walking because the Bastille area is a hub for a lot of lines and because it's just more fun, particularly when you're not in a hurry.

You see a lot from the slightly elevated perspective of the bus.  Who would have known that the tops of many lampposts have crowns made of castles?

And how very picturesque the entrances to municipal buildings can be?

And as for those little space invaders that turn up high on the walls of buildings all over town?  They come in peace.

       

The Customer is Sometimes Right

I had always heard that the term customer service in France was a joke, and that the latter was never offered to the former. Horror stories of standing in long lines, of being sent from one person to another to a third, of being told that it was impossible to do whatever it is that needs doing are part of the folklore. I'm hoping writing this won't jinx us, but we've had excellent service so far.

We bought a teapot at a little shop in the neighborhood last week and the first time I used it all the water leaked out onto the counter. On closer examination there was a hairline crack where the spout met the pot. We decided to take it back to the store and see what the response would be. It wasn't very expensive so the expected "nothing we can do" wouldn't be too painful.

The man behind the counter listened to my "petite problem", took the pot, got another one from the shelf, went to the back and returned with the new pot filled with water. He tested it for leakage. None. He poured the water into the old pot. It leaked. He took both backstage, returned with the new one, wiped it dry, and then said the first thing he had said to us during the entire process. "Excusez-nous, madam, s'il vous plait." He then wished us a good day and said au revoir.

Sure, it could have been a fluke. But we've had two occasions to go to the Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville (BHV, as it's known) to look for some housewares and each time we met pleasant salespeople who directed us to what we needed, took time to tell us the name of the thing we were looking for when we didn't know it, explained the options, pointed out pros and cons, and wished us a good day. Yes, there were one or two perfunctory folks, but this is BHV, people, this is the place I'd been told was especially designed to make you crazy. The French must be losing their touch.

There's a bus that runs only on Sundays and holidays called the Balabus (in Yiddish this would mean the head of the house, but somehow I don't think that's why they call it that...just a guess.) The route covers a lot of famous sights. It happens to stop in the Place de la Bastille and we took it, just for the ride. Sitting up high, looking out at the gorgeous monuments and the Seine sparkling in the sun was a hell of a way to make up for the missing Sunday New York Times.

You find lots of interesting things right in our very own neighborhood, too.