Paris Diaries:Remembrance of Things Past
So after thoroughly refreshing myself with a citron presse, I headed down Rue de L'Opera, which is beautiful. The first time I walked down this street, I bought my mother and myself perfume, found out that Starbucks had corrupted the French, tasted the second best chocolate in the world, had a lovely plate of cheese and encountered the famously idiosyncratic french sense of humor.

Like most people, I am easily seduced by the comfort of repetition and so I found myself on Rue de L'Opera with the plan to buy my mother more perfume and buy myself more chocolate. I casually strolled into the perfume store to be hugged and kissed by the lovely Parisian perfumer who first suggested I go to Starbucks. She was there and recognized me quite fondly. And, of course, sold me some more Eau de Merveilleuse. I was as surprised by how happy she was to see me as the other clerks were. She told them quickly I was from NY and how nice I am. (Yep, nice. That's me. Nice.) I'm not sure what I expected when I went back there, but I wasn't expecting her or the greeting.

Later I contemplated who else in Paris would actually remember me from that trip? Henri, of course. Any of those men I left stranded all over the place? The artist from outside of Sacre Couer? The badly kissing musician with the tarot cards? I had wondered how different I was from the first time on trip over? Was I not as adventurous this time? Too bound by my guide? (I was slowly abandoning resources-the city walks cards, the food lover's guide to Paris, the restaurant recommendations in the Eyewitness guide) Too bound by the past?

But here was someone who remembered me, who hadn't seen me in two years. Who hugged me.

This is why I come to Paris. Because everything there seems surreal and odd. I wake up not quite feeling like I am where I am. Or who I am. It's kind of like going down the Rabbit Hole while on acid impersonating yourself. It's no accident the French produced plays like Ubu Roi, playwrights like Genet, and an artistic movement called Dadaism.

I bought the perfume, hugged the clerk again and promised to see her again soon before proceeding down the street to A Cote Du France. When you are Paris, only buy chocolate that you can smell several feet away through a sealed door. Aside from a box of truffles for my mother, I purchased some little chocolates for myself. But A Cote Du France should be put down in the history books as selling the best chocolate rabbits in the history of the world.

And I'm not talking about those foil wrapped chocolate rabbits that Godiva makes. The smell of fine chocolate doesn't emanate from them after they are unwrapped and practically stuck up your nose. I wouldn't dare consider even nibbling on the tails of those rabbits.

The chocolate rabbits at A Cote du France are not just crafted from quality milk chocolate. No these rabbits are filled with an orgasm inducing hazelnut praline paste that will make heavenly ambrosia seem like rancid swill. I have it on good authority that God actually orders his chocolate rabbits from there.

I don't blame him.

If you only have a few hours in Paris, go to the Louvre and then run madly down Rue de L'Opera and get one of these little buggers. Sure every other piece of chocolate will only be a sad reminder of this pleasure now departed, but you will know what it is to taste something sublime.

Proust can keeps his madeleines. I'm in it for the chocolate.

By this time, I was again, quite tired. I headed down the street to the Metro so I could wash up before dinner.

I began to wonder as the metro rattled out of the station, "Ou sont les hommes?" After all one thing had very distinctly changed since the last time in Paris: My popularity with the men.

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I Swear
Soon there will be more Paris posts. Really.

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