We overslept on our last morning in Paris, so we didn't have time to have for a decadent breakfast at the boulangerie a few blocks away. We had our tea, yogurt, croissants and jam, butter, and cheese in our hotel as usual, and I took for a quick walk on the Rue Bonaparte and the Pont des Arts before the van came to take us to the airport.
Photos, formerly even more blue:
Rue Bonaparte on a cold, quiet morning.
Palais des Études of the Ecole Nationale Supérieur des Beaux-Arts.
It's their Mass College of Art, in other words.
Elderly bicycle for sale by art student. Below the number, someone scrawled,
"Combien?" I was curious to know, myself.
A taxidermied deer peers from an art gallery on the Rue Bonaparte.
Classic café on the corner, across from the Seine.
The Pont des Arts, a wooden footbridge.
There's always something going on....
Path along the Seine.
Georges le Clooney. Made me melancholy for Possum,
as there's a great facial resemblance. But then I'm
perpetually melancholy for Possum in Paris.
Something was going on, as usual, on the bridge.
A team shooting an Eastern European movie
featuring a handsome guy in 18th-century dress.
Love the red shoes.
Another Frenchwoman in a poncho.
I saw a van parking in front of the hotel so I raced back. It wasn't ours. Phew. A few more minutes to enjoy the 6th Arrondissement.
The courtyard view from our hotel room.
(Looking kind of blue.)
The staircase to the lobby.
(Camera cheers up because it knows we're going home?)
The foyer, with tapestry, Venetian chandelier, and luggage.
The airport was a mob scene; in the messy lines, people were remarking that they had never seen it so crowded and chaotic. We stood in long lines to check in, check our baggage, check passports, and then go through security. And, of course, we also waited to take a train to the gate. Our plane was boarding when we got to the gate; no time to spend my Euro change on chocolate in the duty-free shops.
The obligatory screaming baby was about five seats away. I exchanged bemused expressions and raised eyebrows with the man on the aisle, next to the baby. (I think at one point he found himself holding it while it yelled, although he was clearly no relation.)
Our last tastes of Paris were the apple tarts and baguette sandwiches we'd bought instead of airline food, along with a very squashed but still magnificent day-old pistachio éclair. Then I settled down to read A Tale of Two Cities and try to sleep. After an eternity of discomfort and screaming-baby ambience, we landed, came home, greeted cats, unpacked, tried to sleep, and...Began the South Beach Diet.
So much for Paris...