What do you want to do today?
Nothing.
And so we did nothing. Much.
The day started like this one. Me up first, classical music on the radio, coffee made, and clickity-click-click on the MacBook.
When she woke from the sleep of the dead we meandered out into the garden and had a smoke and lamented that we weren’t in Versailles being served.
Even if we do nothing at some point we need to go get bread and butter.
Bread of the traditional baguette variety and butter have become staples in our diet. We usually buy two; one for the evening nibbles and the other for breakfast.
Okay, but that’s a problem for later.
I have to find out where the hell our trash goes.
There was some vague instructions left by our host about a green door at the end of our corridor being where we go to take our trash. Problem is, there is no green door. We have a door-woman, allegedly, who speaks English. Problem with that is that she is NEVER AROUND. So I have two small bags of garbage in the kitchen and no place to put it.
Fortunately, I ran into a gentleman getting onto the elevator on my third hunt for the this mysterious door-woman. Between my broken French and his passable English I was able to discover the location of the mystery trash bins. Problem solved.
I wish laundry were so easy.
We have one of those washer/dryer single units. A small German machine with French instructions. Fuck.
It took a little over three hours to get one load done because the first manual I found online was for a machine like ours, but not ours. So the instructions were close, but not quite right. Eventually, I got it figured out – sure, there was some cussing and yelling at the inanimate little German machine. I may have blamed it for two world wars and an aurally painful language.
Here’s the thing, kids. Even when it works as designed, your laundry still comes out damp. Fortunately, we have these awesome radiators that I could lay things on and they were done drying in short order.
Laundry is a fucking process in Paris.
I needed a smoke break.
A day spent doing nothing more than cussing out a washing machine, watching MSNBC, and contemplating whether I really needed to bathe.
I decided against the bathing, but we did have to put on something other than our jimmie-jammies to get baguettes! We walked out the back entrance of our apartment and were greeted by a classical violinist playing on our sidewalk. This fucking city.
I left her a couple of euros, took a quick video (you can find it on my insta: roodie_martinez), and we walked on to the bakery. Smiling because this fucking city.
We have visited three artisanal bakeries in our short time here. I was informed that artisanal matters because they use old timey ways of making stuff and… well, I stopped listening. All I know is that we finally settled in on a bakery to call our own for the remainder of the short time we’ll be here in the 16th. So we got our baguettes, our butter, and some wine.
Headed home, ate some dinner and settled in for an evening of trash television about zombies and the French Revolution.
At one point we went out for a night smoke and I looked up. I have a habit of always looking up. Then I saw it. The light from the Eiffel Tower overhead.
Laundry was done. Garbage was out. Smokey smokes were smoked. Zombies were slain.
Let’s go to bed.
Okay.
Postscript – I want to thank everyone who reached out to us yesterday after the attack at the train station. We were still asleep when it happened and are perfectly safe. That you cared enough to take the time from your day to check on us is touching. Thank you for loving us so well.
