At the end of September, I rather impulsively decided that F and I should sign up to do a semi-marathon. A bit of a wacky idea considering I am hardly the model jogger/runner, while F would dutifully head out once a week for a good hour or so; I’d do so about once every 2-3 weeks, not to mention I’m also more likely to do a shorter route. Honestly, I’m really not great at self-discipline when it comes to sports/fitness-related activities. Just ask C about my “standing pool date” with her…
In any case, I have time to work at training, no? Afterall, March seems so far away, even if I’ve started drawing up all kind of potential training programme etc. And the sheet of paper is now sitting right underneath a big pile of papers that I’m supposed to read for work. Training three times a week – hah, who am I kidding? Instead, time is ticking away and I still manage to weasel my way out of weekend jogging sessions with F.
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My first year in Paris, I used to meet up with A most Sunday to go together to the market at Auguste Blanqui (13ème). Since I moved to the 6ème and subsequently the 15ème, the market trips have become infrequent. There are a number of markets within walking distance that I could go to at the weekends, but somehow I didn’t. I love going to the market; I’m just not there as often as I’d like.
I guess playing house with a partner does change one’s shopping habit. Any week that there are not enough fresh produce to last till weekend, or too much that it runs through past weekend into a new midweek, means we would be topping up our purchase elsewhere. Or sometimes, there are just household item shortages that necessitate visits to the supermarket so while we are there, why not get the grocery too to save some time?
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This is one place, or more accurately, national park which needs very little introduction. The famous five Ligurian villages – Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore (from north to south) – interspersed along the rocky coastline of the Riviera di Levante have been written up and photographed by many, and here I am, with my meager personal contribution about these overly-revered villages.
F and I had rented quite possibly the smallest AirBnB room in Vernazza (cosier than Parisian budget hotel rooms, if it is at all possible), at the street level, so we could not open the wooden shutter without everyone looking in while we enjoyed the privilege of hearing every conversation in passing. It was conveniently located for us to explore the area but you can also see why it was tough for us to air the enchanting “eau de pied” when our hiking boots were off!
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The rain just wouldn’t let up. We were supposed to roam the famous market that lined the streets of the old town and canals of Annecy, but we ended up staying in for a grasse mat’ and read in bed. Eventually, we had to brave the weather and headed out, since we had a lunch reservation at La Ciboulette. We took the long way round so we could at least catch a glimpse of the market.
Slightly drenched after our walk, we stepped into a visibly posh restaurant with opulent interior, charming paintings, antique decorative pieces, and actual silver salt-and-pepper shakers and butter dish awaited us at the table which we were assigned. The couple at our neighbouring table were clearly in celebratory mood: a bottle of champagne with two long-stem flutes had just been brought over by the sommelier.
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We had a festive Easter weekend chez mes beaux-parents, partly because it was, well, Easter, and partly because we were there to celebrate several family events in one fell swoop. F’s mum impressively prepared most of the feast for some 30-odd people herself and topped it up with a couple of specially ordered deli dishes, while F’s dad was in charge of the wine and champagne selection. Not much for the rest of us to do really, except to help setting up the place prior to guests’ arrival.
While I assisted with the set up, I also couldn’t help but snuck a few photos and here. Just as well, because everyone else who were there ended up taking tons of people shots and none of the decors. My belle-mère was delighted to have some pictures to show off the fruits of her labour. On the other hand, isn’t it terrible that once guests started arriving, I became sort of a shrinking violet and stopped playing photograher?
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Blasphemous as it sounds, I do not like the taste of Guinness. All the years living in Ireland didn’t help me personally in terms of taste acquirement. I admit to a twinge of jealousy when observing Erasmus students and other visitors – F included! – taking to it quickly and could declare the pint in Ireland as the best they’ve had.
A clever idea came not so long ago. Like mothers who slyly hide peas and brussel sprouts so the kids would eat them, I thought using Guinness as a cake ingredient could be a neat trick in improving how I perceive the taste of Guinness. With St Patrick’s round the corner, I even have the perfect excuse to whip the cake up without the guilt (or the worry) of eating it all by myself.
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Here’s a word I’m not sure if it’s in the French dictionary – my mini French-English dictionary doesn’t have it – since it’s largely a slang: kif-kif. It basically means (all) the same, or alike. Something that is kif-kif really doesn’t have much importance one way or the other. I must admit it’s not an easy “word” to try to convey through photos, but then again, there are not many words in French starting with K in the first place, and they’re also not easy to photograph over 7 days without all looking the same! (See, back to kif-kif) ;)
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10 Mar: In this small tarterie, it seems all tarts are made equal. Pick any two savoury tarts, plus a drink, and they’re yours for less than €8. It also inevitably reminded me of Mouff’Tarte, my favourite tarterie before it suddenly closed down over Christmas break a couple of years back. When I came back to Paris in the new year, another café had taken over the shop space. People may say a tart is a tart is a tart, but I’m saying no, some tarts are more superior than others.
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We are lucky that there are gardens and parks everywhere in Paris. For a major city, it is quite green and often colourful. And to the gardening enthusiasts, even small apartment sizes are no deterrent. They work their magical green fingers to nurture something on their balconies and their rooftops. Annually, there are even special open days where public could meet the gardeners of major parks for chit-chat and tips exchange!
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3 Mar: Sure sign of spring, right? We’re starting to spot birds other than pigeon coming out from hiding, chirping away happily, and some would even try to follow us around with cute little expression which says “feed me”. We could do with more foliage on the trees though, since they’re still looking a little bare. Can’t wait for the warmer and longer days. I need more daylight, please!
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Oh yeah, I have about a gazillion (well, it feels like it) unfinished stuff that I would like to wrap up, but there isn’t really a reset button in life where you can press and clear the whole lot in one go to start completely fresh and anew. And perhaps to take on less so each can be completed in good time. How do we, realistically, decide between being ambitious so to do it all and being pragmatic so to be selective?
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24 Feb: The top part of this medieval city gate of Porte St Martin gleams but the remaining looks like it had seen better days. I had initially thought this is the outcome of unfinished restoration/cleaning work, but upon a small research, it seems I am wrong. The two-tone schema is brought about by the difference in materials used, marble vs limestone. The marble certainly keeps its shine better than the limestone that absorbs much of the pollutants in the air.
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I tried to Swype “heureux” on my phone once when I had forgotten to change the language setting accordingly. It came back with the suggestions of “heiress”, “heretic”, “heroes”, which amused me to no end. Happy, also the title of the crazy catchy song that everyone’s dancing to, is an amazingly difficult word for me to pronounce in French, but who cares? Just because I can’t say it like a native, it doesn’t mean I’m not. Happy, that is. Not only that, it makes F laugh, because it’s cute. ;)
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17 Feb: To walk about Paris by night and see the flickering lights reflected in the Seine always lifts me up. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it. There’s of course a big element of admiration on top of the feeling of being privileged to live in such a beautiful city. If you’d told me when I was young that I’d be destined to call Paris home one day, I would have laughed at its absurdity. It seemed rather unattainable back then, with the language and the culture divide. Now, as I set my roots, I hope to conquer them.
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