Every day in Paris, Ken and I overloaded our minds and benumbed our feet.
Exhausted, we trudged back to our apartment in the St. Germaine district. One late afternoon, looking forward to a hot shower and a soft chair, we approached our blue door, punched in the code and pushed the door. It did not open. Locked out.
We were relieved to see our landlord, Ivan, walk up. Fortunately he lived in the building and was as eager as we were to get in. He suggested we go to nearby Mariage Freres and have some tea while we waited for an electrician to come and fix things. We dawdled over tea and cakes until 5:30, then pulled out the cell phone and called Ivan. “Not yet,” he said, “Why not have dinner?” So we walked back to “our” cafe at the corner near our apartment and ordered the best French fries in the world, and hot chocolate, and later soup and salad.
Finally, the lock was fixed and we could go “home.”
The next morning, a perplexed resident was trying to open the door as we went out. The electrician just thought he had fixed the problem. What did we care? We felt so at home that we gave a Parisian shrug. We went to “our” grocery store, bought Brie and pears and headed for “our” park, with a few stops at “our” galleries and bookstores along the way.
The name of the landlord has been changed.