I woke up on Sunday in a panic. I was convinced that all the stores would be closed. In Bordeaux, this certainly is the case. Many a times Fred and I walked around the centre de ville in a circle bored, but not hungry for we knew there would be a delicious home cooked meal waiting for us at his parents' house. But, we are in Paris. And Bordeaux is 300 miles away. I was terrified that I might starve to death. My stomach began to rumble, I felt weak. My mind sped ahead to dinner time and I pictured myself limp on the floor. Fred tried to persuade me that in Paris there would be food, somewhere. Even if it meant eating at Quick, France’s answer to McDonald’s (although they have plenty of McDo’s [“Mack Dough”] too. The other day, I thought I was watching a drug deal go-down, as we got closer I saw it was just a group of guys gathered around a McDonald’s bag).
As I made the coffee (I figured the caffeine would suppress my appetite), Fred journeyed down the stairs intent on returning with a croissant beurre and a chocolatine. A few moments later, I heard huffing and puffing at our door, at this point, I wasn’t afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, I figured I’d eat him (hey, I’m in France now, remember ?!?). But it was Fred -- tired from walking back up the four flights of stairs (we don’t have an elevator, which is why we feel we can eat butter and chocolate croissants, daily). Clutched tightly in his beautiful hand was a pastry bag, soaked through with the butter from my flaky, warm croissant. Oh, France, I love you!