"Some Of It's Magic, Some Of It's Tragic. But I Had A Good Life All The Way"

“He went to Paris, lookin’ for answers

to questions that bothered him so” 

Jimmy Buffet 

She went to Paris because one very special man said that she must. And another, helped her find the courage to do so alone.

Paris, in turn, broke her heart wide open.

As I rounded the corner onto Place Saint-Sulpice, my attention was immediately drawn to this carousel. “Yes” I thought to myself “I hear you. I know. Optimistic happiness always moving forward.” 

I needed that.

My “Jockey” took her sweet time (French People Time) meeting me for brunch and, perhaps, left me too much time to think. Actually, it - for certain - left me too much time to think. The carousel appeared, entirely, on cue.

Side Note: No wonder Boulevard Saint-Germain is so historically popular with the “thinking” set. It took me 45 minutes to get a glass of water. If that’s not time to think then I don’t know what. And the waiter was so adorably oblivious that, save hunger, I wasn’t really affected by the wait.

A few steps into Saint-Sulpice, I had to just sit down and allow myself to weep. The word overcome would trivialize what I felt. But allow me to fumble about a bit in attempt . . . 

Never before has a place so completely broken my heart apart and filled it with absolute and infinite passion as this one. It was as if the devotion and investment of each and every artist whose hands had given rise to it suddenly rushed into my chest at once, leaving it aching with the throb of their hearts. 

 
I think that heartbreak gets bad rap. Sure, there’s the kind that leaves you in a puddle on the bathroom floor because some idiot ripped it out with his bare hands. But there is also the sort of heartbreak that comes with beauty, art, craftsmanship. That sort of heartbreak - they just don’t make words for - in any language. I think Hemingway was on to something when he wrote “Maybe it is easier in the end to break your legs than break your heart although they say that everything breaks now and that some times, afterwards, many are stronger at the broken places.” 

Paris afforded me Two stronger places of that variety. The First, I earned at Saint-Sulpice. Later on that evening, my guides led me into THE first, down an alley, and to a table at L’Art Brut Bistrot. I left that table with The Second. 

Hemingway also declared that “Hunger is good discipline.” If that is the case, then I have been a very bad girl! The hand spun noodles at Les Pates Vivantes made the soupe de nouilles ou pates coupees aux anguilles dans un bouillon pimente, and the trois bieres that you’ll need to put out the five pepper fire, an absolute steal at 24 Euro. And the tart at Le Vélocipède where the waiter ADORABLY looked at me and inquired “poire is apple?” was beyond divine. And this (below) turned the evening into a full on crawl. 

A Toast to my Mother!  I want to show her this place one day.

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, this Maid Milked Paris for all she was worth!