Lazy in La Frette

The weather in Paris continues to be absolutely gorgeous and I have slowed down to nearly a crawl…Can’t wait for Susan and Little Margaret to get here Tuesday morning. I need some playmates.

In the meantime my days have been punctuated by routine chores like laundry and grocery shopping. Here I am within a stone’s throw of Paris and I can’t seem to generate a head of steam to go do anything there. For one thing, I couldn’t find anything online this weekend that appealed to me. Of the 93 cinemas claiming to play English-language movies, not one title was worth spit. One would think I could’ve found a nice choral concert, or maybe a chamber ensemble. Non.

The harder I looked online for something to do, the more appealing the lounge chair in the solarium became. A lovely view of the garden, a cool beverage, a classical station wafting from my new radio...Very enticing. Who says I have to go and do anything? Can't I just be content just to "be"? Can this attitude be a product of age? Am I, god forbid, turning into my mother, gripped by inertia and content to "set" all the time??

Going into Paris would also entail driving that blasted Daewoo to the train station. I’d rather lance my own boils. So I am contenting myself with a lazy Sunday, soaking up La Frette's atmosphere and stunning sunshine.

I already subjected myself to the Daewoo torture once today to go back to the super-duper Carrefour grocery store. I found it Friday and it knocked my socks off. I was in such a sensory stupor I could barely buy a couple of pastries before limping back to the car. Today, newly regrouped and armed with a list, I was better prepared. Naturally, the store was closed. I admit to uttering a string of unladylike oaths in the parking lot.

Carrefour is a Super WalMart on steroids. I kid you not. This particular establishment, located five miles and 637 speed bumps from my house, occupies at least the same acreage as your biggest WalMart. It’s a grocery-pharmacy combo. That’s all: no clothes, no toys, no automotives. Imagine a WalMart with liquor, foods from 100 different countries, and an amped-up French bakery. The vastness and the calibre of the selections are overwhelming. I was in overload by the time I got to the oranges (imported from South Africa) on Aisle 2.

My other remarkable shopping experience occurred Friday, as well, at the farmer’s market in the next village, Herblay. It featured only local growers and producers, with some imported goodies thrown in. Homemade sausages from the hog farmer who raised the hogs they came from. Cheese made right here in France. And fresh pastries from the local baker. Yum!

So even though I’m not racing around at 120 km an hour, I’m eating well. And my reading material ain’t bad, either. I’m reading one of Mark Twain’s earliest books, Roughing It, about his adventures in the American West during the 1860s. His little travel anecdotes and observations are wry and funny and just marvellous. Who knew? Mark Twain was a blogger!

The picture shows me liberating a freshly-baked baguette from the bakeress at the Herblay market.