A French Morning

I slept too much yesterday so found myself waking up at 6:30 this morning. Leaving a note for Anna on my pillow and throwing on dirty jeans I headed outside to grab breakfast. I was actually up before “la boulangerie” even opened. I decided to go looking for “un supermarché” because I knew Anna likes orange juice in the mornings and we didn’t buy it when we last went grocery shopping. The Boy Roommate had said there were lots of food shops in the neighborhood. I found one, but the manager (I could tell since he was wearing a suit and taking in a delivery) said it didn’t open until 8:30am. I decided to walk, and I walked for blocks and blocks all through the Left Bank. I started to look for a toilet. The newspaper man outside the Musée d’Orasay said there wasn’t one near-by because the museum was closed, the man in the “brasserie” said there was one next door, obviously sending me to another bar/café, finally I found one in a “un tabac” a lower class bar that also sold cigarettes. Thinking I was running late, since I wanted to be back to the room around the time Anna’s alarm went off at 9:00, I hurried back west. Of course I got lost because the streets here don’t run even close to parallel. When I finally made it back to the supermarket, it still wasn’t open, I must have read the initial clock wrong. I had problems communicating with the people there; figuring out when time it was and what time it was going to be open, even though they spoke English. I went around the corner to sit in a “brasserie” to wait out the next half hour. All the guidebooks tell you that it is cheaper to get things at the bar, and that there are different prices for a table inside and outside. This is so very true. There was a chart on the door with the prices for the different locations. Thankfully I found a bar stool and drank my “cappuccino” and “café au lait” over the next half hour. I couldn’t believe the number of people who ordered alcohol at 8:00 in the morning. I people watched and drooled over the hot bartender. Six Euro later, the equivalent of about nine Canadian dollars, I finally returned to the grocery store and bought the orange juice, which wasn’t stocked yet and had to ask a guy to get some “sans pulpe”. Then I headed to my bakery with considerably less money. After telling the lady “Je suis pauvre ce matain” she informed me I could at get “tois croissant ordinaire” for my “deux, quarante quater.” I made it home at the perfect time, with sore feet from the flip flops and hyped up on caffeine.