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Jon is packing for our flight tomorrow, and I will do what he usually requests most when he’s packing, me to stay out of the way. Too keep me busy at something else so I don’t impede his packing mojo I’ll blog some last night thoughts from Paris.

Things I would never have known about Paris if I hadn’t come myself and seen them:

First the Parisians smoke more than any other city, or nationality, that we’ve seen. I’m told that the smoking is much less since the ban on indoor smoking, and all I can say is, if this is less smoking I can’t imagine more. Second, they drink more coffee than any city I’ve ever visited. Espresso and nicotine must be the lifeblood of the city. Third, Paris is made up of shops, lots, and lots of shops. I’ve never been anywhere where there are so many stores. There are a lot of clothing stores of all kinds and designers, but there are also art, antiquities, and you name it shops. Paris seems to run on espresso, nicotine, and shopping.

Also, I have never seen a city where you can tell at a glance that someone is native to it. Lot’s of dark, black, curly hair, and large eyes, in thin, but finely boned faces. Many are darker complected than I would have guessed, but other than that, and that more eyes are brown than blue, Jean-Claude really does look Parisian, even though his family is from farther out in the country. Though, Jean-Claude is too tall for a native Parisian. The average is around my height or no more than 5’ 10” and that’s for the men. Most of them look slender which makes them seem taller, but they aren’t. At 6’ foot Jean-Claude is very tall for here and a little broader through the shoulders which seems to be true more in the more rural areas, so it works out. Though we get paler hair and eyes in some areas of France. I am told it’s one of the countries where you can tell at a glance what province someone is from originally. Cool. I look forward to traveling more in France and finding that out at a later date for myself.

The French are very friendly, contrary to all the warnings we had. One native Frenchman said, we’d been lucky. I countered with, “We try to speak what little French we can speak, and we apologize for not speaking better. We also smile and try to be pleasant.” It’s been my experience that when you try to be friendly you get a lot more friendly back at you, then if you try to be grumpy. Call it social math, and multiply the happy. Now, we did have a few exceptions to this friendly rule. The French have taught us that, Pardon(pronounced Par-don, as in the name Donald, though the ‘o’ sound is a little more round, and soft, hard to explain, but I can say it now), accompanied with an elbow is very good for getting through crowds and making certain no one cuts in line. Remember, we learn and grow as you teach us, so be careful what you teach us.

The French drink a lot of wine. They offer wine at every meal and at dinner especially seem puzzled why we didn’t want any. Why didn’t we want any? That first dinner in Paris with my lovely French publisher, Bragelonee, was at a restaurant that specialized in wine tasting with every course. I even guessed the region of France that the first bottle of white had originated from, no one was more surprised than I was when my guess was correct. It made the nice sommelier look directly at me for all the other wine discussions, as if I would understand what she said. I did try, and I did taste the wines. The whites, the reds, the Bordeaux, the Chardonnay, and all the rest. I tasted, or drank wine with all five, or was it six, courses. That was more wine than I’d drank in years, especially at one sitting. Bear in mind we’d just arrived in France and were jet lagged. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning drinking, eating, having wonderful conversation with our new friends, and did I mention drinking? I did sip some wine here and there after that night, but nothing serious. The next morning I was reminded why I do not drink much. I didn’t have a hangover. I’ve tried with wine and vodka and so far I just don’t get them. I know, I know, I’m almost a teetotaler and it’s just unfair that I don’t get hangovers, but there it is. But wine, especially red, depresses me. The French even have a phrase for it, “Vin de tristesse”, wine of sadness. If there’s a phrase for it then I must not be the only one to have this reaction, that’s some comfort, but I was depressed, and jet lagged the next day. I could have skipped one of the two if I’d just said, no, to all that wine. Lesson relearned.

Jon is finished packing, so time for me to end this last blog from Paris, so we can go to bed. Tomorrow we have the eight hour flight home with a long layover, but I’m okay with the flight. Yes, I’m still phobic of flying, but I’m also homesick. No matter how wonderful Paris has been I miss my daughter, my dog, my friends, my house, my stuff, my office. The muse has let me know she has refreshed herself on this trip. She feels well fed and much more content then when we arrived. We both feel much better, she and I, and that’s a very good thing. The flight is the price to pay for getting to go home, it’s worth paying.