Feeling over-Impressioned by your Parisian museum visits? Then I've got a recommendation for you: The Musée National de Moyen Age (National Museum of the Middle Ages) combines the ruins of 1st through 3rd-century Roman baths with the 15th-century residence of the abbots of Cluny and showcases tapestries, ceramics, stained glass, paintings, and other medieval arts and crafts.

In October, November, January and February there are free concerts (by which I mean free with your museum admission of €5,50) on Fridays at 12:30 PM and Saturdays at 4 PM. On January 31, 2003 and February 1, 2003 the selection will be Musique au temps de Jeanne d'Arc, or music from the era of Joan of Arc. I think I'd enjoy that very much.

This afternoon, we enjoyed the middle age compositions of Guillame de Machaut. Sitting amongst 13th-century stone heads of the Kings of Judah while listening to the work of a 14th-century musician being produced by a strange assortment of medieval intruments (one flute-like object looked like a ram's horn) was as close as I've come to time-travel in quite some time. If only a comely lass had arrived with a cup of mead…

New favorite snack (merci a Dean): take a Gala apple and slice it up. Take a slice of apple and spread a thin layer of fresh creamy Roquefort cheese across one side. Eat up. Repeat. I think I'm finally beginning to understand what all the cheese fuss is about.

Beaujolais Nouveau Newbie? This article offers a little insight into the fuss. I have to say, I haven't noticed a whole lot of people celebrating in the streets or drinking it. But there are lots of signs in the doors of cafés and brasseries advertising its arrival.

Le beaujolais nouveau est arrivé and I'm drinking some right now — my old stand-by George Dubœuf's 2002 Beaujolais Nouveau (I've also got a bottle of Beaujolais Villages Nouveau to try next). So far it's good, though I've moved away from such light and fruity wines over the years to heavier, richer stuff. Still, it makes for a nice glass as I nibble some olives and contemplate what to prepare for dinner. C'est bon, c'est hyper bon, in fact.

The original idea with coming to Paris for a month was to try and live here. By that I mean I didn't want to feel obligated to see touristy sights every day or overwhelm myself with museums. I wanted to cook in our apartment, explore the lesser known parts of the City, and maybe get to know the boulanger across the street. But that hasn't really happened. Most of the time I still feel like I'm here temporarily and obliged to get up and out the door every morning. At least, until yesterday. Yesterday I felt very much not on vacation — I've come down with a cold, needed to go to the grocery store, and had three loads of laundry to do. Nothing says "home" like sickness and chores.

The US and France have such a long, wonderful history of shared values and cultural understanding. For more than two hundred years — from fashion and architecture to politics and diplomacy — it's like our countries have been best friends with our people "in synch." That is, until the main course is cleared when dining in France. At that point, any commonalities between French and American culture disappear with the dirty plates into the kitchen. And ill-will and anger arrises in even the most staid American diner.

First it's the dessert *then* coffee thing. Then it's the French waiter that can walk by your table five or six times without ever looking in your direction. The Americans get fidgetty. We're done when we're done, and we're done after coffee. When we ask for the check, we're ready for it.

Oh but in France how they make you wait. How they make you suffer. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes can easily pass, even if you've successfully flagged down the waiter with eyes for eveyone but your party. Even if you've asked for l'addition, s'il vous plâit, they'll keep you sitting and sitting and sitting. If you've grown up like this, perhaps you know what to do during the awkward silence that follows. Or perhaps there is no awkward silence and no one is too full or too tired to continue the conversation. But Americans, we just sit, quietly wondering what we've done to make the waiter hate us so, the same waiter who was so nice, so attentive, only an hour before. Here in France, the cultural divisions run deepest at dinner.

The 20€ bill is the best bank note ever because you know it will cover whatever you've purchased even when you did not comprehend the total the cashier has just said to you. You simply hand it over with that meek smile that says, "I know how much that croissant and brioche costs and I perfectly understood what you said to me. It's just that this 20€ is simply the only thing I have."

Your smile most certainly does not say, "I am in a blind panic. My wallet is filled with ten pounds of strange change I cannot distinguish. In the hopes that this will cover the cost, I am handing you the largest bill in my wallet. If I had a 50€ note, I'd pass that to you instead, even though this baguette costs 70¢."

The best thing about knowing a secret entrance to the Louvre is that people email you saying, "oh, it's when you go to XYZ from ABC, right?" and that's not it. Now I know TWO secret entrances to the Louvre!