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!

One of the first days we were here we ended up over near Opéra and decided to walk all the way back to our apartment in the Marais, hoping to stop for some lunch along the way. Unfortunately, the neighborhood was rather pricey, and we passed bistro after bistro with white tableclothes where men in suits drank bottles of wine. Finally we spotted a simple brasserie with reasonable prices and went in.

The interior was pure 70's — all wood paneling and vinyl booths. There were two men inside, each smoking and drinking coffee at tables at opposite ends of the room. A husband and wife ran the place and quickly brought us menus when we were seated.

Suddenly being in Paris seemed difficult and annoying. There was no charm in this cheap brasserie. I didn't feel any Parisian romance or awe. I didn't even feel the excitement of travel, of being somewhere new and different. Instead I felt hungry and cranky and my feet hurt and I was tired of walking. And I felt like we'd made a mistake. We ordered croque monsieur and a glass of wine from the proprietor in French and our food arrived promptly.

We ate mostly in silence, pausing only to check our map and plot our route back to our apartment. When we were finished, the husband came over with our check and asked if we were English. With slight dread I responded,

"Non, nous sommes américaines."

His face lit up and he called across the restaurant to his wife behind the bar,

"They're American!" (but in French, of course) and with that, he proceeded to pull up a chair and began chatting with us.

I'd always assumed people's interest in meeting Americans, if it ever existed in the first place, was long gone in big touristy cities like Paris. But this gentleman began to explain his love for America and Americans and started telling us about his son who's an aerospace engineer who was going to head to the University of Texas at Austin to get a Master's in orbital mechanics. Alas, something on account of September 11th has prevented it and he hasn't been able to go.

Jason smiled as I tried to ask the man, in really garbled French, about his son's undertaking of orbital mechanics. (Since I have really no knowledge of orbital mechanics in English, why I attempted to discuss the topic in French is a mystery to me.)

"Comme le Space Shuttle!" I said. Apparently le Space Shuttle isn't the exact translation of "the Space Shuttle." Monsieur did not understand me.

"La lune, comme la lune et le monde (hand gesture of orbiting moon around earth) et la avion — le Space Shuttle — que va la, a la space." [translation: the moon, like the moon and the earth and the plane — the Space Shuttle — that goes there, to the space.]

I have no idea where I was going with that sentance, but eventually he nodded, and we agreed that we both understood that his son would have studied orbital mechanics in Texas were it not for September 11th. And then we sat there smiling at one another, pleased with our ability to communicate effectively with such a large language barrier between us.

He decided he should get back to work so he went back behind the counter and updated his wife on our conversation. We paid and headed towards the exit,

"Merci, au revior," we called and waved.

Monsieur and madame both came over. Monsieur extended his hand to me and gave me a formal and enthusiastic shake. Then he said something about Americans, the general effect being that it was a great thing we were American and that he loved America and Americans. Smiling, he turned to shake Jason's hand as well.

"Américaines," he said again, as if amazed.

"Au revior," we repeated and smiled as we stepped out the door and headed on our way home.

For those wondering about the weather: it's wintery. For the first five days it was rainy but warmish, with spots of sun and an autumnal scent in the air. But then it abruptly changed two days ago and winter is upon us. I could see my breath when we exited the apartment yesterday and I'm thinking I might need to buy some gloves. Heat lamps are a must when sitting at the outdoor cafés, even if only to down a quick chocolate chaud or express.