“Il y'a Bal Dans Ma Rue”

The first thing I smelled when I got off the plane were cigarettes. The second thing I smelled was delicious food.
I knew I was in France.
I hopped onto the Air France Bus in a caffeine and sleep-deprived induced stupor and got home fairly quickly. Then again, I don't really remember any of the drive. Oops.
The apartment was just as it had been left the summer before: clean, tiny, and still stuck in the 1970's. (All it needs is a disco-ball, I swear. --Pictures to follow!) It was only the early afternoon, so I took the opportunity to venture out into the big, wide world, with one thing on my mind: food. France—either irritatingly or charmingly, not sure which one exactly—maintains that grocery stores should either not be open on Sundays at all, or that they should teasingly be open from 12-1 in the afternoon before turning their little shop signs to “Ferme.” Unfortunately, I got there at about 1.10 PM. Gah! It is impossible, however, in spite of the traditional and limited business hours, to go hungry in France. I found a little green-grocer shop, bought some milk and pasta and a bag of strong coffee, and later made an unimpressive, but filling pasta à la Bolognaise.
And what welcomed me, but a petit bal in the street by the Rue Mouffetard! Every Sunday, after church and in the middle of the market, a group of musicians plays traditional French chansons: Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier, Jacques Brel (technically Belgian, but whatever), etc. and the people gather around and sing and dance together. Being a retro music fan, I sing along and clap as the couples twirl around, happy to be alive and together on a Sunday in Paris. What a beautiful thing to welcome me to Paris!

Not too shabby for a caffeine and sleep-deprived stupor.