Tonight, my stomach is lined in a coat of warm potato leek soup and my throat is a fine combination of earl grey infused hot chocolate and ginger tea. Walking, I turned into several delis and markets to meet strange looks when I asked for leeks. How do I describe something that is so similar and yet so set apart? Green, partially white, leaves spreading, thickly stemmed, not quite scallion, an appearance of celery. Later, I stood, dumbfounded, trying to distinguish between cilantro and parsley merely by sight. Both were so familiar to me, I could not bridge the distance without furtively breathing in. I felt like someone who had never been to a supermarket; not quite sure if I should ask where they stocked butter. Perhaps Rue de Lévis lingers. Grocery shopping in France was truly delightful. One street lined with a boucherie, fromagerie, a multitude of boulangeries, two wine shops, and an ample amount of fruit and vegetable stalls. The man who sweetly gave me extra poultry, the grocer who always handed me the most succulent, mouth-watering mangoes, the fromager who encouraged me to try cheeses that were just a little older than I was accustomed to, and the dears who never appeared to judge how frequently I popped in for a canelé (or two). If I one day go missing, I guess you'll know where to find me. Mango and monaco in hand. Luckily, I've enough grenadine to relive (perhaps less wildly, less recklessly) those short, rose colored days life afforded me in Paris.
Also, it makes me chuckle how little this has to do with anything related to The Graduate.