parisian secrets

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On our very first night in Paris- not the one that followed our first full day of walking, but the one that happened right after we deplaned- we made friends.

After a visit to my old stomping grounds, we took our fresh fruit finds to the Canal St. Martin to fulfill a nutella-flavored dream I’d been having since my last visit to Paris.  We gathered up some good goods (camembert, baguette, wine) and found a spot along the canal.  After settling in, all ready to get our picnic on, we were halted by the sad, sad, realization that…we had forgotten our wine opener.

In a sudden burst of energy that must’ve been a combination of resourcefulness, jetlag, and wine desperation, I decided to as the bobo-looking Parisians next to us if we could make use of their corkscrew, s’il vous plaît.  They were gracious toward my broken Frenglish, and even helped me pop the top.

A while later, full of cheese and ready to tuck ourselves in for the night, we stood to leave the canal, turning to give a wave and a nod to our wine heroes.  Instead of the half-smile one might’ve expected (if you’ve spent your life in America, perhaps), the strangers called out to us.

“Where do you come from?”  They wafted the air in front of them, pulling us in.

“Les Etats-Unis!  Boston.”  We were met with hugs.

The friendly pair asked us about everything.  What were our travel plans?  Were we married?  In love?  You look very much in love.  How could you not love this guy though?  He is looking into my eyes right now I think I feel myself, comment dit…melting!  They hugged us a few more times (actually, M got a few double cheek kisses from the man who was surely falling for him), and sent us off with a list of insider recommendations jotted on the backside of my boarding pass.

“You must know what you’re doing already, though,” the woman winked at me. “Parisians  try to keep this place a secret.”

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