A day in the Marais.

Following breakfast at the apartment—pastries (croissant for me, pain au chocolat for The Wife), the last of the previous evening’s mirabelle plums, and tea—we headed into the Marais. It is Sunday, after all.

Our first stop was the Musée Picasso, a must-see for any visitor to Paris.

After the museum and a jaunt around the Marais we headed to rue des Rosiers and the famous L’As du Fallafel. A fresh pita stuffed with falafel, hummus, cucumber, fried eggplant, and a wonderful lightly-pickled, still crunchy red cabbage slaw, topped with mildly spicy harissa. Despite the hype, it’s a great sandwich, and a messy one.

The late afternoon found us heading back to our area to catch Liverpool away to Aston Villa at The Frog & Rosbif. Unfortunately, we decided to pop into a Scottish pub, The Thistle, just across the street which was far livelier. We left at halftime, unable to hear the TV (or enjoy the dreadful match) because of the group of drunken British louts whose idea of a good time is to go overseas and hole up in a British pub and drink till passing out, making sure the entire neighborhood can hear them singing their little ditties of British dominance. One of wankers told me: “Our culture pisses all over French culture.” From where I was standing (at the urinal, natch), the only thing British culture pisses on is itself. Absolutely ashamed to be English, yesterday; so bad I actually told the wanker at the urinal I was from California. Shudder.

We watched the second-half at The Frog & Rosbif with a Liverpool fan from Sweden and an Australian bartender who took great pleasure in mocking the beautiful game (with a sense of humour). How sad that I couldn’t enjoy the match with my fellow countrymen.

A failed trip to the Latin Quarter for dinner at Christophe ensued. You must make reservations for Sunday night dinner. Will make reservations on Monday for next Sunday. We ended up back in the Marais eating at Chez Marianne (though not for falafel). Marianne is also known for their house pastrami and chopped liver, both of which were delightful.

To bed, then. Bon soir!

Paris, 7:10 p.m.

I won’t say it was the best transatlantic flight ever; the cabin felt as hot as Paris this afternoon—eighty-plus degrees (minus the sun beaming down on our heads)—and the food was truly dreadful (no surprise, eh?).

Arrived at 9 a.m., midnight Laguna Beach . . . a thirty-minute taxi into the city and, after a brief wait for the concierge, we were in our apartment and unpacked.

The rest of the day we waged the battle of staying awake. Considering it’s past seven and we’ve yet to succumb I’d say we’re not doing too poorly. (Of course, a few pints and a few Ricards certainly help.)

We’re now in for the evening: a bottle of 2005 Château Belvue Bordeaux (a gift from the apartment owner), rillettes, pâté, baguettes, mirabelle plums, and a rhubarb tart for dinner. If we make it till 10 p.m. I’ll be amazed.