Free Paris, My Sweet by Amy Thomas Page B

an impression, I thought, to bring some of the finest pastries in Paris. But there was also a small neighborhood boulangerie near the office whose rich, buttery smells emanating from the back door made my stomach rumble each morning. A modest but delicious score would be just as appreciated.
    â€œOui,” I confessed. “J’adore ven-ny…vien-wah…ven-iseries,” I stuttered. Merde , why did this beautiful and important word that encompassed the whole family of cottony soft breakfast pastries—classic croissants, pain au chocolat, chausson aux pommes —have to be so hard to wrap my tongue around?
    â€œVee-en-wah-sir-ie,” Isabelle sounded it out, as patient and good-natured as a kindergarten teacher.
    â€œVien-y…ven-iseries,” I tried again. We both laughed. Before moving on with her sign-up duties, Isabelle must have sensed that she had a hopeless sweet freak on her hands. She emailed me later that day, giving me a new address to add to my growing list of must-try Parisian boulangeries :
    Here is some of my favorites addresses for a happy sunday (or any other day!)
    All is just per-fect at Du Pain et Des Idées
    And if you don’t already know Le parc de la Butte Chaumont, it’s really nice, and pretty near of the bakery, so you can have a beautiful walk after a good bread time ;)
    Have a good gourmet time!
    â€¦Sorry for my bad english!
    Isa:)
    Her email made my day. Already, I felt, she knew me well.

    From that afternoon on, Isabelle—Isa—and I were bona fide amies . After the petit dej , she organized picnics at Jardin de Luxembourg, with spreads of couscous salads, fluffed with exotic North African spices; sliced cantaloupe and sweet strawberries, speared on skewers; wheels of ripe Camembert and wedges of buttery Brie that were spackled on fresh, crunchy baguettes. She arranged visits to subterranean jazz clubs where natty couples twirled in the dark. And during office hours, we made a point of counseling each other in language—she wanting to practice English as much as I needed to keep learning French—resulting in classic Franglais conversations.
    One day, I was trying to explain to her how excited I was to be in Paris— excited about my apartment, excited about my neighborhood, excited about my job and the city and traveling—when I learned an important lesson. “Je suis très excitant,” I declared. She started laughing uncontrollably and then stopped abruptly, concerned that I might think she was laughing at me. “When you say, ‘I’m excited,’ it has very sexual connotations in French,” she explained, searching for an alternative. “You can say, j’ai hâte ,” she enunciated the phrase as I blushed. “It means…I’m pressed.”
    â€œ J’ai hâte ,” I repeated. Pressed, indeed, I was to stop making a fool of myself.
    But Isa was one of the few people with whom I never felt embarrassed practicing—and, sadly, butchering—the language. For some reason, through my elementary French and her stunted English, we understood each other. We communicated with our eyes and our hearts. It was just one of those connections that felt easy and comfortable and natural—emotions that had been conspicuously absent since my family and friends had visited. I relished this budding new friendship. Each exchange, both tender and intrepid with our mishmash of cultural and language backgrounds, made me feel more connected, more normal. Tu vois? I said to Milo one perfect evening in the tree house after Isa had invited me to join her and a group of colleagues for lunch. Making friends in Paris is a walk in le parc!

    In June, Ogilvy threw a grand rooftop party for fête de la musique , a national holiday created for the sole purpose of celebrating music. It was an annual tradition for the agency to open its exquisite double-decker terrace high above the