I must confess that I am a creature of habit. I like exploring, but I thrive on routine. Like Gustave Flaubert, I ascribe to the idea of being “regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”1 To this end, I like taking the same walk every day.

Of course, whether in a city or the country, even the same walk isn’t always the same. Every day, things change. The weather, the people, the plants, the animals. There are always surprises.

As I settle back into Parisian life, or rather, as I try to—so far I’m not having much luck—I’m trying to reconnect with my habits. When my life is functioning well, I usually try to go for a walk every day for my physical and mental health. Most days, without thinking, I take some variation of the same one-hour loop.

In a recent post, I believe I mentioned that I live in the Marais near Les Halles. There are many wonderful culinary shops in the neighborhood, and sometimes I go inside one of them to look. Someday I’d like to find out what kind of desserts I can make with yuzu, violet, or poppy flavoring. I wonder, does the poppy taste like poppy seeds? Or like the flower? I wouldn’t mind trying to make a madeleine the size of a child’s head (mould pictured above), perhaps for a Proust-themed dinner party. Maybe one flavored with jasmine or rose?

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Once upon a time, I created this section of the newsletter after a nice weekend walk to the Luxembourg Gardens and back, but then never followed up with it. Now I am back home after several months away—stressful, hard, sad months—and seeing the city with fresher eyes once again. It’s nice to pay attention to one’s surroundings and to share the things one notices, especially when the world is in such a dark place. I used to share these things with my parents, whom I often called when I was out for walks, but now, having just lost them both, I can’t do that anymore. Maybe I can share these things with you all instead.

I had gotten into Paris in the late afternoon of the previous day, riding in from Orly in the back of a cab. I saw that the trees along the river were coming into leaf. The pink blossoms on the cherry trees were already starting. I appear to have missed the magnolias.

That evening, I managed to get some necessities from around my neighborhood in the Marais—pick up medications, pay my Internet bill—but the next day I decided to venture further afield to a pharmacy on the Left Bank that stocks some of the hair products I use. After several months in the States, I am fresh out of all my French things.

Starting out on my walk, I noticed the number of businesses in my rapidly gentrifying neighborhood that have recently closed. The cobbler is slated to become an upscale eyeglasses store. The smaller of three pharmacies is now a fancy skincare boutique. The toy store and the bike shop have both closed as well. Thankfully, the fishmonger that had closed in the summer has since reopened as a new fishmonger’s, with the same people working there, including the same strappingly handsome older guy with a white ponytail and white beard who looks like the mascot of a fish stick company1.

I used to be friends with one of the local tailors, around the corner from the fishmonger’s. He was from Turkey, and not very old, maybe about fifty. He fixed the holes in my jeans, and one day he grabbed me as I was passing one of the café terraces and bought me a hot chocolate. After that we would greet each other warmly whenever we passed in the street. His name was Kemal. About a year or so ago I noticed that his shop was closed more and more often. Someone in the neighborhood told me that Kemal had stomach cancer. I would see him sitting on the local café terraces, alone. I would wave and say hello, ask how he was, but he always looked so sad. I don’t know if he went back to Turkey or if something worse has happened. I will ask around.

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Note: I tried to send this last night, but it kept saying there was a “network error.” I am sending it today instead.

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