purple lattes, yellow jackets, peach iced teas

Dear Mother and Father—please don’t be concerned with the number of peach iced teas I drink today. I drank water too, and from a day later, I’ve been completely fine. Won’t happen again!

Every day, it gets more and more difficult to rouse Abby from the plush, red armchair and out the door; truth be told, it is a wonderful armchair. Usually on vacations, I would be more lazy too, but I feel as if I must act as the instigator of the trip, so we finally head out the door at 10:45. We’re set to have quite the late night, so I tell myself this is okay. Our favorite croissants are closed today, so we had breakfast at home instead of trying to find a different place. The day seems rather gloomy, especially compared to the rest of our week. In fact, it has the regular San Francisco chill! This, of course, was the day I decided to wear a sundress; this, of course, was the day with the most wind. I digress.

Down to Sainte-Chapelle, where we look at the outside for a moment, then leave. We amble towards Notre Dame again, where we find a shut Shakespeare & Co. But it’s set to open in an hour, and I actually didn’t really eat breakfast at home at all, so we head into the shop’s café. I do actually get a croissant here, the worst one of the trip by far. I also get a peach iced tea (1), which tasted just okay, but it wasn’t the delicious one Abby had the other day, so I remain disappointed. Abby gets a bright purple latte that doesn’t have any distinct flavoring; she says it tastes mostly of milk. To a moderate amount of surprise, it starts raining! Luckily, Abby and I were one of the lucky people who had elected to eat inside, so we got to smugly look at all the people who tried to race for one of the remaining seats.

Pals, you’ll have to believe me when I say we had a fantastic gossip session in this café. All within view of Notre Dame.

We watched as the store opened, and watched as a massive queue winding down the blocks formed in front of it, three times the length as last time we went. So we watched it, hoping for it to dwindle down. It never does, so we end up just cutting our losses and hopping in. It doesn’t take as long as we believed, and we’re soon inside. Abby firmly swears she’s not going to purchase any books, which sounds as believable as the sky turning electric-green tomorrow.

And would you look at that—the sky remains blue. After much deliberation, she walks out with two poetry collections—one by T.S. Eliot, the other by Sylvia Plath. The deliberation wasn’t whether it was worth it to make the purchase (don’t be fooled), but more so which T.S. Eliot collection she should get at all. She’s swayed by Sylvia Plath by a poem our AP Lit teacher showed up last year, “Blackberrying”. I end up getting two books as well, plus a nice green book pouch with a George Whitman quote on it. I ended up selecting Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Summer Will Show (double Sylvias) and George Orwell’s Down in Paris and London, which I thought was apt.

Time for lunch! I really want beef bourguignon, so I make Abby trek up the hill fifteen minutes for a spot I heard was good. We eventually made it; it smells incredibly strongly of fondue/raclette (so just cheese), which I’m incredibly pleased about. Abby accidentally only orders us one beef bourguignon so we end up just splitting it because we’re both too scared to alert the waiter. It was really good, and then I ended up being genuinely sad that we only had one.

Then we hop on the metro to go to the Grande Épicerie for butter/other snacks. The butter aisle (to be expected) is swarmed by tourists who can’t decide what flavors they want; they’re leaving the doors to the fridges open like it’ll accompany their pondering positively, which is making the entire area a bit chilly. But we eventually get it, plus a package of prosciutto, a peach iced tea (2), and a kombucha. On our walk to Luxembourg Gardens, we pick up a baguette.

Ahh—everything is all set for a perfect picturesque picnic. What better way to begin closing off our final day in Paris? We set everything out and begin to eat. My peach iced tea ended up being carbonated, which made me greatly upset. So I didn’t really drink all of it. Or really any at all. Little did we know, lurking in the trees and bushes surrounding our quaint bench were swift, deft attackers. Small, unassuming at first, but entirely aggressive. All of a sudden, we were swarmed by yellow jackets, eager for a taste of our delicacies. Abby shrieks and runs around with great fear in her eyes. So we move. But they move too. Around, around, around the park we go, to no avail. We end up cramming fistfuls of prosciutto in our mouths because Abby convinces herself it’s what the yellow jackets are after. But the yellow jackets are more persistent than that; a lack of ham would never stop them! The next time they come back, Abby stands up to run with such fright that my carbonated peach iced tea and our beautiful demi-sel butter tumble to the ground. With a flourish of dramatic irony, a veritable parade of mini ponies commences—here come the toddlers, and with them horse manure!

We move towards the fountain with the boats and try to enjoy our new books. Abby buys me a new peach iced tea (3) from the nearby stand. But the yellow jackets… they’re always behind you.

Cutting our losses, we head back on the subway to Montmartre, where we go back to the loft for about an hour. We had also made a pit stop at the bookstore my parents left me in when I was eight. We stop at Franprix, where I finally find the correct peach iced tea. I drink one back at the loft (4). Near 10:30, we walk up the steps of the Basilica for the best view of the Eiffel Tower—our last night in Paris warrants watching it sparkle. We head to the same spot from the other day, where we saw it in light. Coincidentally, the Tour de France commenced today, and bikers are out partying. There are plenty of people out, and the streets are well-lit. I feel completely comfortable.

We watch the tower sparkle, and I might’ve cried a bit. Abby claims she doesn’t really care about it at all (except she used harsher words). I convince her to stay for the midnight show, which she does reluctantly. Thanks, pal. We head towards the Basilica steps, where bikers are playing music and dancing. It turns out to be British mumble rap, which I’m morally opposed to dancing to. So we end up just posting up by the view of the tower, and watch it sparkle at midnight.

Back to our AirBNB; I sit with the window and take in the night view one last time. And I drink a peach iced tea (5). Write you from London!