S. Worthen | Weblog

We followed the corridors deep underground for nearly two kilometers, past acres of bones, artfully arrayed under Vergilian quotes about the inevitability of death. I remembered the catacombes vividly from visiting them when young. This time, among dim light and dripping ceiling, I could read the Latin, reinforce the messages in other languages which marked the corridors of the kingdom of the dead.

Above ground, we walked, and talked late into the night, and ate, and slept, and it made for a social, satisfying, and restful weekend with two sets of Toronto friends, both visiting for the month. We went to the main Berthillot shop on the Isle-St.-Louis - the Thyme-Lemon sorbet was intense, tart, redolent of herb. I lingered over the chunky fig marmalade with salad and baked cheese. A brunch sampler delighted - six mini-portions of brunch foods, elegantly arrayed on a single plate, was ideal for me in so many ways; plus, it came with the best hot chocolate I've had in ages, think and chocolatey enough I could feel it coating my throat. Saturday night was quintessially Montmartresque - an art opening at 8:30, dinner at 10, a party at midnight. I played with double0hilly's square pig (soft, squishy, malleable, and friendly), and started to finally get to know alleywalkr. The weekend In Paris was generally tranquil, and I'm now the proud owner of a Bodum honey implement.