Joyeux Noël
I decided to brave the outside world to get myself another few bottles of water. But once I got onto Jean Medicin, it seemed like everything was closed. No Virgin, no FNAC, no Zara, and no Monoprix. Definitely no groceries to be had.
So I wandered off the main drag to try to find a little Mere et Pere outfit, and soon managed to get myself thoroughly lost. The storefronts got seedier and seedier, and the sidewalks dirtier and dirtier, and I stuck my hands firmly in my pockets and adopted a determined stride.
Before long, Christmas lights gave way to halal signs, in front of butcher shops that were, thankfully, open. I bought four large bottles of water, and then followed a crowd of men to a patisserie where bread was just coming out of an oven. I asked for a demi, which is half a baguette, as well as a croissant, and barely noticed that there was round, flat khubs next to the croissants, "d'accord" had become "wakha" and "au revoir" had slid into "b'slama."
I walked through this neighbourhood, looking at all the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants from various parts of the world, mostly Asia and the Middle East, all of them shut at this hour on Christmas day. There weren't any other tourists out, just young men about to bring home bread for dinner, and any guidebook would probably have warned me away from this area. Nonetheless, I felt thoroughly comfortable; perhaps foolishly so, who's to say.
Far away, I saw a lighted sign that said H&M on it, and like any other urban tourist on a cloudy night, I used it to find my way back to my apartment, where I broke apart my half-loaf, still warm from the oven, and served with it the rest of yesterday's supermarket rotisserie chicken, warm from the microwave, and a truffle spread I bought from an old lady at the flower market in Cours Saleya. It was the perfect Christmas dinner.
So I wandered off the main drag to try to find a little Mere et Pere outfit, and soon managed to get myself thoroughly lost. The storefronts got seedier and seedier, and the sidewalks dirtier and dirtier, and I stuck my hands firmly in my pockets and adopted a determined stride.
Before long, Christmas lights gave way to halal signs, in front of butcher shops that were, thankfully, open. I bought four large bottles of water, and then followed a crowd of men to a patisserie where bread was just coming out of an oven. I asked for a demi, which is half a baguette, as well as a croissant, and barely noticed that there was round, flat khubs next to the croissants, "d'accord" had become "wakha" and "au revoir" had slid into "b'slama."
I walked through this neighbourhood, looking at all the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants from various parts of the world, mostly Asia and the Middle East, all of them shut at this hour on Christmas day. There weren't any other tourists out, just young men about to bring home bread for dinner, and any guidebook would probably have warned me away from this area. Nonetheless, I felt thoroughly comfortable; perhaps foolishly so, who's to say.
Far away, I saw a lighted sign that said H&M on it, and like any other urban tourist on a cloudy night, I used it to find my way back to my apartment, where I broke apart my half-loaf, still warm from the oven, and served with it the rest of yesterday's supermarket rotisserie chicken, warm from the microwave, and a truffle spread I bought from an old lady at the flower market in Cours Saleya. It was the perfect Christmas dinner.