I have been spending lots of time by myself lately. Turns out, I really enjoy being a homebody. Now with three consecutive weekends without Byron or an out-of-town friend in town, I find that I am truly a creature of habit. The past three weekends have consisted of the following, in no particular order:
A quest to try all other macarons besides Laduree, with judgments being cast.
Homemade hot chocolate. With the good cocoa powder.
Lots of green tea. With macarons (see above).
Regular trips (every other weekend) to the Maille store to refill my mustard crocks. (Must. Have. Hand-pulled. Maille.)
Downton Abbey. Modern Family. New Girl.
A Saturday afternoon pit-stop at the Galeries Lafayette gourmet floor, where the fishmonger is especially helpful.
Beading and glueing and generally making a mess with my crafty stuff.
Leaving this mess out and living around it.
Cleaning everything else in anticipation of Spring.
Salads with the most simple yet nuanced homemade dressings thanks to wonderful mustards and oils and vinegars from Maille (see above).
Going to the Marché des Enfants Rouges for vegetables and neighborhood characters.
Reading stuffs on the Kindle.
Caviar and creme fraiche on eggs and potatoes and on plain-ol' spoons that I put right in my mouth. I am a homebody baller, fo' reals.
Wandering around and taking photos of crap people scrawl on walls.
Wine, in a well-managed/adult kind of way.
Going to expositions. (I need to do this more. I am putting it down so it becomes a regular occurrence.)
I am alone in Paris, but I am quite happy filling my own days. Would it be better if B were here? Of course it would. But I'm appreciating this time on my own, getting to know myself and my city a little better. Though I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it's a relief to know my time alone is only temporary.