Ooh la la! They say there is a different French cheese for every day of the year and I would have to say I think I am coming pretty close to having eaten every one of them - even the ones that smell like feet. Is there nothing more sublime than a glass of red with a blob of camembert on a piece of crusty baguette? Throw in a seventeenth century Parisian apartment with the morning sun streaming in and I am in heaven. This week is flying by and we are already dreaming up ways of how we can possibly come back (or never leave?) There are still two whole wings of the Louvre I didn't get to see! (Though they say it would take nine months to see every single thing in the Louvre. I could handle that. Nine months here would suit me fine.) You'll be happy to know I can now go sockless, which means we almost fit in here now, could almost pass as Parisians, except that my seven year old insists on hanging all his Eiffel Tower keyrings off his jumper. But that's OK. It could be just a statement ironique - in a kind of Andy Warhol/Marcel Duchamp kind of way.
