What time is it in Paris?

The Parisian day starts later than the American day.  In Cincinnati, I'm up early to milk the cows and fetch water from the well, but here in the French capital I have no such obligations. Our hosts, Misplaced and his wife, live in a great neighborhood, the Marais.  Last night -- a Sunday night, mind you -- the vicinity was buzzing, full of energy and beautiful people.  The mornings are serene.  I was just looking out the window; the street below is deserted.  It's also immaculate.

My wife and I are getting an early start today.  We want to hop on the Metro and make it to the Louvre by the time it opens, 9:00 a.m.  She and I both fell asleep early last night, and so I've been awake for a while.  Thinking the bells for 8:00 were about to chime (and judging from my previous mornings' observations, it wouldn't be odd at all for the streets to be so quiet at that hour) I was just about to wake her when I realized it was only 5:30.  I guess my body clock, such as it is, hasn't adjusted quite as well as I'd thought.  Fortunately, I had my realization about the time before I rousted Red.  Let's just say she's not a morning person and leave it at that.

I'd go get baguettes and pastries, but I don't think the bakeries are open yet.  The problem is, I've drunk half a pot of coffee and I'm doing that leg-jiggle thing that so endears me to colleagues at work during lengthy meetings.  I'll wait for a little more light outside, then I'll go for a stroll. The streets are narrow and cobble-stoned, and there's something interesting around every corner:  restaurants, shops, and did I mention beautiful people?  I know there won't be anyone out walking now, but it could be fun to watch the bakery owners open up their stores.

In the meantime, let me recount a little bit about my day yesterday. Misplaced and I spent a good portion of it roaming around.  We stopped at a restaurant and I'm virtually certain the following actually happened:

(Misplaced and LDP take a seat at sidewalk cafe.  As the waiter delivers two coffees, Misplaced rattles off something in French.  The waiter leaves, then returns and places a sandwich in front of LDP.)

LDP: That looks like gristle.

Misplaced: It is gristle.

LDP: Oh, well . . . I . . . huh?

Misplaced: I said, it is gristle. It's very popular around this neighborhood. All the locals love it.

LDP: Gristle sandwiches are popular?

Misplaced: Yes. (Glancing at the waiter.) Don't hesitate like that -- everyone'll know you're a tourist. Do you want people to think of you like that?

LDP: Well . . .

Misplaced: You don't. I know you don't. Try it, you'll fit right in. I eat one almost every day.

LDP: You didn't have one today.

Misplaced: Yes, I did.

LDP: When?

Misplaced: Before.

LDP: I didn't see you.

Misplaced: Nevertheless, I did.

LDP: But we've been together all day. When did you eat one?

Misplaced: You're still jetlagged.

LDP: Well, that's true. (Taking a big bite.) Mmmm . . . . that's good gristle.

The waiter smiled broadly at me and I could tell I'd made him proud. Misplaced grinned too, knowing he'd taught me something about getting to know other cultures. I left feeling I'd done my part to mend Franco-American fences.