Saturday evening we decided to start exploring the neighborhood. We had dinner at a place called “Indiana Café” (which I later found out is a chain). I think that they meant “Indian Café," because there was a picture of a Native American on the menu. After dinner we walked toward my office, meandering and shopping along the way. I have a feeling that I’m going to leave Paris with a lot more than 2 bags.

For dessert I bought a crepe with Nutella and bananas. It was amazing, much better than my dinner. I predict that my diet while in France is going to consist of a lot of Nutella. We passed by a McDonald’s and found it amusing that they sell macaroons there (sorry, didn’t see any Burger Kings so didn’t get to check out any Royales with cheese for you Pulp Fiction fans (read: Brian)). I’m tempted to buy some McDonald’s macaroons and have Kim, who is a big fan of macaroons, try them and see how she compares them to the macaroons in the States.

Sunday we slept in then got ready to go to a market. As I was getting ready, I smelled burnt plastic. Marianne was curling her hair but failed to use a voltage converter, only a plug adapter. Thus, her curling iron got about twice the voltage it needed and was melting in her hand. Lesson noted.

After airing out the apartment, we went over to the Bastille Market. We took the metro and only had one minor set-back of having to go to two stations to find somewhere to buy tickets. I had heard that there were all sorts of things for sale at the Sunday markets, but it was basically just produce, fish and meat. We bought some produce and were on our way. We didn’t really have a “way” though and ended up just walking down side streets until we got to Notre Dame. For some reason my mom and Marianne kept looking at me to lead the way; had to keep reminding them that I’ve never been to Paris.

Maybe my mom and Marianne kept thinking I knew where I was going because some parts of Paris are very much like Manhattan. Something about the boulevard that my apartment is on, Blvd. de Bonne Nouvelle, reminds me a lot of E. 14th St. in NYC (I used to live on E. 15th). They kind of look alike and they have some of the same establishments (e.g., KFCs and tiny, over-priced grocery stores). There are some noticeable differences though—NYC doesn’t have a 450 year-old, 100 hundred foot tall gate to the city (Porte Saint Denis), and Paris doesn’t have as many hipsters. It should be interesting to compare the two cities and their inhabitants over the next month.