There is something about winter that just begs for a baguette. Fresh, hot, flaky outside, soft inside. Wrapped in a square of tissue and nestled under a coat arm for the walk home–not waiting to reach home before peeling off the crust at the top.
Today I felt myself longing for a real baguette more than I have in a long time. A .90 centime baguette, the cheapest food on a budget, served with real butter. The smells and memories of this ritual took me on a walk though my old neighborhood in Paris via Google maps…walking (or zooming, rather) down rue de Clichy, stopping at my favorite boulangerie on the way home from class (always remembering a second too late that a baguette is feminine), and eagerly punching in the apartment security code to get dinner ready. I zoomed up to the metro, looking back at my apartment balcony then back at the statue in the middle of Place de Clichy. All of the sudden, looking back at all the places I used to walk past everyday made me lose all anxiety about future plans (that may be announced in upcoming months) and made me remember why I went there to begin with.
And if nothing else, it’s nice to know that some things don’t change–especially the baguettes.
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