How I Spent My Nineteen Hour Layover in Paris
Wine. Pizza. Pharmacy. Books. Gulp Hablo Orange and More!
Weeks later, I can’t stop thinking about the trip I led to Georgia for Modern Adventure. I hovered over my brood, protected them and made sure they were happy, drinking well and having a blast. From Chicago, Boston, Toronto, and Little Rock, they all came away with thinking natural wine doesn’t give hangovers (well, it does, but). That Georgian wine is varied and delicious and picked up some chacha fans along the way.
I returned to the USA using my favorite route, TBS-CDG-JFK, snagging a night or few in Paris. This time, I was supposed to land at 3:00 and leave twenty-four hours later. A quick pit stop but all good.
Well, we landed late. Arriving at the RER B? No train. The clock on my Paris time was ticking. I raced to find the bus. On it. Off at Le Blanc Mesnil for the train connection to Gare de Nord. I did arrive to my hotel at 6 pm near La Verre Volé. The Citizen (first time I’ve ever used points for a hotel). Friendly spot, great location, should be cheaper—but for points? Sure.
I hustled to Septime le Cave, pausing to ponder the lines in front of my favorite, previously undiscovered ice cream spot, Sucre Glace. Was it just that the day was exquisite and a holiday so all the ice cream eaters were hanging out. Tik Tok? Then running late, I bolted.
Meeting friends from home elsewhere in the world gives me a giddy thrill. That’s the what I felt when getting together with Sonal and E.E. (some of you might know them as “my kids,” for a drink. Champagne for me, please—Septime’s bar à vin, always have Manu Lassaigne’s "Les Vignes de Montgueux" BTG.
While sipping, the question came, “Do you want a pizza?”
For a while now, Cave has been providing an apero pizza from Louis Louis. I’d never had it and “the kids” corrected that. By the time we were drinking a fabulous 2019 Marina’s Wine ( I obviously had not had enough of Georgian wine) a mere 23 euros (!) the petite pie arrived. The next time you’re offered a chance for the apero sized pizza, say yes.
Smoky bufala, wild garlic pesto that needed no salt, and a yeasty, pillowy yet chewy crust, I swore it was, in the moment, the best thing I had ever eaten. And the wine? It had aged beautifully. With iron veins, it drank like a well delineated cloud—and you can’t drink color but what a gorgeous purple-tinged Rome beauty rose-hue.
Bottoms up, apero over: The kids were going to some iffy Chinese place and I had to push through the beautiful dusk to get to Furia for tacos.