Sunday in Paris, or How Paul Verlaine Saved My Life

It's actually quite difficult to eat in Paris, believe it or not. At least, dinner seems to be quite a problem for me as of late. Just the other day, a friend and I went out to get food around 5:15. Unbeknown to us, most restaurants stop serving food between 5:00 and 7:00. Many even shut down entirely. Our first stop was Chez Gladines, a raucous pub-style restaurant that we had been to before. On the previous occasion, we had been rather sassed by the management for various reasons that remain unclear. This time, in true American fashion I think, we returned determined to be liked. We stepped in announcing our decree: We will eat here, now! The management informed us that it was not serving food until 7:45. Defeat.

We wandered on for the next 45 minutes. My favorite creperie, closed. The interesting-looking Chez Nathalie, closed. Our hunger increased all the while. Eventually we went back to my apartment to snack on bread before going into the Latin Quarter to eat, where the rest of our plans for the evening were to take place. By then it was 8pm, and the only obstacle to our hunger was making a decision between so many different places to eat.

But there's another side to this story - while restaurants reopen at 8, many of the stores selling basic necessities close then. I have quickly discovered that if you need any staple item after 8 at night, you will either have to pay dearly for it or wait until the next morning. Every pharmacy in the city closes at 8, as do many of the “tabac” stores that sell various convenience items. The same goes for virtually any retail store, supermarket, or boulangerie (bakery). What remains open, then? Restaurants, cafés, bistrots, brasseries, bars, creperies – all different names for the same beast. Scattered here and there are Alimentation Générale stores specializing in questionable looking fruit, expired packages of cookies and crackers, and of course - wine. There are a few places that remain open late that do not adhere to this rule – Shakespeare & Co. and La Musée d’Erotisme come to mind.

My point here is that if you need food after 8pm, you have to go out to eat, most likely. If you’re cooking after that point and you realize you’re short on vinegar, you’d better ask your neighbor for some because any store selling it will probably be closed. If you are a generally healthy-eating, organic food-loving, tree-hugging American-bred hippie such as myself, either you or your principles are screwed after 8pm.

This rule is even worse on Sundays. I thought Boston was quiet on Sundays, almost eerily so. But about 60-70% of Paris closes up for the entire day every week, and presumably, spends the day outside. The city is very much awake and bustling, but not its commerce section. I was shocked when I stepped into a nearby shopping mall (in search of a wireless network) and found that the entire thing was closed. What doesn’t close for the whole day closes earlier than usual, at least.

Towards the end of the day one Sunday, I realized that I had absolutely no food to eat in my apartment. Panic gripped me. No, no, it would be okay, I reassured myself. There’s an organic grocery store down the street. They will be open.

They weren’t. My favorite creperie was closed. My bakery was closed. I was going to starve! I had only 5 Euro and my debit card in my pocket. All of the little stores I passed selling falafel or pizza à emporter (to go) would not take plastic, and had nothing on the menu that cost less than 6 Euro. I cursed the one Euro I had given to the man playing fiddle on the metro.

On I wandered, stomach groaning. I would have to find an ATM and settle for a café – but I had so much homework to do (and yet I neglect it still by writing this). I made a turn down a random street crushed between two high rise apartment buildings, trying to suppress my stomach’s complaint at the prospect of waiting until breakfast to eat.

At the end of the street, I found myself at the Place de Verlaine –a square dedicated to one of the 19th century’s finest poets. And what do you know – there was a boulangerie open, and a queue was forming outside the door. I was saved! Thank you Paul Verlaine, for writing well enough to merit a Place (pronounced ploss by the way) in Paris – a Place where this bakery had moved in and remained open late on Sundays. I had a baguette (only ,87 euro!) – a freshly baked, fluffy, buttery baguette that was still warm in my hands. It was half eaten by the time I returned home.