Birthday in Paris: Part 5

Last day in Paris. I sleep in late. Way too late. I’m incredibly exhausted from all the walking and climbing and exploring we’ve done this week. Mike is somehow unfazed by it all. He’s up early having breakfast while I try to crawl from the bed to the shower. I don’t think my body ever fully adjusted to the time change. I also suspect that Mike’s body has no internal clock. Combined with the fact that he does not require coffee in the morning and mysteriously remains cheerful on a few scant hours of sleep, I start to wonder if he may in fact be a robot.

I eventually get myself upright and dressed so we can make the best of our last day. It is not easy though, in my haste to get out the door I have forgotten to eat breakfast or have coffee. So I am grumpy and cranky and trying my hardest to be pleasant to my boyfriend who has done nothing wrong at all, although my caffeine withdrawal migraine is trying to convince me otherwise. There are fewer photos for this day, regrettably.

We head over to the Musée d’Orsay, another art museum. This one is much smaller than the Louvre and more manageable. It’s housed inside a grand Beaux-Arts train station with an equally grand clock that is spectacular in and of itself. Inside, the d’Orsay boasts the largest collection of impressionist paintings in the world. Van Gogh’s Starry Night is here. Nearly 100 Monet’s too, including a couple waterlilies and a few gorgeous Rouen Cathedral paintings. Manet’s Luncheon on the Grass is just as lovely in person as it was on my history book pages. Dozens of Cézanne’s impeccable still life studies line one entire gallery. I refrain from pointing at them and saying “How ‘bout them apples?” in a mock Boston accent.

We see paintings of the Moulin Rouge by Toulouse Lautrec, The Gleaners by Jean-François Millet, and Bal du moulin de la Galette by Renoir. We visit many works by Edgar Degas, including those of his renowned ballerinas. One of his bronze statues is here as well. I also spot L'Absinthe, which I modeled for a recreation of in college for a photographer. It brings back hilarious memories of pouring a glowstick into a glass of Mello Yello in the back corner of a coffee shop to achieve a sickly green absinthe. Finally we end our tour with a pass by the infamous The Artist's Mother by Whistler. Mike and I agree that it is the most overrated painting of the masterpieces we’ve seen.

For the remainder of the day, we decide to fly casual. No more long museum explorations. No more long treks across the city. Just a comfortable stroll set to a slow, lazy pace. A stroll that just so happens to lead us into several niche perfume boutiques. We first drop into Annick Goutal. I’m excited, I’ve never sampled their line before. The sales lady and I chat about what I wear, what I like, and favorite notes so that she can make a few recommendations. I emphatically state I do not like sweet sugary perfumes and that I’m not a fan of overly fruity scents. The first she hands me, Vanilla Charnelle, is sweet. I blame the language barrier and ask to try another. Ambre Fétiche is closer to my palette. It’s warm, dry, with incense and leather. Still, I'm not sold on anything in particular.

Then she hands me Tenue de Soirée, the newest fragrance. It is hilariously gaudy. The bottle is a purple-pink ombre, with a gold charm dangling from the neck and massive purple fluff ball attached. It would have been at home in any Juicy Couture shop. The marketing materials describe it as, "a fragrance of freedom, impertinence and audacity.” It is none of these things. It smells like a suburban blonde retired party girl who used to wear Victoria’s Secret body sprays but then married a well to-do man and decided to upgrade to something less embarrassing. It is sugary sweets and sticky jams. I politely thank the lady and tell her I’ll walk around a bit with a sample card.

The next boutique we happen upon is L’Artisan Parfumeur, one of my personal favorites. At home on my vanity sits bottles of their La Chasse aux Papillons (a love letter to the famous Fracas perfume created by Germaine Cellier), Mûre et Musc (musk, obviously with citrus and a hint of tart berry), and Timbuktu, a deep woody fragrance with incense and smoke. While the sales lady's English is limited, I know enough of French perfume terminology to communicate. We get along immediately.

After sniffing everything in sight, including many fragrances that cannot be found in the states, I settle on the cult favorite, Tea for Two. It is a heady, spicy fragrance. Tea notes, of course, followed by cinnamon, ginger, sharp clove, hints of tobacco, and maybe a splash of milk and honey at the end. It is everything I dreamed it would be. A bottle of it goes into a bag with tissue paper and ribbons. Then our sales lady offers Mike and I the choice of a carded sample. She recommends the Nuit de Tubéreuse based on my love of La Chasse aux Papillons and dirty florals. For Mike, she recommends Fou d’Absinthe, a fragrant forest of greens with anise that I quite liked on him.

In the late afternoon, I begin to wilt. The lack of food and caffeine hits me hard so we limp back to the hotel. Mike crashes for a nap (proof he is human after all) while I sip espresso and eat crisps on the balcony outside. When he wakes, I apologize profusely for being snippy earlier. We both recommit ourselves to eating and hydrating on a more regular schedule.

Neither of us feel like dressing up and going out for dinner, so we return to the organic grocery down the street. More brie, more bread, and certainly more wine. We also pick out a few French specialty goods to bring home to our loved ones. I carry up a few cookies from the hotel bar and add what’s left of the chips. We have a satisfying feast while stretched out across the bed in our hotel room.

Knowing we have to return home in the morning, we begin the long, arduous process of packing. There are at least two dozen shopping bags. There are receipts and guide books and maps piled up everywhere. New tee shirts and hoodies are heaped on a chair. We have perhaps doubled our belongings. Mike puts on some music. I refill our wine glasses and we get to work. This is what our souvenir haul looked like when laid out on the bed:

After reducing, packing, folding, and tossing out unnecessary packaging, we are travel-ready once again. It would not have been possible had I not packed an empty soft-sided nylon bag to carry back all the things we bought. Like my bathrobe and all those tins of tea. So, there’s a pro tip for you.

For the remainder of the evening, we kicked back, drank wine, and looked back over all the photos we took along our journey. We swapped a ton of pics and I made a collage of every wine and champagne we drank in France. I polished off what was left in the box of macarons. Then we bid goodnight to one another and to Paris and to the most spectacular birthday I’ve ever had.