Like I said in the 1^st post in this series (on Berlin), 2011 was filled with lots of foodie adventures.

I made some fun discoveries traveling, yet many of my favorite finds were right here in Paris. From restaurants and wine bars to markets and vegetables, here are my top picks for the year.

Favorite Restaurant

Le vin qui chante (“the singing wine”)

Sebastien found this one for Valentine’s Day, though we didn’t celebrate on the actual day – which I recommend! Whenever we go out in Paris on the real Valentine’s Day we’re confronted with too many people, overwhelmed waiters and set-menus – none of which lead to the ideal dining experience. Instead, we find it better to go to a nice restaurant on any other evening in February.

Our meal at Le vin qui chante was excellent and we highly recommend it for a special night out. I enjoyed the “menu gourmand”: three courses, each paired with a glass of wine.

Address: 52, rue Sainte Anne (2e)

Telephone: 01 40 20 03 70

Metro: Auber, Quatre Septembre or Pyramides

Favorite Wine Bar

La Trinquette

A hidden-away bar just north of the Marais that specializes in wines from the Languedoc region in France. Very good tapenade and cheeses to accompany your wine.

Addresse: 62, rue des Gravilliers (3e)

Telephone: 09 52 07 80 60

Metro: Arts et Métiers

Favorite Crepe Stand

La Creperie du Comptoir

This is the most “gourmet” crepe stand in Paris, and offers both savory galettes (buckwheat) and sweet crepes. You may take crepes to go or stand inside at the counter for wine and tapas.

Address: 3, carrefour de l’Odéon (6e)

Telephone: 01 44 27 07 97

Metro: Odéon

Favorite Farmers’ Market

Marché biologique des Batignolles

100% organic! Excellent quality. Low-key, down-to-earth atmosphere.

When: Saturdays 9am-3pm

Where: 34, boulevard des Batignolles (17e)

Metro: Place de Clichy

Favorite Vegetable Discovery

Chou-rave

Kohlrabi, also known as German turnip or turnip cabbage, is easy to find at Parisian farmers’ markets. It’s a member of the cabbage family and great eaten raw. I like to grate it into lentil salads for example.

Favorite Vegetable Re-discovered

Choux de Bruxelles

Brussel sprouts are especially abundant in the winter months. I eat them like popcorn! Cut them in half, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and pepper, and bake until they are brown and crispy. This is my version of crispy kale.

Favorite Bread

Quinoa and chestnut bread from Naturalia health food store. I like it toasted and smeared with salted butter.

Favorite Biscottes

Le Moulin du Pivert’s Spelt biscottes (without palm oil)

“Biscottes” are little crunchy toasts often eaten for breakfast in France. Finding anything without palm oil is difficult these days (yes, including something as simple as breakfast toasts!), thus I was happy to find these. They’re sold in health food stores.

Favorite Cheese

Fourme d’ambert

This is a creamy blue cheese from the Auvergne region. It is amazing in an endive and walnut salad.

Favorite “I can’t believe I ate that!”

Escargots with butter and garlic at Chez Chartier

I know, I really did eat snails!

]]> http://thetomatoknife.com/2012/01/best-of-2011-my-favorite-foodie-finds-paris/feed/ 0 http://thetomatoknife.com/2011/09/bpa-old-news/ http://thetomatoknife.com/2011/09/bpa-old-news/#comments Wed, 28 Sep 2011 16:34:20 +0000 Joy Anna Becvarik http://thetomatoknife.com/?p=1942 First of all, it feels like summer here in Paris. I’m seriously getting more sun, and sweating more profusely, than I did in all of July and August! It feels great and reminds me why I love Paris in September so much.

Despite the weather, we’re definitely not on vacation and I’m getting back into the swing of taking the morning metro. While it’s hot and stuffy (especially right now), I’ve been secretly enjoying the ride simply because it forces me to “take some time to myself” and do whatever I feel like for 40 whole minutes (each way). I know that sounds strange, but the 7:30 am metro isn’t crowded or noisy (my fellow travelers are predominately a handful of students reading over impeccably written notes on their way to class). So, I’ve been either reading a book (all but Molière which I told myself I’d read before going to see Tartuffe in 10 days), jotting ideas in my journal or reading the free newspapers waiting at the metro entrance.

Today, I saw this headline: “Alerte officielle sur le bisphénol A”.

Isn’t that old news? I feel like we’ve been talking about BPA in plastic for a while now. Isn’t that why I said goodbye to my much-loved orange Nalgene bottle a few years ago? (Though my friends tell me there are now PBA-free ones). Isn’t that why I’ve been avoiding buying tomatoes in tin cans (often lined with such plastic)? Isn’t that why I think my brother should get a KleanKanteen baby bottle for my two-month old nephew? (I know. A baby drinking out of stainless steel seems a bit drastic, but why not?) Isn’t that why I’ve been using only plastic food containers marked with a “5” on the bottom?

BPA, as I recall, is what turned me into a PPP – person paranoid about plastic.

Isn’t this biphenyl A alert coming a bit late? Or, maybe time travel really does exist and I got a flash from the past on the early morning metro. I was still waking up after all.

It’s “la rentrée,” or French New Year, as I like to call it.

Our “new year” is off to a good start so far – back to work, back to sports, back to reading in the metro (I’m nearly finished with Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and can’t wait to take the metro to dance class tonight to get back to reading it – that says something if I’m actually looking forward to taking the metro!)… back to cooking up storms in the kitchen, to Sunday farmers’ market, to fresh raw milk from the local cheese shop… yep, summer’s over… it’s back to daily life in Paris, including the customary new discoveries.

Yesterday, I was on my way home from work – and I was hungry (I feel like I’ve started many a mischievous story this way). I’ll cut to the chase: I fell in love with Paris in the “fall time” and street crepes all over again. Why? Under the late afternoon, fading sunlight of autumn, I had my first crepe smothered in Speculoos spread – wow! I have two favorite crepe stands in Paris (well, three – but the third is a whole category of its own, see below): the one on boulevard Montparnasse (north-side of the street, just before rue de Rennes) and the one on boulevard Saint Germain (north-east corner of the boulevard and rue Bonaparte).

I’d asked for a simple sugar crepe and watched as Mr. Crepe Man poured a ladle full of thick batter onto the pan. Then, my eyes began wandering as I waited. That’s when I spotted THE jar.

“Is the Speculoos good?” I inquired.

“Of course, a little bit, as long as you don’t abuse it.”

Interesting answer.

Next I know I’m about to sample what looks like peanut butter on the end of a small plastic spoon.

“I’ll have that instead. That’s more fun than sugar.” And to myself: “That’s all it is, is sugar! But, it’s fabulous. Kind of nutty, smooth, probably addicting.”

“You might be able to find this in the grocery store,” the man continues as he holds up the jar. “But that might be a bad idea,” he laughs.

“Yes, probably.” By now, I’m in crepe heaven.

So, yes, autumn has come to Paris. The leaves are changing from green to subtle tones of orange and brown. The air is that much brisker and the slower-paced rhythm of summer has faded away. The days are getting short (I’m getting up with the sunrise now – soon to be before the sunrise)… Wait, wait… not yet… I haven’t mentioned the best parts of summer:

I FINALLY GOT MY FRENCH DRIVER’S LICENSE!!!!!!

We also had two fun culinary adventures:

The first was L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon (Saint-Germain) with some good friends from the States. What a neat experience to sit up on high stools and watch the cooking (instead of sitting at an ordinary table in an ordinary restaurant away from the action). What was also neat about this restaurant was that you could choose from an array of mini-starters or “petites portions dégustation”. We chose two each, so ended up with eight different entrées! The marinated anchovies with grilled red peppers was my favorite, but one of our friends was raving about the “pieds de cochon” for the entire next week. Did I just mention pigs feet on THIS blog?!

The next was La Creperie du Comptoir (3, carrefour de l’Odéon, 6e). This is essentially a take-away place, but you can stand up at the bar and eat there. A friend had already mentioned this creperie, saying the galettes were “gourmet”. Of course I believed her but it took actually going to really understand what her enthusiasm was all about. I had a buckwheat crepe with tomato confit (dried, marinated tomatoes) and artichoke spread – you just don’t get that at any old crepe stand. Also, you can enjoy a glass of wine (the Languedoc was especially nice) and tapas starters (which are advertised on signs hanging from the ceiling). A very cool place to get a quick bite before heading to whatever other fun you have planned.

Yay! It’s almost time to go take the metro – and get back to my book.

In fact, in 2010 only 0,06% of all European agricultural spaces were subject to GMO use (a 23% decrease since 2008).

This is promising news.

Garric goes on to explain that only two GMO products are grown in Europe: corn (MON 810, from the American company Monsanto – no surprise) and potatoes (Amflora, from the German company BASF – approved by the European Commission just last year). I started getting tense as I read this, then learned that France (among seven other European countries) bans the use of MON 810 (a small sigh of relief). Such banning is part of the reason GMO use is declining in Europe, but the main reason, as the article highlights, is that 61% of the population opposes genetically modified products and chooses not to consume them.

That all sounds great, but the story isn’t quite so simple. Even though Europe isn’t growing many genetically modified produce, we are importing it from elsewhere – mostly to feed animals. Even though I, and the rest of the anti-GMO Europeans, don’t actively consume genetically modified products, traces of them end up in the animal products we consume (my homemade yogurt suddenly doesn’t sound so appetizing).

I’m against the use of GMOs in large part because we are not aware of potential dangers. I also don’t like the idea of agricultural and chemical companies dominating the production of seeds. You can argue that using GMOs can contribute to reducing the use of pesticides and, thus, our dependence on fossil fuels, but I don’t quite buy it. I don’t think replacing one evil with another is the ideal solution.

Since we’re on the topic, I’m reading Michael Pollan’s book The Omnivore’s Dilemma. The entire first part is dedicated to corn and how it has changed the face of American agriculture. Really interesting! Let’s hope Europe doesn’t end up there, too.

How can you not laugh when you see a row of over-sized underwear hanging in a wine shop’s window?

Twice a year French boutiques and department stores transform themselves into one of three kinds of art. Either they become life-sized Warhols and Pollocks, bursting with bright gaudy ribbons and attention-grabbing window signs.  With yellow, blue, pink and green stickers advertising reductions and bold pen slashes spoiling once pristine price tags, these shops come alive, blaring with color.  Or, shopkeepers get risque. They undress their headless mannequins from head to toe and wrap single ribbons around their skinny waists, clearly revealing those normally unrevealed body parts. Or, as in the case of the wine shop we found last Saturday (Les Caves Bossetti, 34 rue des archives, 4e/Specialty: wine from Burgundy), they hang up underwear. During the soldes anything goes.

For a good six weeks starting in both January and June, Parisian shops open their doors to an inimitable combination of curious foreign tourists and haughty, in-the-know Parisians, all looking for a good deal.  La Chambre de Commerce et d’Industrie organizes this much awaited bi-annual event and shop owners take it very seriously, respecting all rules and regulations.  The night before the pre-arranged start date (January 12 this year), employees methodically prepare their simple, yet catchy, window displays, slash price after price and bring out hibernating articles that have been saved just for the sales.

We actually participated in the first days of the sales this year – and what fun, as long as you stop for a break. You can go pretty much anywhere in the city (or all of France, really), but we stuck to the Marais area. Here you have both BHV (a classy department store where one seriously can spend four hours without  realizing it), as well as smaller, one-of-a-kind boutiques. I always like looking for original, slightly funky finds – so these shops are for me. Also, we discovered that the Marais is the best place to shop for men’s clothes (the BHV men’s store is even bigger than the women’s floor – note, “store” versus “floor,” please!). In addition to clothes, the Marais has great home-decorating boutiques and isn’t far from the bundle of cookery shops on rue Montmartre, near Saint-Eustache church.

Don’t think the soldes are easy. You have to take a break to eat. In the Marais, try Le Pain Quotidien. (18-20 rue des archives, 4e). A cozy place for fresh tartines and salads. You also have to do like the people around you: be decisive. There’s no coming back for it later!

Did I mention that even wine is on sale?

We haven’t broken into the “gâteau des rois” yet, but I’m feeling lucky today and think I just might be the one to get the piece with the “fève” hidden in it.

It’s a French tradition to celebrate Epiphany (today) with a special cake that has a surprise tucked inside (usually a miniature porcelain figurine). Whoever gets the special piece is royalty for the day. There are two kinds of cakes: the “galette des rois” and the “gâteau des rois”. The former is the most popular in Paris and I’ve even heard it referred to as the “galette Parisienne” in other parts of France (most often in a slightly condescending, “that’s not nearly as good as ours” kind of way). It’s made of puffed pastry and typically filled with “frangipane” (an almond and cream filling). The other one is often called the “couronne bordelaise”. It’s like a brioche (the best has a hint of orange in it) and is shaped like a giant bagel. This one’s actually kind of hard to find in Paris, but given all the bakeries, I’ve managed! If you ask someone from Paris, they’ll tell you the “galette” is the best. Guess what someone from Bordeaux would tell you, where the “couronne” (crown) is sold more than everywhere?

Why am I feeling like a queen today? Because I just passed the written part of the infamous French driving test! I’ve already mentioned it, but that was all the way back in May – in May! I’d heard all about it and skirted the issue for several years. When I finally decided to sign up, I didn’t know it would really be that big of a commitment. Well, here I am, halfway there!

That reminds me of a pleasant thought I had when walking into the apartment earlier this afternoon: “becoming French” has just kind of crept up on me. Peering around, I noticed that my life is surrounded by the most random clues that I’m living somewhere between two worlds (the familiar and the unfamiliar), and that little by little I’m becoming “one of them”. When I first came to France, I tried to be “Parisian.” Scarf, bag, shoes, haircut…. Now I laugh at those college juniors! Best way to spot a foreigner: they’re sporting all the “French” touches at the same time. All through grad school, I continued making my efforts: only speak in French (yes, even when I’m tired), only read in French, only eat French food, read about French history, meet French people…French, French, French….France, France, France.

Then, I got married and the strangest thing happened. All of a sudden, France became more than an obsession; it became permanent. With that, oddly, I stopped trying – but, in a good way. It was then that I accepted that I was not French and no matter how hard I tried, never would be. I was a foreigner, integrated yes, but a foreigner all the same. I started saying things like, heck (I know, I really do say that some times), “I’m wearing my tennis shoes to the bakery.” It felt really good. I wasn’t rejecting France, I was just also accepting that other, more familiar, part of me.

Then, once I stopped trying, the creeping started coming in. I do things now I definitely didn’t do five years ago.

10 ways I’ve become just that much more “French”:

1. In winter, I leave vegetables (like broccoli and carrots) and other random items out on the kitchen counter instead of refrigerating them.

2. I scrape the mold off old cheese and eat what’s underneath.

3. I like my baguette with a good meal, and a good sauce.

4. I take a caddy to the farmers’ market.

5. I measure butter on a scale (in grams!)

6. I never leave the house without a scarf.

7. I always take my umbrella (that’s Paris, not France!)

8. I love an espresso after a good meal and have to have a hot drink in the mornings.

9. I read Le Figaro more than The New York Times.

10. I just passed the written!

]]> http://thetomatoknife.com/2011/01/queen-for-a-day/feed/ 2 http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/05/homemade-engine-revving-muesli-recipe/ http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/05/homemade-engine-revving-muesli-recipe/#comments Sun, 23 May 2010 12:18:48 +0000 Joy Anna Becvarik http://thetomatoknife.com/?p=1225 After avoiding the subject for way too long, I’ve signed up for French driving lessons. Unless your American license was issued in one of the 13 states (see below) that have a reciprocity agreement with France, you have to take both the written and driving tests once you live here permanently. That means drivers’ ed all over again.

Technically, one could sign up on their own for these two tests, but the catch is that you must have a car equipped with brakes on the left and right sides. On your own, you also have to register for the exams through the Préfecture- a process that seems quite daunting to me. The only real solution for those of us from the “other 37 states” is to go through a driving school.

Advantages:

1. The school takes care of the registration at the Préfecture.

2. You learn what is expected of you on the exams.

3. You learn all sorts of French vocabulary you’ll never learn in college (i.e. point mort = neutral, angle mort = blind spot). And, yes, all the references to death (mort) do freak me out a bit.

Disadvantages:

1. Expensive (at least 1,000 euros for the classes and exams).

2. Time-consuming (you actually have to study, even if you already “know” how to drive). The whole process takes several months.

3. Apparently, less than 60% of the candidates get their license on the first try (and in Paris, you may have to wait up to six months for another exam date!).

See why I’ve put it off for so long?

Short-term visitors and students in France can both drive on their American licenses- no problem. Foreign residents can drive on theirs for up to one year. For those who have the right to exchange their license, they must do it in these first twelve months- otherwise, all is lost and they have to take the lessons and tests. To date, these states are part of the agreement: Arkansas, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Kansas, Kentucky, Michigan, New Hampshire, Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Virginia.

One of the hardest parts about this whole process is finding a decent driving school. After quite a bit of research and a few visits, I ended up going with this school. These were my criteria:

1. Convenient location and open hours

2. “Reasonably” priced (haha!)*

3. A friendly vibe and professional atmosphere

*I chose a school with the best value for the money. For example, they propose unlimited classroom courses and three months access to their on-line lessons and practice tests (many schools didn’t offer this at all). I chose not to go with the most inexpensive schools, but a medium-priced and well-established one. Driving schools in Paris are more than abundant and the smaller ones frequently go out of business.

I’m actually having fun studying, especially when I ask people who already have their license the mock questions and they don’t know the answers. It’s not their fault. It’s simply that the test is difficult and not always straight-forward. The way the questions are formulated can be tricky and you have to learn to think like the test (makes me feel like I’m taking the SATs all over again). I’m also having fun putting to work what I’m learning by walking around Paris, pretending I’m a police officer. I give imaginary tickets to, well, pretty much everyone.

In order to give me test-studying energy, I started off the morning with some home-made muesli. Originally from Switzerland, it’s made of uncooked cereals and is extremely easy to make. The advantage of making it yourself is that you can choose whatever ingredients you want- and you won’t get stuck picking out dried coconut shavings, for example.

The three essential ingredients are:

1. Uncooked, very slightly toasted cereal flakes

2. Dried fruits

3. Nuts

I used a combination of five different cereals in equal parts. If you don’t find them already toasted, you can do it yourself. Be careful not to leave them in the oven too long- otherwise they’ll become too crispy, like granola. Muesli should practically be raw.

Toasting the nuts, like the cereals, brings out the flavor. I especially like adding slivered almonds. I grill them (without any oil) in a frying pan. Watch them very carefully, as they cook fast- I’ve burnt many a batch!

Recommended ingredients:

Barley flakes

Oat flakes

Rice flakes

Rye flakes

Wheat flakes

Small Sultana raisins

Slightly toasted slivered almonds

Combine ingredients and you’re done. Top with sliced banana for extra fuel.

This week I got to meet David Lebovitz and picked up a beautiful (and heavy) copy of his latest cookbook, Ready for Dessert.

Once a pastry chef at Alice Water’s Berkley-based restaurant, Chez Panisse, Lebovitz now lives in Paris. On his blog and in his books, he not only shares recipes, but also comical anecdotes about his everyday life in Paris- many of which the rest of us can identify with. My first glimpse into the chef/author’s world of witty sarcasm and goofy observations came as I was leafing through the introduction of an earlier book, The Sweet Life in Paris. Here, he describes the “exact” moment he “became Parisian.” This story alone is worth a trip to the bookstore, especially for we foreigners who will undoubtedly chuckle and say, “That’s so true!”

At the WHSmith-sponsored reading, Lebovitz kept joking about one of his recent blog posts and his misadventures at the grocery store. I, too, have grocery store stories, but more generally I seem to have plastic bag stories. This, in fact, is one of the five or so items I’ve cried over in France- well, it’s never really the bag itself, but the callous person behind the bag who is always the last straw in an already long line of straws. One of the bag stories put an end to my buying produce at the grocery store. The other story put an end to frequenting one of my favorite boulageries.

I don’t actually know what the real policy is because each grocery store employee seems to dictate their own rules. Until that day (incidentally, the same day Obama was sworn into the White House), no one had ever abided to the “all produce must be in a much-too-big plastic bag” mantra. In many European grocery stores, you must weigh your produce and stick the price on it before proceeding to the cash register. In some stores, there is someone who does this for you- usually they are friendly enough. The weighing process often involves a large plastic bag- which I never want (and, in my opinion, goes directly against the grocery stores’ marketing ads supporting sustainable development). Sometimes, there are small paper bags that you can use, but it seems I’m always having to ask for them. Thus, for thick-skinned, easily-portable items (such as a single lemon or three attached bananas), I’ll get them weighed without a bag. Usually, no one cares and I leave the store happily counting the lack of non-biodegradable items in my canvas shopping tote. One day, however, the antagonist of my story not only says (in a very unfriendly tone) that my lemon must be in a plastic bag, she refuses to give me a paper bag (stacked in a neat pile next to the scale)- even after I tried to explain why I didn’t want yet another plastic bag (that would be sealed with the price sticker and, once broken, not reusable). I went on about how it was the store’s policy to be sustainable. When people aren’t friendly, I don’t buy- unfortunate for me, because I couldn’t make lemon bars that day.

My other plastic bag story was at the bakery, about three years after moving to France. Had it been any old bakery, I might not have cared so much, but this was the very first bakery I had ever been to in France and, thus, it had quite a bit of sentimental value attached to it. I remember buying my first pain aux raisins from a cheerful, blonde girl with a bouncy ponytail. It was the most wonderful thing my twenty-something self had ever eaten. Throughout that entire first year I went there all the time. Thus, my deception when, years later, a grumpy woman refused to give me a plastic bag (the only reason I wanted one was because I had just bought two items, it was raining and I didn’t have any room in my book bag). Completely unprepared for the storm that was to hit me, I was paralyzed by the bark that informed me the bags were only for the sandwiches. I tried to insist, and was hoping the people in line behind me would support my cause, but all I ended up with was a pool full of water about to overflow from my eyes. I managed to get out of there before the tears really started flowing and my face turned all red.

These stunned, helpless moments don’t happen that often, but when they do- I wonder, “Was it my fault?” When I ask Sébastien (who in the evening can probably still see the blood simmering under my skin), he says, “No” and that “It’s not normal.” This is to say that even French people find this sort of behavior shocking and wonder where it comes from. Since neither of us are from a big city, we wonder if it’s that. Or maybe it’s the latitude and the lack of sunlight in winter that creates a handful of grumps. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s these few cranky people who give France a bad image. Think about it, if I came to Paris for a week-long vacation and encountered the woman at the bakery, I’d probably say “the French are rude,” too- something we know isn’t generally true.

Back to Lebovitz, go out and get his latest book if you’re up for baking (and stories). Also, if you’re interested in meeting him, he’ll be at Café Etienne Marcel on Friday, May 28^th. Check the WH Smith website for details.

You can’t have a blog on Paris without mentioning the infamous

This is where one goes for a handful of administrative documents in France, and in a foreigner’s case, for your titre de séjour- the card that gives you permission to live in France and acts as your “identity card.”  Once you move to Paris the Préfecture kind of becomes part of your life- like the post office, the bank, the grocery store (okay, maybe we won’t go that far).  After a while you just kind of get to know it, and most expats seem to have a story to tell- from waiting in line to being sent back home to fetch a missing document, from misunderstandings with employees to just plain confusion.  Maybe I’ve just been lucky, or maybe I’m just strange, but I actually kind of like going to the Préfecture.

The old stately building in located right in the center of Paris, on Ile de la Cité.  I usually arrive by metro, anxiously poking my head out of ground to have a peek at the row of green huts lined up out in front.  These little shops are overflowing with all sorts of plants for sale- and many also display Christmas ornaments that are always fun to look at through the large glass windows.  Then I turn around and see the stately Préfecture- and my husband waiting patiently for me on a bench.

This afternoon, though, I decided to take the 72 bus which strides along the Seine and lets me out on the north side of the water, so that I have to cross over the Pont Notre Dame in order to get to the island.  This is my favorite part of the journey- crossing the bridge and looking out over the Seine toward the west.  No matter what time of year, or what time of day, the sky is always striking.  I’ve seen pale hazy pink, bright clear blue, and cold misty grey hovering above the rows of bridges.

What always surprises me about the Préfecture is actually how quickly it all goes.  Since we were married, Sébastien and I have had to return every year to renew my titre de séjour, and then go back a month or so later to pick it up.  While the initial meeting with an agent takes longer, I can usually bet on ten or fifteen minutes to pick it up- I know, not the usual story we hear.   The secret is knowing where to go and in what order.

I walk through the security doors and through the main entry way- no point in stopping at the front desk like I did the very first time- I just continue out the back door and take two lefts until I see “Caisse” marked on a door to my left.  This is where I buy the timbre OMI (Office des Migrations Internationales)- a 70 euro stamp that they will stick on my papers.  Then I  walk directly back out this door and cross the hallway to a little machine that gives me a number when I press the button.  Today I was only three people away from the next agent.  This is where I see most people getting confused.  Instead of going directly to the cash register, they wait with a number to go through the magic titre de séjour doors, then they come out in search of the hidden register and missing stamp.  My advice is simply to not wait in line and go through those doors until you are armed with:

- the stamp

- your passport

- your old titre de séjour

- your récipissée (a piece of paper that proves you’ve requested a new titre de séjour- it basically bridges the gap between the old one, which is expired by now, and the new one, and lets you get back in the country if you leave during the change-over)

When it’s your turn, you walk through the doors, smile and say “Bonjour” to the agent, sign a paper and walk back out the door with a shiny, laminated card.

Then you walk out the exit, which is to the south- completely the opposite direction from where you came in.  Your entire body feels weightless and smugly satisfied because, after all, you’ve just accomplished something and, admit it, you’re happy to know Paris is your city for at least another year- as though it’s yours and only yours- and you walk past Notre Dame, back over the Seine, and look out over the ever-present sky, remembering all the reasons you’re in Paris in the first place.