I've recently remembered that I've always hated the smell of a French kitchen.  All it took was one trip to the market and the purchase of three small pieces of cheese, and that smell came back powerfully into my memory.  There's nothing you can do.  You can try ziplock bags and plastic containers, whatever.  Whenever you open the fridge, the smell is overpowering.  And even with it closed, it permeates everything, even the laundry that's drying in the kitchen (they don't have dryers here.)

It doesn't help that I'm caught in a catch 22 about the garbage, so that I can't put my garbage out for collection (the cheese does smell even stronger when left out of the fridge).  In order to recycle, you have to acquire special yellow and blue bags, but those are only available at certain times of the year (i.e., not now, of course) and though I have scoured the neighborhood with Mimi and Matthias in tow (the only two little enough to be bullied into accompanying me on such fools' errands) to find the places where you are supposed to be able to pick up those famous but elusive bags at off times, there is always a problem.  Oh, no, you cannot have the bags unless you have the brochure, and you cannot have the brochure unless you can prove that you live there, and on and on.

But, I had actually promised myself not to complain today, so here goes for the positive spin:

The bread and cheese are so so good here, it's hard to remember that the only reason the French can eat these things and not get enormous is that they eat tiny portions.  I want large portions.  

Matthias and Mimi convinced me to take them on a little touristy train ride around the city.  It turned out surprisingly interesting: most of the city's wealth was acquired in the slave trade, so most of its magnificent buildings date from the 18th century when they basically destroyed the medieval city.  The commentary on the city's enrichment through the slave trade was surprisingly (to my American ears) matter-of-fact, no angst, no guilt, no nod in the direction of the lasting African heritage in the city, just requests for admiration for the beauty of the classical lines of the architecture, the whiteness of the stone, and the elegance of the promenades.  

On the way back from our little train adventure, we discovered a little park (square, they call them) right behind the cathedral that still has part of the original 13th century fortifications as part of its walls.  It even has two flowering trees, two rocking playground equipment pieces (Matthias laughed at that "why do they just have those two things?" he mocked), and an ancient gorgeous tree.  I will try to go back this afternoon to get a picture.

We are eagerly awaiting the arrival of my mother with our dog.  Sean left at 5 this morning to go pick them up at the Paris airport.  At least the dog never complains when I try to take it for a walk.  And I feel less guilty leaving the kids at home to walk or run with the dog, because she provides me with a competing duty to fulfill (I'm not just going for a walk or a run because I want to, but because the dog needs it).