Today, all the green neon crosses have been extinguished. 

I stalked the four corners of the ninth arrondissement in search of an open pharmacy, and had almost given up in despair until I finally found one with a list of "Pharmacies de garde"– that is, pharmacies that will stay open while all the other ones shut so that those people so unfortunate as to still be in Paris on this, the deadest day of summer, can still get their life-saving ointments and pills. 

I flung myself dramatically in the door of the pharmacy at 18, rue Saint-Georges.  "J’ai un ordonnance à remplir," I declared semi-dramatically.  The hotly, dark-haired man behind the counter looked at the sheet of paper I thrust in front of him and looked back at me with a raised eyebrow.  Then he wordlessly fetched my three-month supply of birth control pills, surely wondering all the while what might be behind such an urgent need. 

You see, I’m off to NY tonight! and I will use up the last of this month’s supply while I’m there.  And I needed to be able to start the next month’s pack.  And I of course left this to the last minute, not realizing that everything in Paris is closed on August 15th, even FNAC, Printemps, and Galeries Lafayette.

Why must I always learn these things the hard way?

And why do I find myself lately sharing all manner of details on my blog?

Last night, Gilles and I tried out a new Italian place that mysteriously opened at some point during the last week or so on Avenue Trudaine, near my apartment.  It’s incredible– I never even noticed people working in there.  I have no recollection of what occupied that corner before.  But suddenly, yesterday, there it was: sleek, shiny, and enormous. 

We discovered it while walking to the metro.  I warily eyed the interloper.  It didn’t look like it belonged.  It didn’t fit in with the neighborhood.  We’re more bo than bo in this neighborhood, if you know what I mean.  The area around rue de Rochecouart is great– filled with funky, unexpected boutiques with a helping of hipster-type restaurants.  There are a couple of more upscale dining establishments, such as La Table d’Anvers or A Tavola (neither of which I’ve been to for dinner– they’re that upscale).  But we have nothing as far out as Sole.  For that is the name of the new restaurant:  Sole.  It looks as if it would be more at home in London or New York.  I could see it in the more moneyed quarters of Paris.  But its glitter is certainly not appropriate to this corner of the 9th.   We clean up nice, but we’s humble folks.

Anyway.  Gilles and I, ever adventurous, decided to check it out for dinner last night.  In a nutshell: too loud (too many shiny, hard surfaces) with spotty (if well-intentioned) service.  But the food was decent.  The carpaccio all’arabbiata I ordered to begin was excellent, as was the bread that accompanied it.  My tagliolini grana would have been better if they hadn’t brought it out so early (while I was still eating my appetizer) that cooled off and stuck together in a way that made it a challenge to eat.  Gilles’s orrechiette baresi was yummy but I had the nagging feeling that I could have made it better.  Never a feeling you enjoy getting when you’re paying 11 euros for a pasta dish.  The house red was fruity– my verdict was positive, but Gilles swallowed with a grimace, pronounced it "trop sucré!" and ever so slyly added a pinch of salt to his glass.  He took another sip and nodded, more satisfied.

Getting the waitress to wait on us was exhausting, so we threw in the towel and skipped dessert (though the dessert list was tempting).  I was disappointed, overall, in my experience at Sole– particularly because this night was not just any night.  It was the last night we had together before the winds of fate part us for three weeks.  He left for Croatia this morning; I wing my way to New York on Monday.  We reconvene in Paris when I return on the 3rd.  So– you know– when you’re having a special goodbye-I’ll-miss-you dinner, you want it to be amazing, impeccable.  Alas.  The company was impeccable, but Sole has a lot to learn.

One good thing about dating a French boy: when you have to say goodbye to them, you are guaranteed a laugh to break up the pathos of your parting.  They will try to express to you in your native language that they will miss you.  But because of the cruelty of French reflexive pronouns, when they try to translate literally, they will end up stammering things like "You will miss me– I mean– I you missing will be– I mean– oh, putain, tu me manqueras, chérie!"