A musician of sorts inhabits the apartment above ours. I listen to them practice the piano during the week and the guitar on the weekends. The simple, imperfect sounds of both, particularly the piano, make me feel less homesick.

A beautiful, sunny morning allowed me to explore my own neighborhood. I started on Avenue Mozart, ultimately taking myself to Rue du Passy and its shopping district. My consumption was limited to a raspberry brioche and some much-needed mascara. At twenty past two I realized I had lost track of time and ran back to the apartment. A few days before, Mika and I agreed to go to a garden exposition with the madame and we were supposed to meet at the apartment at 2:00 sharp.

To be technical, it was a botany exposition showcasing the work of Patrick Blanc, the man who designed the façade of the new non-Occidental culture and art museum in Paris. As liberal and free as my interests run, this was easily the most unimpressive show I have ever witnessed and perhaps the single-most boring thing I have done in years. There were no flowers; just plants. To me, they looked like the exact same plants you can find growing in the backwoods of, or alongside the road in, Michigan. They did construct an intriguing way to exhibit the algae; transparent tubes recycled running water so that the algae and moss could be shown in its natural, wet state. It was crowded and hot, but at least I knew our carbon dioxide was being put to good use. I was able to take one picture before the security guard got to me, so this may possibly be the only photographic record of this extraordinary event. The best part of the show was seen as we were leaving -- the line of people waiting to get in wrapped around the entire city block. Sorry Paris, not this time.

After a croque madame sans jambon (the fault of Le Parisien, 54 rue du Four, 6), my host family and I parted ways. I returned to the Café du Panis and read a book on revolutionary France, ordering a glass of Bordeaux and un crêpe citron. By the time my reading and wine were finished, I thought it a wonderful idea to share a bottle with other aspiring writers. Filled with glee, I found a wine shop nearby. I had the shopkeeper uncork the bottle (Côte de Rhone) and found my merry way through the Latin Quarter to Shakespeare & Co. One quick note about le quartier latin. This is so far my favorite area of Paris. At night, it becomes very bright and loud, especially with the restaurant owners smashing plates outside on the street to encourage passerby to come in and dine. It’s popular with the tourists, but the streets never sit stagnant because they are narrow and interlace, pouring the crowds into all directions.

After a couple hours at S & Co., I finished a few chapters of various criticisms and convinced two fellow literary enthusiasts to share my wine. The shop closed at midnight, and a second bottle of le Côte later Schane (an American) and I were talking shop over falafel (Le Gyros, 3 rue de la Harpe, 5). We chose to ascend Montmartre in search of dessert. In the subway station, there was the most adorable drunk French girl dancing with a balloon. She stood still long enough for me to snap a photograph and then we introduced ourselves and escorted her to her friend’s apartment, but not without stopping for a third bottle of wine.

The night took us all over Montmartre, from Sacré-Coeur and Le Lapin Agile back down to Boulevard Clichy. One noteworthy observation was of the young folks, who drove their cars to the top of the hill over looking Paris, parked, played their car radios and danced into the wee hours of the night. We never did get any dessert.

Objective Truth: Wine is very cheap. Here is the evidence that a bottle doesn't have to cost any more than 2€.