has the magic worn off? the sad truth and some non-food pictures

For years I could travel and eat and drink and drink and eat and drink and travel with no ill effects. I drank tap water in Rajastan (thinking, what's the worst that could happen, so I'll lose 5 pounds?) -- I was fine. I ate fat and starch in Eastern Europe - I was fine. I ate salads in Cambodia, street food in China - I was fine. I downed glass after glass of beverages (what's the worst that can happen, I'll need to call a car?) - I was fine. Foie gras, butter, scallops, potatoes cooked in goose fat, chocolate -- I concluded that one didn't gain weight travelling because of the state of heightened alertness, because I was almost always in motion when not sitting at a table, dodging traffic, darting in and out of stores, climbing stairs, etc etc etc. And of course when you're doing that kind of stuff between meals, you're not eating.

And then it caught up with me.

The first sign of trouble: Certain once-loved jeans that were comfortable when setting off, could not be worn on the plane home. Well, they could only I wanted to wear them closed. And anyone who's worked on airplanes knows that the time comes when you blow up like a balloon on takeoff and do not immediately deflate upon landing. So, OK, a week or 10 days to de-puff. Salt is not my friend (but I knew that).

And then the de-puffing, well, didn't.

I've been a dark gray mood ring, as Dani once described the state of things, since I got back from France, apparently the magical property of travel that prevents weight gain because you're always on the go - has worn off without warning, and I've been living in my sad fat clothes while I try to reverse the awful truth. Sigh. So even though there are lovely restaurant pictures in my iPhone, I'll continue to defer the food posts.



However, that doesn't mean I didn't take other pictures. One of the things I love about being in Paris is that no matter how modern and commercial the area, there are almost always alleys and courtyards that remind you you're really in Paris. Above are some random shots I grabbed as we were going up the external escalator of the Pompidou Museum.

and here are some glimpses of the more amusing art on exhibit indoors:

So while I was bemused to see a Theory store on the Rue St-Honoré,

just across the street from Colette,

I was glad to see that Colette continues to feature whimsy and irony.

a block or two further on, clinging to the side of the Eglise St. Roch 

(St Rocco's Church), is a street that suggests Parisian life in another era.

In many large cities, my own included, people pay lip service to the treasures of the past and build towering stacks of investment properties that will never be lived in, glass ice cubes of offices that deal in imaginary or imagined assets... and the sandwich shop, the hardware store, the independent  druggist - well, you're away for two or three weeks and they've vanished and still more overpriced shoe stores have moved in. I love me some cute shoes, but still...  I'm not particularly nostalgic for the times in which I grew up, except sometimes for the prices of stuff. And for the home-made potato salad at a long-gone neighborhood store.

But is there a word for nostalgia about times further past, about houses one couldn't possibly have lived in, about a grace and elegance one couldn't possibly have achieved, about sights and smells that were already vanishing in Nana's day? Kind of a weird déja vu, maybe. And a rather selective sentimental wish list, especially about the aromas, come to think of it.