Enjoyed people watching at a favorite local café before heading over to Shakespeare & Co.

I arrived at Shakespeare & Co. after 2 Métro rides. Lucky for me, there wasn’t a line, so I went straight in! What a great bookstore. I knew that they only sold English books, but I was shocked that everyone spoke only English to each other and to the customers. They can speak French, but they don’t unless necessary. And I didn’t find it to be a tourist trap at all. So charming! It remolded me so much of the beloved Farley’s Book shop in New Hope. Same vibe – with some merchandising, fo course, but so what. I was happy to do my part in supporting them. Translation: I bought some things.

I really didn’t have enough time to hit Montmartre AND meet my conversation group, so I pulled up Google Maps to see what there was in the area near the group’s meeting spot at Place de la Bastille. Voilà, I found a tiny museum, and I mean tiny. I don’t know how it qualifies as a museum except for the fact that it calls itself one.

Le Musée de Fumeur

I didn’t have a lot of time, and that wasn’t going to be a problem. I was intrigued, what can I say. For whatever reason, this city is crazy for smoking. I thought maybe the museum would give me some insight. Yeah, no. It’s bizarre, really, and I feel a little sad about it. At any rate, I spent the 2 euros and went in to back room of the shop, or the museum.

I had a great conversation with the store clerk because he is a graphic artist, and the « museum » featured some interesting advertisement art.

Of course they glamorized smoking by using women in art/advertisements, but so did the U.S. back in the day. These ads are quite old and cigarettes are only available at magasins du Tabac, and they’re expensive. Their answer? They all roll their own. Smoking is no longer allowed indoors at restaurants, and I remember when that happened in the States. So maybe change is coming.

Before long, it was time to make my way to the café for two hours of French conversation.

I was waiting for a bus when a French woman stared at me and started talking to me. I couldn’t understand everything she said, but then she commented on my smile, and was intrigued. LOL! « Oh, oui, alors, je suis américaine, … c’est normale pour moi, » and we both cracked up. French people don’t smile the way we do, or the way I do anyway. I do smile a lot, it’s just my nature. I don’t need anything funny for me to smile. It just happens.

AT this point, the woman was distracted and seemed quite concerned about how long she would have to wait for the bus. Normally, it shows on the signage at every stop, but this one was out. A first! She started walking away, wondering if she should make other plans, so I called after her. I have the CityMapper app which shows all the bus/ métro times. I told her it would be less than 10 minutes and showed her the app on my phone, speaking « CityMapper » as if I were a French person speaking English. This keeps happening. It doesn’t last, but it keeps happening. Anyway, she was so happy and thankful. We continued chatting as we waited with « beaucoup de monde. » And now she was smiling — like an American!

I made my way to the café and was surprised at how many participants there were in the conversation group made up of Francophiles who speak both English and French. So when a man named François asked to sit with me, I was a little puzzled, but said, Absolument. Finally, I asked if he was a teacher. LOL! I was truly confused as to why he would be in this group. Right? I mean… he certainly didn’t need any practice in speaking French. Anyway, he told me he joined so that he could work on his English. Ah, bien. Parfait! He and I decided 15 minutes of French, then 15 minutes of English, etc. That worked very well, though we both strayed at times, breaking the rules. We corrected each other and managed a nice conversation. He had tea. I had champagne. Who’s more French, here? Are you surprised? I toasted the group, thanking them for welcoming me.

Afterwards, I flagged a cab like a NY’er on Broadway — leaving the 11ème— returning to my precious 6ème.