a word on the wonder that is "la crepe".

I made Sunday a productive day. After paying 7 euros for tokens and discovering that the ONE washing machine and dryer for all 180 residents of the foyer was all booked up for the day, I headed around the corner to spend another six euros at the laundromat. After spreading my jeans out on the heater in my room after an unsuccessful two spins in the dryer, I showered and decided to take the metro to a stop I'd never been to before, right off ligne 4, a pretty direct cut through the heart of touristy Paris.

Line 4 hits a lot of the hot-spots listed in guidebooks: the boulevard St. Michel, St. Germain, Chatelet which leads you right to the Hotel de Ville, etc. It's hellish in the morning, when people are crammed up against the windows like a full glass jar of olives, and businessmen and university students struggle to open their "journal quotidien" to catch up on daily news.

Paris is, however, quite pleasant on Sunday afternoons. The tourists are still around, but I really can't totally exclude myself from those map-reading, photo-taking, overly-chatty crowds because I, like them, am continually awestruck and find it hard to keep my eyes to the ground, in classic Parisian style, as I walk around town.

After walking around the 14th arrondissement for a little while, I decided that, although I have given up chocolate for Lent, my penance for 60 of my limited days in Paris absolutely can NOT extend to Nutella filled crepes. With cold hands from the February air, I fumbled for my precious Carte Orange (my monthly metro pass) and in two minutes, had descended the stairs into the nutty, warm smell of the metro once again.

I rode for about twenty minutes, up to St. Michel, an area I knew that vendors found many tourists, lusting for all things Parisian, to prey upon. With my back to the fountain on the boulevard, which had been filled with bubbles one morning last summer, a large jar with a recognizable red, white, and black label caught my eye.

NUTELLA.

As I anxiously stood in line, two euro coins warm in my palm, I looked on in disbelief as the couple in front of me ordered galettes, savory crepes featuring some mixture of egg, ham, and cheese. With a sweet, oozing Nutella crepe on my mind, I couldn't imagine how anyone could order anything else.

After an agonizing wait, my turn had arrived. One word was all the man needed; I suppose the look in my eyes said the rest. I handed over my money, and at last, the heat from this glorious treat warmed my palms.

I have to announce my disclaimer here:
Stephen Cloughley makes a damn good crepe. On Sunday mornings in the Cloughley house, the big red one with the white trim, you will often find four (sometimes five or more) people happily munching on crepes that have been absolutely perfected over a year or so.

HOWEVER...

No amount of persuasion, or of Dad's masterpieces (sorry dad), could convince me that there is anything better than standing in the middle of the Latin Quarter in Paris, understanding what the man behind the counter just said to me in French, and seeing the color of the Nutella turn another shade of brown inside the crisp shell of the crepe.

I knew it was perfect as I licked the dregs off my now toasty hands, and I got that feeling-- I could drink three liters of water right now.

And so I've decided that Sunday will be crepe day. And if I have a previous engagement, crepe day will be moved accordingly. Also, if I have visitors, I will eat a crepe every day with aforementioned guest... the best hostess should, of course, show Paris in all its glory-- encased in a white paper triangle, crispy around the edges, and oozing with molten Nutella.