Early Sunday morning I breezed through the passport checkpoint for the 14th time in my life. The security guard casually glanced at my photo, the old visa pasted in the pages, and stamped my passport with a resounding thump. I think this is the first time my passport has ever been stamped by the French authorities. They’ve also done away with a disembarkment card, which leaves me wondering how they know I’m here. In a world where getting into most countries requires an act of God, I’ve gone through passport control, picked up my luggage, and sailed past all the customs officials within 30 minutes.

I greet my Paris Shuttle driver in French and hop into the front seat since I’m the only single passenger in his packed van. He’s surprised I can actually speak the language, and we chat amiably on the drive into the city. Every shuttle driver I’ve ever had uses the same carsickness-inducing technique of speeding up and slowing down at regular intervals. It must be something they learn in shuttle driving school. No matter how fast we’re going or how close we are to another vehicle, the driver steps on the gas and then releases in a steady rhythm. I’m thankful to be the first stop on his route.

Turning the key in Geoffroy’s apartment, I’m home. Now that we’re getting married, I’m allowed to use his real name. Fabrice is Geoffroy – or Jeffery in English. The familiar smell of sandalwood and soap greets my nose, and I instantly relax. Who knew that coming to such a huge foreign city would feel so comfortable? Perhaps it's because my heart is here.

The next morning I’m up at the crack of dawn with Geoffroy. He starts work at 7:00 AM, so he’s out the door by 6:15. Having napped for five hours the day before, I’m ready to go. But Paris is still shrouded in a heavy cloak of dark mist, encouraging people to stay in their beds.

Later that afternoon I meet up with my classmate from Le Cordon Bleu, Nina. Born in Germany but raised in Canada, Nina is still in Paris two years later. She and her boyfriend both have EU passports so they can work to their heart’s content. She is just about to start her new chocolate internship at a tiny chocolatier Jean-Charles Rochoux tucked into a small street in the 6th arrondissement. As it’s Monday, she shop is closed but we can still peak into its tiny windows and marvel at the carefully sculpted treats.

We leisurely wander up the winding Paris streets until we find ourselves at Saint-Sulpice. Just around the corner is Pierre Hermé, so we drop in to marvel at the pastry and pick up a few macarons with passion fruit and milk chocolate ganache.

Although it’s only 45 degrees or so, we find front row seats at an outdoor café. The watery winter sunlight feels warm on our faces as we face the massive Saint-Sulpice, her façade covered for restoration. We each take turns catching the other up on our lives as we watch cars, mopeds, and pedestrians stream by.

As we are close to Geoffoy’s current place of employment, we hang around the area. He’ll be off in an hour or so. Nina takes me two famous chocolate shops she considered working at before choosing Jean-Charles Rochoux. We peer in the imposing glass windows of Belgian chocolate maker Pierre Marcolini. Like the cold, black stone shop front, the service inside is frosty. Evidently we don’t look like, dress like, or speak like their desired clientele. But once we begin asking questions in French, the reception turns from chilly to lukewarm. As it’s close to Valentines Day, we purchase shiny brightly red hearts. The white chocolate coating gives way to a dark chocolate layer surrounding a sumptuous raspberry ganache.

Treats in hand, we’re off to Patrick Roger, arguably the best chocolatier in Paris. Not only are his chocolates creative and gorgeous to look at, but they taste amazing too. Nina buys me one that has basil and lime ganache enrobed in a thin coating of deep, dark chocolate. Visiting his website is like watching a movie and reflects the style of his chocolate-making expertise.

Not quite sated by the chocolate tasting, we settle into a corner café in the window and order chocolate chaud (hot chocolate). The waiter sets two cups of rich, thick chocolate in front of us as pours in hot steaming milk. We pass away the time waiting for Geoffroy by sipping, chatting, and people watching.

Ah Paris. Je t’aime!

2 Comments  Leave a Comment