And So?

The bag from Coquelicot bakery in Montmartre made me laugh for about 10-minutes nonstop. It says, "Mangez des gateaux plus souvent!"

My friends and I have decided to spend our weekend at an undisclosed location (suffice to say that it is super awesome) and finally take advantage of the wonderful European train system. However, as I was so cruelly reminded this morning, another "great" thing about France is its love of unions and ability to organize social movements, i.e. strike like nobody's business.

I sashayed into practicum this morning, all madeleines and sunshine, dreaming of my fun ahead and planning the cute travel outfit I will wear, when a classmate said, "Hey, aren't you going to _____ this weekend?"

"Why, as a matter of fact I am!"

"Oh, so you figured out how to get around the strike?"

At this point I started laughing hysterically, because strikes are such a cliché— the proverbial flat tire in European backpacking— that I thought she surely must be heckling me.

Our professor overheard this, her ears finely tuned in to pick up these not-so-uncommon inconveniences, "La grève?"

The class nodded solemnly while I must have turned green, regretting such a sugary breakfast. She shrugged in that way I'm still trying to master, apparently unfazed.

As it turns out, this particular strike will not effect international trains and ends on Thursday. If you're wondering how I found this out, it's because although French workers' unions are inconsiderate enough to prevent 50% of the country from traveling, they are also frighteningly efficient, creating an official website for their efforts.

I am not kidding: http://www.infolignes.com/sommaire.php3

And, because I don't want to disappoint those of you who read especially for the foodie bits, after class today E, N and I went to Sale e Pepe in Montmartre to sample the legendary lunch menu that we read about in BlackBook Magazine: an appetizer, slice of pizza, pasta, dessert and grappa for 15 euro. However, I am here to tell you that this was a dirty, dirty lie. The only thing on the menu was pizza. However, we weren't disappointed as it was INCREDIBLE— just as good as and possibly better than Lombardi's or anyplace in NYC. What distinguished it for me were the toppings. Normally I am not a toppings girl, as I hate wet, old vegetables out of a can on my cheesy goodness. But the artichokes, ham, red peppers, salami and mushrooms were so fresh and enjoyable, I was practically pushing aside the margarita we got.

The place was tiny and adorable, with only one man running it, so we forgave him for cheating us of the promised feast. However, the other group in the restaurant didn't. We overheard them asking him if they, "Could please ask him a question?" at which point, we all looked wide-eyed at each other, perfectly aware that when someone is that polite, shit is about to go down. It turns out they were asking about the disappearance of the menu too. We never got a satisfactory answer. Maybe the kitchen was on strike?