We stroll across Pont Louis Philippe and weave our way over to Rue St Denis. No cars during special hours are the rule along much of this shop lined street. All kinds of shops from bawdy, think Bourbon St, to French fast food line the way. It's funky fun.
We find Magic Smile and quite contrary to our expectations there is only one other customer. We wait while she is set up in her egg chair and then it's our turn. The clerk speaks a little English but is glad for my help to convey to Donny what she means as I slowly figure it out. She tells me I am a good teacher when I suggest bateau to help her remember how to pronounce bottom. She is trying to explain top and bottom in reference to our mouth. She mutters something about lessons. On another trip without a looming art project this could work.
Twenty minutes later we are sparkling whiter. I consider a second treatment as the chemicals and light can only do so much but don't want to make Donny wait and he is finished. Holding your mouth open for twenty minutes is tiring.
We smile our way back to Ile St Louis stopping for a moment in the small park that surrounds the recently refurbished Tour Saint-Jacques at the intersection of Rue de Rivoli and Avenue Victoria.
It must be body enhancement day, as we make a stop at our local pharmacie just a few doors down from our flat to get some French soap for Jenn. The salesgirl sees me eying the Darphin products and begins to chat about them. I am already in love with the line and need little encouragement. She suggests three creams. They are pricey but I know they are the highest quality, still it's an investment. I ask which she would choose if she had to pick but one. All three is her wise reply. Donny says buy them. I figure that the effect of good French creams last longer than fashion. I'll take the creams and shop for fashions on our next trip.
Back upstairs we settle in for the balance of the day, a smooth wine poured by Donny and my drawing tools for some more endless sketching go well together. I draw until late. We are hungry and venture downstairs for a light dinner at our favorite cafe. It is full. We take a chance on the adjacent cafe bigger with more bustle and foot traffic but literally the next tables over.
The people beside us have ordered cokes. A very classy thing if you are French, but for Americans gauche. Donny & I, on a lark, decide to go full American tourist, not for a coke, but for lasagna and cheeseburger. In France. In Paris. Tasted pretty good.
