A Woman Alone

I really love travelling to Paris. For years, I waited to travel with a boyfriend, thinking this was the thing to do with the ultimate of romantic destinations. 
 On my 30th birthday, I finally gave up and took myself. Later I did travel with a boyfriend and if anything, it took the romance out of the city.  While my idea of a great time was hanging out at The Village Voice and drinking wine with A.S. Byatt, his was eating at overpriced restaurants on the Champs Elysee (and no, he was not picking up the tab) and checking out bars. I admit that when I'm on vacation, I'm on vacation and don't like to adhere to anyone else's timetables or moods. I certainly feel no obligation to do anything. My senses are in overload because I'm always overwhelmed simply at the fact that I'm in Paris. Everything ordinary is transformed: I'm waking up in Paris, I'm drinking coffee in Paris, I'm having sex in Paris and really, it's having sex with Paris... 
Eating alone in a restaurant in Paris is not easy. It requires a certain attitude and a lot of practice.  Luckily, I'm not shy about changing my table when I'm seated by the waiters' station or in the middle of the aisle or in the basement. At le Polidor, there's never been that problem, because everyone gets seated together. Big long family-like tables means sharing condiments as well as bread baskets and intimate conversations.  A waitress may insist you must order a 'pichet' rather than a single glass of wine but the only problem with imbibing is having to use the Turkish toilet. Of course, drink enough and you may not care.
I only got a window table once at Angelina's on rue Rivoli. At my favorite place for hot chocolate and eclairs, I'm often steered towards the back. I usually just smile and  esconce myself wherever I want along with all my packages. This is a very good time to go clueless.
Pizza Marzano off the Boulevard St. Michel is the perfect place for a pizza Americaine and a glass of wine along with a view of the Seine. I'm equally comfortable going with a book or chatting with adjoining tables. 
In the maze of tiny streets off the boulevard Saint-Michel, just above the Seine, there's a great assortment of affordable places to eat, all with a chalkboard outside the door, listing the prices for a "plat complet". This includes an appetizer--onion soup or some kind of salad, main course--poulet roti or duck a l'orange--and dessert which is usually creme caramel or some kind of cheese plate. You don't have to eat French; there are plenty of Greek restaurants, a great Swiss place for raclette and even a Tunisian bakery. And when I can't get a table I like, I just opt for take-out and eat in the garden of my hotel.
I've learned to go with my intuition when I'm seated at the crappiest table in an empty restaurant or when I'm abandoned by a waitress who disappears to flirt with a table full of businessmen.  
Because there's definitely that double standard in treatment. At lunchtime, it doesn't seem to be a big deal but dinner is definitely a couples thing. The French don't seem to know what to do with a woman alone.
Except for the obvious. There's always some guy following me back to my hotel; one trip it happened twice in a row. It was creepy and I didn't hesitate to tell him so.  Didn't I run into him the following trip? The fact he looked like Alan Cummings in Circle of Friends didn't help.
But it's when I'm alone that I meet other people. Fellow guests in the garden of my hotel where people gather for a glass of wine. The hotel chambermaids who update me on the state of their growing children and invite me into the kitchen for coffee. At Shakespeare and Company, I not only got an invite for tea but the offer of a place to stay. Shopkeepers are only too willing to bend my ear about the terrible economy--booksellers there are amazingly like the ones here. The Canadian owner of The Red Wheelbarrow on rue St. Paul had actually worked in Montreal with people I knew. When I got invited to help out with  an author event, I didn't feel alone; I felt like I was back home. 

When you're alone, you can flirt with firemen.

Places to eat Alone
Although I'm used to eating alone, I'm still not comfortable just anywhere. The following places are where I've felt perfectly at home.
Angelina's, 226, rue de Rivoli, 75001 Paris.
Le Procope, 13, rue de l'Ancienne-Comedie, 75006, Paris. 
Le Polidor, 41, rue Monsieur-Le-Prince, 75006 Paris. 
The Frog and Princess. This is admittedly a chain but I love the fish and chips and the ginger beer and have always felt at home, with both the waiters and the crowd, in any of their locations.   
Pizza Marzano, 2, Place St-Michel, 75006 Paris. This is a comfy family style restaurant where you can also get your pizza to go. I've often stopped by after a day of wandering the city and grabbed dinner to eat in the garden of my hotel. 

Missing Eddy

This is the time of year that I begin to crave Paris. One problem with going away is that I inevitably miss my dog. And it doesn't help that Paris is such a dog friendly city. At some point, I always wonder if I should've brought Eddy along. I picture myself strolling along the Boulevard Ste. Germain with Eddy by my side, stopping off in my favourite cafe. But Eddy's a terrible traveller. It's an ordeal just to get him in a car. I took him once on a plane, when he was still small enough to fit under the seat and I vowed never again. The tranquilizer acted like caffeine and five hours was simply too long for him to go without a pee. (I brought him to the bathroom with me and, padding the floor with paper towels, let him go there.) And he just wasn't happy away from home.
So I make due with talking to other people's dogs. I try not to think of Eddy romping in the garden of my hotel as I linger over a glass of wine. Or cuddling up to his dogsitter at home. I used to call home, ostensibly to say hi to my parents but they knew I was really checking in on Eddy. I remind myself of the advantages of being temporarily dog-free--I can stay out all day without worrying about getting home so he can pee. All night too, for that matter.

I actually do get impatient with the number of dogs in the city. It's only recently that Parisians have started picking up after their pets and my earlier trips always involved wiping my shoes on the piece of rolled up carpet in the water swept gutter. It's impossible to ask a Parisian to move his dog that's stretched out the length of three cafe tables and many of the shops have canines guarding the doorway. Like back home, I always have cookies in my pocket--paying attention to a pet brings out a Parisian's soft side and sometimes, an unexpected discount.
I also find myself lingering in pet stores. There's a whole slew lining the right bank of the Seine when you cross over at the Pont St. Michel. (Unfortunately the number of caged chickens makes me suspect that some of these are  more for fresh produce than pets.)
When I return, it's a quick kiss before Eddy runs to my suitcase and begins nosing for presents. Yes, all of his collars come from Paris and I make a special trip to  Cours St. Emilion for these Vitakraft chew treats you can't get anywhere else.
It's amazing how quick he forgets that I've gone.

Cour Saint Emilion is one reason to take the new metro line. Yes, it is a little sterile and prepackaged, like the village at Mont Tremblant, but it does have some sweet shops. 
La Cure Gourmande Biscuiterie Confiserie has all the cookies your heart desires. Fortunately, they're so expensive, you won't have to worry about breaking your diet.
Animalis is a shop with everything you could want for a pet languishing at home. I've bought stuffed animals, leashes and collars and all kinds of treats for a very finicky little dog.
Finac Junior has a great selection of traditional wood toys and Zamiloo figurines, including shops and cars.  There are also picture books and a smattering of trendy toys you won't find anywhere but in Paris.
Le Jardin d'Olaria is the lovely housewares and gift shop pictured at the top of this post. Located at 5, rue Medicis, right near the Jardin du Luxembourg, it's one of my regular stops.