J’adore les attaques d’allergie

It happened, and it never even occurred to me that it would.  I mean, it’s a city filled with cement, brick and metal.  But it happened.

My seasonal allergies followed me all the way to Paris.  I guess it kind of makes sense…Paris does have an absurd number of parks, upwards of 400 (no joke).  I have been a bit sniffly all week, and was experiencing the occasional sneeze and wheeze, but I thought nothing of it.

Until this morning, when I woke up this morning in a rage.  Why, you ask?  Well, first, it was 5 in the morning (an ungodly hour for college students), and I had only just gone to sleep at 3.  Second, my throat was kind of closing up, and I was having a bit of trouble breathing (which I suppose is problematic?).  Third, I could not stop sneezing…I tried to keep track, but lost count after 20 éternuements in a row.  I had absolutely had it, so I let out a guttural noise (loud enough to wake Simone and Caitlin), emerged from my lit de pollen, stripped my bed and myself, threw everything in sight in our washing machine, and stormed down the treacherous spiral staircase to take a shower.  I spent a solid 20 minutes scrubbing my face, my body and my hair to rid myself of every last speck of pollen.

By the time I was done, I was so exhausted that I laid down on my completely stripped bed and fell asleep as the sun was beginning to rise over an apparently very pollinated city.

* * *

I woke up several hours later, somewhat more well-rested and less asthmatic.  I said goodbye to Caitlin, who was heading back to Bath, which is located about an hour outside of London.  I decided I deserved a reward for having been put through my allergy nightmare, so I wandered over to Gérard Mulot, which is one of the well-known and highly regarded pâtisseries in Paris, and is conveniently located 5 minutes from my apartment.  After eying all of the delicious breads and pastries, I settled on a rose-flavored macaron and une tarte à chocolat noir, a dark chocolate tart.  Like a good little girl, I put my tart at the bottom of my bag to save for later.  I couldn’t resist enjoying my macaron, however, and began to nibble on it as I made my way to one of the handful of pharmacies open on a Sunday in Paris.

After a 10-minute walk, I finally saw my lit-up green cross about 50 yards away, and began to speed-walk toward my final destination.  I threw open the door, and declared to the pharmacist (after a polite, bonjour madame, of course), j’ai besoin de quelque chose pour les allergies (I need SOMETHING for my allergies).  She was very sympathetic, and seemed to know exactly what I needed before I said anything.  I guess my cherry-colored eyes, puffy face, and raw nostrils were a giveaway?  She saw me gazing longingly at the Zyrtec, but instead pointed me towards the Humex, which was cheaper and apparently just as effective as the Zyrtec.  She started to ring me up for one pack (which has enough pills for one week) but I said, hold up, I need 2 more.  And thus I walked out with 21 pills, and I could not WAIT to pop one in my mouth and let it work its magic.  I swear I’m not a druggie.

Anyways, at that point, I realized I was close to the Marais, which is the lively Jewish district in Paris.  Chrissy and I ventured there a few weeks ago in search L’As du Falafel, which apparently has the best falafel in Paris.  It was unfortunately closed for Passover, but I figured I’d give it another shot.  As I neared the store, I began to spot people with pitas overflowing those little fried chickpea balls and instantaneously began to salivate.  I was ushered into line, given a ticket, and shortly thereafter was presented with my very own pita, which I then took to a nearby park to enjoy.

After my pita, I wandered into a museum, which happened to be the Musée Carnavalet.  I explored the museum for a couple hours, all the while learning about the history of Paris.

After the museum, I wandered back toward Île Saint Louis.  I wasn’t really sure why I was headed in that direction until I found myself waiting in line for la glace (ice cream) from Berthillon, which boasts Paris’ best ice cream.  I ordered my two scoops, one of praline and one of hazelnut, and of course had it topped off with some crème chantilly.  I decided I wanted to eat my ice cream on a bridge over looking the Seine and Notre Dame, and began my walk.  I realized two key things during this walk: a) I should have pulled my hair back and b) real whipped cream slides off the top of ice cream VERY QUICKLY.  I thus found myself in quite a dilemma, as my hair was whipping the ice cream with a vengeance, the whipped cream was simultaneously sliding off my cone and onto my hand.  It must have been quite a sight, and I could not help but laugh at myself.

Highly satisfied with my (less than nutritional) purchases of the day, I began the trek back to my apartment.  Upon my arrival, I collapsed onto the couch and took a much-needed nap.  Quite the successful day in Paris.