Breakfast in bed is one of my treats to myself in Paris. Parisians, unlike Americans, don't feel like you are being dissolute if you have your tea and croissants snuggled down under the comforter. And it's the closest I'll ever come to being like Lady Mary on Downton Abbey.
I think I like looking at the tray as much as drinking the tea and eating the croissants. But the food is fine: creamy yogurt with lots of fat and no fruit, soft cheese, three kinds of fresh bread, and French butter. I don't mention the orange juice because it is not fresh squeezed and I don't have it anyway. Even a Madeline today.
It's just after 8:30 a.m. and much too early to think about going out unless you are being picked up by a sightseeing tour bus, which of course I'm not.
My own day should look something like this: have breakfast and read my blogs, find someplace to get my hair cut... I told Jo I was not going to do that this time, but I feel my resolve weakening. In fact, I noticed walking home last night on the rue Monsieur Le Prince a place I'm going to try.
Then Paola is coming to the hotel at noon. She and Martha and I are having lunch. About all that, more later