It’s a jungle out there.

So we woke up Sunday morning to quite the scene on the Champs-Elysees. Apparently mobs of tourists, roaming pickpockets and preening Louis-Vuitton shoppers aren’t exciting enough, because Paris decided to pave over the good old Champs with farmland and forest. And a few palm trees to boot.

Now generally shutting down a main city artery to make way for baby pineapple plants would have wreaked havoc on traffic, but it was yet again a holiday weekend, so no one was around except the aforementioned mobs of tourists. It made for a really bizarre landscape — pine trees and wheat fields and the occasional traffic light, coursing with thousands of people wearing fanny packs.

Side note: Why am I so mean about tourists? Does not meandering aimlessly with 5 cameras around my neck really make me a better person? Yes. Yes it does.

Anywho, the best part was at the end of the urban greenery, where they had set up what was something akin to a county fair. There were no rides or fried snickers to be had, but stall after stall of France’s best agricultural delights. We stopped for just-pressed apple cider, tasted fresh milk, noshed on grilled steak and baguette sandwiches. We drank some artisan beers and watched a butchery demonstration. Then of course I had to try some freshly shucked oysters and a glass of wine . (A bold move on a hot day in May, but I’m happy to say there were no London flashbacks)

At that point I was ready to crawl in a hay bale and take a nap. Or perhaps a wheelbarrow, so Husband could wheel me home. But our adventure wouldn’t have been complete without a visit to the Temple of Vegetables, where we bowed down and thanked the gods for posting us in Paris — and not the real jungle.