Heey Paree!

Le weekend parisienne got off to a good start. My host pointed out that there was a Marks and Spencer’s at the station, so we dived in to find some treasures (Scottish shortbread, oat biscuits and a couple of other affordable treats). While I was negotiating my wheeled suitcase through the narrow aisles, I caught the eye of a cheeky-looking man, traipsing around after his wife. We grinned at each other. And again as we ran in to each other repeatedly.  At some point, my bag managed to knock against some beer bottles on a shelf. 

NO less than three security men dived in from various directions and saved me from an expensive bill for broken bottles and spilled beer. My new friend was enjoying this scenario with unabashed amusement, so I pointed at him and said, loudly, “He did it!!!” His wife was oblivious. My host pretended to be the same, pointedly studying the array of goods on a nearby shelf.
 

EMERGING from the station, I requested that I be permitted to smoke a cigarette before plunging into the depths of the metro. I looked around for a cigarette-friendly bin. “I wouldn’t go for that one”, warned my companion. “There’s smoke billowing out of it.” “Perfect!” I said. “I must video this with my phone: ‘Drama in Paris'”. As I rushed towards the silently smoking receptacle, my phone slipped out of my hand and skidded along the ground ahead of me. I picked it up and started to record, but the fall had caused my camera to go into Selfie mode and all I managed to get was a vignette of my flaring nostrils.

I GAVE up and went back to finish my cigarette during which time we both observed a surly security man (the station was teeming with them) standing at a safe distance from the crime scene muttering not-so-discreetly into his walkie-talkie. We wondered for a moment why he didn’t just extinguish the offending cigarette end then decided to head off down the stairs to the metro before the arrival of troops of pompiers, other forms of aide and la presse.

AFTER a light lunch, I was encouraged to go off for a walk along the Seine. I guess two hours of my company with its attendant (if unintentional) drama was more than enough for anyone. 

SO, with umbrella kindly lent and entry code to the apartment building carefully noted, off I set. Full of joie de vivre I was. Looking forward to hearing French being parlayed all around me. The first person who spoke to me was a young American woman asking if I could direct her to some famous place. Which I couldn’t. Then I saw a woman, sitting on the pavement, crocheting a large rather ugly piece while chatting to a young man who was leaning on a lamp post. “Oooh, formidable!” I exclaimed. “How beautiful”, I lied. “What are you making?” The woman looked at me as though a cat had drug me in from the wrong side of la rive. Undeterred, I continued. “Is it a …”  I wanted to say, “blanket?” but I couldn’t remember the word, so I said: “… thing for the bed?” “Non!” she grunted. “It’s a ‘quelque-chose’ pour une amie”, and proceeded to converse with her lamp post lover. 

OFF I skipped, exclaiming to myself: “Ah, the Parisians are still as rude as ever they were. Formidable!!!”

THE banks of the Seine had changed since I had last wandered there. Riverside bars and cafés with tables made from wooden pallets graced them. Organically formed wooden benches were dotted about and even the occasional hammock was strung up for the weary to rest in as needed. People scooted up and down on electric scooters which are, as I later discovered, operated by an ‘App’. Good thing I didn’t follow the impulse to try one out for fun. I wouldn’t have got very far with my fifty centîmes.

ALL sorts were taking advantage of this transport à la mode: young couples riding alongside each other chatting in French!, older people and, the one who impressed me the most, an elegant young woman standing upright and following her aquiline nose. No way would she ever lose her composure and fall off.  Unlike me should I have been rash enough to give it a go.

I WAS amused to see a young father cycle past with his small (about two years old) son perched on the handlebars. I took a double-take so see if there was a discreetly-placed child’s seat, but no. What poise and confidence!

BY the time I headed back ‘homewards’, a light drizzle had started, so I decided to leave the river and return via the ‘Rue de Très Expensive Magasins’, giving myself the option to dodge in and out of the rain. I was disappointed to discover that most of the stores were of the chain variety as I recognised one familiar name after another. Not that I could have afforded to buy anything, but I resented being denied the masochistic enjoyment of wishing: “If only …”

AFTER walking around in circles for far longer than was decent and getting more and more soaked by the minute, I gave in and phoned for directions back to base. A few more circles later, I finally found the heavy wooden portal to the apartment building and proudly punched in the code. Nothing. I tried again. More rien.

I phoned my host. “Are you sure you’ve got the right door?”  he asked. “Of course I have,” I replied indignantly. Mon Dieu, he could be so patronising! “Are you sure? Number X? The green one?”  “YES!” I replied. Losing patience.  “Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll come down and let you in.”

AT which point it occurred to me that I might have got the wrong door and, on checking both the number and the colour (Number Y - blue), I hared off down the street, ruthlessly pushing people out of my path in an attempt to redeem myself. I was met by Monsieur Arms Akimbo, looking down at me disapprovingly. At this point I didn’t care. I felt a nasty cold coming on. All I wanted was to shed my wet clothes and get warm and dry.

So I grovelled and apologised and promised never again to forget the number or the colour of the door. Tant pis … I’d lost that battle, but I had not lost la guerre!