Thursday 19th.
Today is the 5th anniversary of the death of my best friend/sister Taney. She had endured a hard life but found love finally with an Australian man. She died just three months after they married. I was matron of honour at her wedding. Strangely we were on the train from London to Paris when we heard the news, and here we are, five years later, spending our last day in Paris.
It’s a glorious day - a clear blue sky which we haven’t seen in over a week. It’s warm too and the Paris skies are calling us. We waited until today to make our trip down memory lane - a visit to our old hangouts at St Germaine des Pres. We walked just a few doors down and saw the amazing church of St Gervais ( Tony says an ancient ancestor of Ricky Gervais) on the way to Chatelet metro station. Paris isn’t at all friendly towards people with disabilities. We saw some tourists, one of their members in a wheelchair, gazing perplexed at the stairs down to the Metro, with no way of getting the wheelchair down. The station is weird….with long passages to the various lines. Every few yards there is a flight of stairs….wither up…or down. Just to get to line 4 we manoeuvred 12 flights of stairs. I was completely stuffed before we even reached the platform. But it was worth it. St Germaine was everything we remembered it to be….charming, quirky, arty. When we made it up into daylight Tony wondered if he could remember where Les Deux Maggots was. And there it was facing him, just a few feet away. The patron saint of travellers seems to have everything within our reach. Les Deux Magots is Paris’s literary café. Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir discussed philosophy over cofee….Picasso regularly had his Pastis there - even Ernest hemingway made it his hangout when in paris…and of course Tony and I are among the glitterati! We sit and order Café Crème. It comes in little brown jugs…the tray looking so beautiful that I just have to take a photo of it. It’s served by a waiter in black monkey jacket and waistcoat, a bowtie and a long white apron. The whole ritual wreaks of class and of course Paris already does class effortlessly. But class comes at a price…almost 10 Euro ($15) for two coffees. We figure it is worth every cent as we sit and watch the passing parade. Later we look for Le Petit Zinc - a reasonably priced Bistro masquerading as a grande salon of la Belle Epoque. It’s Art Nouveau interior is just magic. We discovered it and had dinner there on our last trip and now the hostess invites me in to take photos. Later we wonder through St Germaine, down the windy cobbled streets. When we come back to Paris it will be to this place, which feels so much like home. We walk to St Michel and have coffee in the Square near the exotic fountain and statue of St Michel himself. WE stroll along the Seine before finally reaching home, where we empty the suitcases and start to repack.
And there is the last lovely surprise. Tony’s French flag…the one he has encouraged to unfurl itself every day, has finally broken free from the trap of the flagpole and is proudly displaying its Tricolor….fluttering in the breeze. Tony is thrilled, as if all his cajoling is responsible for the flag fluttering. Silly but charming - and worthy of Paris. We dine out tonight at a bistro we have been salivating over for two weeks. It’s in our street and has that look that could only be Parisien. We stuff our faces with food and divine Sancerre wine. Then, almost too full to move, we wander along the side of the Seine as darkness closes in.
Now the holiday is almost over, and this is the last entry before we fly out. When I’m home I’ll look back and ponder what this 66 days has meant and perhaps post an addendum. What if anything have I learned about myself? About Marriage - and life over all. It’s too soon to tell yet But three things have been enforced. I love life; I love my husband; and I love France - Paris most of all.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
65/2 Yesterdays
Wednesday 18th.
It’s Tony’s sister B’s birthday today ( she of Provence and lettuce drying fame) and so we start the day by sending her an e-card and then phoning her in London. She has so much planned I am amazed she has the energy.
Yesterday afternoon, while Tony slept, I went walking and souvenir hunting on my own….2 ½ hours down side streets buying trinkets for loved ones…especially Allie. We’ll buy the cats a Barbecued chicken on Sunday and tell them it came from Paris. It was wonderful to have that time alone to explore and much needed. I love being with my husband but sometimes I just need down time on my own - as does he - and we always respect that in each other.
Wednesday - the hump day of the week when generally not much happens. Certainly we didn’t plan anything special. Sometimes a day just clicks together perfectly - and this was one of them. In the morning we walked down by the Seine…. Because it’s summer and they have the artificial plages ( beaches) there are no cars down there - (it’s generally a fast way of avoiding traffic). The “beaches” have sand, and bean bags and sun loungers, even deck chairs, and Dj’s in the evenings and there are ic-cream stands and little kiosks selling beer - all for Parisiens who can’t get to the coast for their August Vacances. The weather is warming up again but it’s not sunbaking we have in mind. On our side of the Seine - just under our little bridge - are the patonc pitches - and you can play for an hour, day or night. Although it basically has the same rules as lawn bowls, Patonc ( named for the noise the metal balls make when they hit each other) looks waaaay more cool when it’s being played. Whole family groups play together, young men take it very seriously and there are Patonc leagues; workmen come out at lunchtime and use their lunchbreak to hone their patonc skills. It’s BIG and FUN! Best of all, Le Mairie de Paris provides the Patonc facilities FREE to everyone. So Tony and I take our heavy metal patonc balls to our assigned pitch. I’m expecting Tony to beat me hands down as he is an athlete and good at every sport. But lo and behold, I kick his arse!!!!! 20 - 9.….. The only other time I have beaten him at anything is crazy putt putt…and he used to be a golfer! We hug and kiss and laugh and make jokes and behave like any other young lovers, because that’s the way we feel inside. Afterwards we drink French beer from plastic cups and just sit and watch the passing Parade of people and the endless tourist boats on the Seine. Four of the local council litter collectors stop for a beer….and so do the police. On the bridge above us is a busker….a lone clarinet player playing Benny Goodman style swing….it’s the perfect accompaniment to the day. We hold hands and smile a lot….not much need to talk. Two workers, Patonc players, are oggling the females passing by….Tony joins in with them and the three are either making appreciative grunts and nodding - or shaking their heads. The two Frenchmen love it that I am laughing and am not annoyed - and I love that France is not politically correct and Big brother regimented in the way that Australia is…. Men are still free to whistle at pretty girls here….and the girls love it. We wander back and pick up fresh bread and stuff it with Brie and ham and hard boiled eggs and French Mayo - which is a taste to die for. We wash it down with mineral wayer and then fall into bed for our snuggle/nap. But there’s more great stuff to come.
When we wake we decide to make the Loooooooong haul, fifty metres across the road to 38 Rue de Rivoli - un caveau which claims to have cool jazz from 3.30 - 7pm ( before turning into some kind of performance space. Paris is filled with caveaus….cellars with arched roofs giving them a cavelike feel. We don’t know what we will find as we climb down all the stairs. In the funny little cave it is like a rehearsal room. A motley collection of musicians - some better than others but none of them good, are amusing themselves. Despite the fact that entry is free to the public we are the only ones there. The music is not very good but the girl singer is nice. We order a beer and plan to make a quick getaway, but they start on Lullaby of Birdland and she doesn’t know the lyrics….so I join in the bridge “And there’s a weepy old willow; he really knows how to cry. That’s how I’d cry in my pillow - if you tell me so long and goodbye…..”
And the next thing I know they have asked us to join them….and Tony takes over the drums, the drummer takes over piano ( since he’s better than the pianist) and we have two hours of the most fun ever! I am scratchy vocally and it’s been a long while since I have scatted….but GOD I have missed this. I explain in half baked French that I used to be a singer forty odd years ago and there are great protests…No no…you still are.! And when I do a pretty decent version of Yesterdays, ( Jerome Kern…not Guns N Roses)which they all applaud, I know they mean it. And beloved, who is a jazz elitist to the point where I no longer sing at home, is surprised and hugs me and says it was good! The five French musos are lovely and the jazz tuba player is hysterically funny….taking all the top notes the husky voiced chanteuse can’t manage and doing a hilarious vocal version of “Some day my prince will come.” We laugh until we’re exhausted, and they ask us if we will come again tomorrow. But Tony and I know you can’t hope to duplicate something that special that happened that spontaneously and so we say goodbye - feeling as though we are leaving friends.
I cook some beautiful salmon for dinner - and then open the crepes we bought, spread them with apricot conserve and simmer them in Peach liquer and fresh squeezed orange. Crème fraiche on the side….heaven…and we finally open the bottle of Champagne with dinner and finish it while watching Dumbo on DVD…..it’s a day we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.
It’s Tony’s sister B’s birthday today ( she of Provence and lettuce drying fame) and so we start the day by sending her an e-card and then phoning her in London. She has so much planned I am amazed she has the energy.
Yesterday afternoon, while Tony slept, I went walking and souvenir hunting on my own….2 ½ hours down side streets buying trinkets for loved ones…especially Allie. We’ll buy the cats a Barbecued chicken on Sunday and tell them it came from Paris. It was wonderful to have that time alone to explore and much needed. I love being with my husband but sometimes I just need down time on my own - as does he - and we always respect that in each other.
Wednesday - the hump day of the week when generally not much happens. Certainly we didn’t plan anything special. Sometimes a day just clicks together perfectly - and this was one of them. In the morning we walked down by the Seine…. Because it’s summer and they have the artificial plages ( beaches) there are no cars down there - (it’s generally a fast way of avoiding traffic). The “beaches” have sand, and bean bags and sun loungers, even deck chairs, and Dj’s in the evenings and there are ic-cream stands and little kiosks selling beer - all for Parisiens who can’t get to the coast for their August Vacances. The weather is warming up again but it’s not sunbaking we have in mind. On our side of the Seine - just under our little bridge - are the patonc pitches - and you can play for an hour, day or night. Although it basically has the same rules as lawn bowls, Patonc ( named for the noise the metal balls make when they hit each other) looks waaaay more cool when it’s being played. Whole family groups play together, young men take it very seriously and there are Patonc leagues; workmen come out at lunchtime and use their lunchbreak to hone their patonc skills. It’s BIG and FUN! Best of all, Le Mairie de Paris provides the Patonc facilities FREE to everyone. So Tony and I take our heavy metal patonc balls to our assigned pitch. I’m expecting Tony to beat me hands down as he is an athlete and good at every sport. But lo and behold, I kick his arse!!!!! 20 - 9.….. The only other time I have beaten him at anything is crazy putt putt…and he used to be a golfer! We hug and kiss and laugh and make jokes and behave like any other young lovers, because that’s the way we feel inside. Afterwards we drink French beer from plastic cups and just sit and watch the passing Parade of people and the endless tourist boats on the Seine. Four of the local council litter collectors stop for a beer….and so do the police. On the bridge above us is a busker….a lone clarinet player playing Benny Goodman style swing….it’s the perfect accompaniment to the day. We hold hands and smile a lot….not much need to talk. Two workers, Patonc players, are oggling the females passing by….Tony joins in with them and the three are either making appreciative grunts and nodding - or shaking their heads. The two Frenchmen love it that I am laughing and am not annoyed - and I love that France is not politically correct and Big brother regimented in the way that Australia is…. Men are still free to whistle at pretty girls here….and the girls love it. We wander back and pick up fresh bread and stuff it with Brie and ham and hard boiled eggs and French Mayo - which is a taste to die for. We wash it down with mineral wayer and then fall into bed for our snuggle/nap. But there’s more great stuff to come.
When we wake we decide to make the Loooooooong haul, fifty metres across the road to 38 Rue de Rivoli - un caveau which claims to have cool jazz from 3.30 - 7pm ( before turning into some kind of performance space. Paris is filled with caveaus….cellars with arched roofs giving them a cavelike feel. We don’t know what we will find as we climb down all the stairs. In the funny little cave it is like a rehearsal room. A motley collection of musicians - some better than others but none of them good, are amusing themselves. Despite the fact that entry is free to the public we are the only ones there. The music is not very good but the girl singer is nice. We order a beer and plan to make a quick getaway, but they start on Lullaby of Birdland and she doesn’t know the lyrics….so I join in the bridge “And there’s a weepy old willow; he really knows how to cry. That’s how I’d cry in my pillow - if you tell me so long and goodbye…..”
And the next thing I know they have asked us to join them….and Tony takes over the drums, the drummer takes over piano ( since he’s better than the pianist) and we have two hours of the most fun ever! I am scratchy vocally and it’s been a long while since I have scatted….but GOD I have missed this. I explain in half baked French that I used to be a singer forty odd years ago and there are great protests…No no…you still are.! And when I do a pretty decent version of Yesterdays, ( Jerome Kern…not Guns N Roses)which they all applaud, I know they mean it. And beloved, who is a jazz elitist to the point where I no longer sing at home, is surprised and hugs me and says it was good! The five French musos are lovely and the jazz tuba player is hysterically funny….taking all the top notes the husky voiced chanteuse can’t manage and doing a hilarious vocal version of “Some day my prince will come.” We laugh until we’re exhausted, and they ask us if we will come again tomorrow. But Tony and I know you can’t hope to duplicate something that special that happened that spontaneously and so we say goodbye - feeling as though we are leaving friends.
I cook some beautiful salmon for dinner - and then open the crepes we bought, spread them with apricot conserve and simmer them in Peach liquer and fresh squeezed orange. Crème fraiche on the side….heaven…and we finally open the bottle of Champagne with dinner and finish it while watching Dumbo on DVD…..it’s a day we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.
64/3 at the end of the line
Tuesday 17th.
YAY! The rain has stopped at last. It’s not exactly a Provence day but there is at least a watery sun trying to break through the pale grey sky. We really get a move on this morning, determined to get out before the weather has a chance to change it’s mind. We had hoped to go to Versailles for a day - but it’s cost prohibitive - so I guess we will just have to come back again some day. I do love Paris, but not sure I would want to live permanently here. When I ask Beloved where in the world he would live if money was no object - he immediately says Perth - and I feel guilty once again that circumstances made me sell our house there and move east. But there was, and is, nothing I can do about it.
We have decided to take the metro to the end of the line and see what’s there. Since it’s called Chateau de Vincennes we are figuring there is a pretty good chance there will be a chateau - duh! Not only that but the stairs from the metro come up literally in front of the front gate to the Chateau. This place is largely 16th and 17th century - almost new - hehehehe - But the oldest parts date back to the 14th century….which is the 1300s for those that get confused. The original Dunjon ) no…it’s not a prison… was the home of King Charles v - before all the Louis’ came to power. It’s the oldest royal residence in France - possibly the world. The Chapel is a sister to Paris’ famous St Chapelle….. Complete with the same round stained glass window which is so famous. It’s funny - because the queues go for miles in Paris to get into St Chapelle on the Ile de Cite…..and for just 1 euro 70 ( about $2.50) you can hop the train to the end of the line and be the only one looking. Just 5 miles out of Paris Vincennes is supposed to be a very crowded suburb - but you’d never know it. The same wide boulevards greet you, and having the chateau in the middle of the town gives it an air of space and time. Because so much of Paris and its surrounds dates back 4-5 hundred years, there’s a uniformity of design, so the suburbs look like extensions of the city rather than Melbourne suburbs which are a mish mash of styles and often quite ugly. If I were to come here to live I would live in Vincennes and catch the metro into the city each day….Magic. We spend a leisurely few hours wandering around the chateau grounds….much of it is still in use as government offices…and drink beer at a nearby café, sitting out in the watery sunshine. It’s so relaxing and when we take the train home we feel refreshed and relaxed. It’s amazing what you can find at the end of a train line!
YAY! The rain has stopped at last. It’s not exactly a Provence day but there is at least a watery sun trying to break through the pale grey sky. We really get a move on this morning, determined to get out before the weather has a chance to change it’s mind. We had hoped to go to Versailles for a day - but it’s cost prohibitive - so I guess we will just have to come back again some day. I do love Paris, but not sure I would want to live permanently here. When I ask Beloved where in the world he would live if money was no object - he immediately says Perth - and I feel guilty once again that circumstances made me sell our house there and move east. But there was, and is, nothing I can do about it.
We have decided to take the metro to the end of the line and see what’s there. Since it’s called Chateau de Vincennes we are figuring there is a pretty good chance there will be a chateau - duh! Not only that but the stairs from the metro come up literally in front of the front gate to the Chateau. This place is largely 16th and 17th century - almost new - hehehehe - But the oldest parts date back to the 14th century….which is the 1300s for those that get confused. The original Dunjon ) no…it’s not a prison… was the home of King Charles v - before all the Louis’ came to power. It’s the oldest royal residence in France - possibly the world. The Chapel is a sister to Paris’ famous St Chapelle….. Complete with the same round stained glass window which is so famous. It’s funny - because the queues go for miles in Paris to get into St Chapelle on the Ile de Cite…..and for just 1 euro 70 ( about $2.50) you can hop the train to the end of the line and be the only one looking. Just 5 miles out of Paris Vincennes is supposed to be a very crowded suburb - but you’d never know it. The same wide boulevards greet you, and having the chateau in the middle of the town gives it an air of space and time. Because so much of Paris and its surrounds dates back 4-5 hundred years, there’s a uniformity of design, so the suburbs look like extensions of the city rather than Melbourne suburbs which are a mish mash of styles and often quite ugly. If I were to come here to live I would live in Vincennes and catch the metro into the city each day….Magic. We spend a leisurely few hours wandering around the chateau grounds….much of it is still in use as government offices…and drink beer at a nearby café, sitting out in the watery sunshine. It’s so relaxing and when we take the train home we feel refreshed and relaxed. It’s amazing what you can find at the end of a train line!
63/4 - Rainy Days and Mondays
Monday 16th
Another rainy day.
The plan was to catch the metro and walk around our old stamping ground, St Germaine des Pres - which Tony calls Sandyman Depraved. Even though we have settled into Le Marais, we do miss the Arty feel of the left bank. We’re close enough to make a dash for the Metro…but then what happens at the other end…there’s no way we can walk in this….such a shame. So we are confined to the apartment for another day. I sort out all my holiday clothes and decide to dump most of them ( I planned that back in Melbourne). WE have a lovely Mauritian cleaning lady called Danielle….tall, slim, chic….she looks like a supermodel! When she hears I am throwing out so many clothes she asks if she can have them for her sister in law who is “ a lady big like you.” At least I am going home with a half empty suitcase - not many people could say that after 9 ½ weeks away.
There’s no-one in the streets today - the weekend tourists have gone home, the locals are not stupid enough to be out. For the first time the supermarket is empty and we buy enough provisions for three dinners, lunches and snacks. Grand total 34.70 Euros….cheap as long as you don’t translate it back into dollars. On Thursday we will go out for a farewell dinner and blow our last 100 Euro. Now that we are finally in countdown mode I am thinking a lot about the house and the furkids!
We mellow out and read and for dinner I make a roast chicken with vegetables and the lovely new potatoes they have here. There’s a tarte tatin for dessert with Crème Fraiche and a lovely bottle of Sauvignon which goes down well. Then we watch Pirates of the Caribbean and can’t decide if Johnny Depp is fantastic or awful ( but he sure as hell looks HOT!) Early to bed…. Please don’t let it rain like this for the rest of our stay.
Another rainy day.
The plan was to catch the metro and walk around our old stamping ground, St Germaine des Pres - which Tony calls Sandyman Depraved. Even though we have settled into Le Marais, we do miss the Arty feel of the left bank. We’re close enough to make a dash for the Metro…but then what happens at the other end…there’s no way we can walk in this….such a shame. So we are confined to the apartment for another day. I sort out all my holiday clothes and decide to dump most of them ( I planned that back in Melbourne). WE have a lovely Mauritian cleaning lady called Danielle….tall, slim, chic….she looks like a supermodel! When she hears I am throwing out so many clothes she asks if she can have them for her sister in law who is “ a lady big like you.” At least I am going home with a half empty suitcase - not many people could say that after 9 ½ weeks away.
There’s no-one in the streets today - the weekend tourists have gone home, the locals are not stupid enough to be out. For the first time the supermarket is empty and we buy enough provisions for three dinners, lunches and snacks. Grand total 34.70 Euros….cheap as long as you don’t translate it back into dollars. On Thursday we will go out for a farewell dinner and blow our last 100 Euro. Now that we are finally in countdown mode I am thinking a lot about the house and the furkids!
We mellow out and read and for dinner I make a roast chicken with vegetables and the lovely new potatoes they have here. There’s a tarte tatin for dessert with Crème Fraiche and a lovely bottle of Sauvignon which goes down well. Then we watch Pirates of the Caribbean and can’t decide if Johnny Depp is fantastic or awful ( but he sure as hell looks HOT!) Early to bed…. Please don’t let it rain like this for the rest of our stay.
62/5- A Sunday kind of love
Sunday 15th
Have I mentioned how NOISY it is here? The Scottish pub down the road closes its doors at around 2 am and that’s when all the drunken Scottish/English hoons with bottles in their hands congregate at our end of the street. So I’m woken up at 2 am regular as clockwork…and though the hooners are gone within half an hour it takes ages to go back to sleep. Beloved doesn’t hear it because A) he sleeps the sleep of the innocent and B) he’s DEAF!!!
Our Apartment is two doors in from the corner. If we turn right at that corner we are 20 metres to the Rue Rivoli; if we turn left we are 100 metres to the river Seine, 200 metres to the Ile St Louis and about 400 metres to Notre Dame Cathedral where we had actually planned to go to church this morning as they have a gospel choir singing. 400 metres…but there’s no way we can make it. It is pouring with rain….not just the light showers which have shown their faces almost every day since we’ve been here. This is torrential, turn your umbrella inside out, RAIN. Serious stuff. We’ve forgotten to buy extra bread ( France doesn’t bake on a Sunday) so Tony races down the street, with the umbrella, and all he can get is some English muffins and two of those half baked loaves from the supermarket. Despite being gone only 5 minutes, tops, he is soaked to the skin. Through the window we see tourists, perhaps only here for the weekend, getting soaked to the skin but wanting to make the most of every moment. Paris in the rain is better than no Paris at all. We are lucky - we have five full days left. That’s more than most people spend in Paris in total. There is only one thing for it. We take our coffee and English muffins and we climb back into bed. And there we stay for the day - or most of it. We play some great jazz, Tony reads, I do Sudoku, and we doze. In the evening we cobble together some dinner - pasta with ham and cream - drink a bottle of wine and watch a Harry Potter movie - one of only 4 DVDS in the flat. WE discuss whether to also watch Pirates of The Caribbean but decide against it. After all, who knows how long the rain will last. Besides - the weather’s quite cold and the bed is so warm!
Have I mentioned how NOISY it is here? The Scottish pub down the road closes its doors at around 2 am and that’s when all the drunken Scottish/English hoons with bottles in their hands congregate at our end of the street. So I’m woken up at 2 am regular as clockwork…and though the hooners are gone within half an hour it takes ages to go back to sleep. Beloved doesn’t hear it because A) he sleeps the sleep of the innocent and B) he’s DEAF!!!
Our Apartment is two doors in from the corner. If we turn right at that corner we are 20 metres to the Rue Rivoli; if we turn left we are 100 metres to the river Seine, 200 metres to the Ile St Louis and about 400 metres to Notre Dame Cathedral where we had actually planned to go to church this morning as they have a gospel choir singing. 400 metres…but there’s no way we can make it. It is pouring with rain….not just the light showers which have shown their faces almost every day since we’ve been here. This is torrential, turn your umbrella inside out, RAIN. Serious stuff. We’ve forgotten to buy extra bread ( France doesn’t bake on a Sunday) so Tony races down the street, with the umbrella, and all he can get is some English muffins and two of those half baked loaves from the supermarket. Despite being gone only 5 minutes, tops, he is soaked to the skin. Through the window we see tourists, perhaps only here for the weekend, getting soaked to the skin but wanting to make the most of every moment. Paris in the rain is better than no Paris at all. We are lucky - we have five full days left. That’s more than most people spend in Paris in total. There is only one thing for it. We take our coffee and English muffins and we climb back into bed. And there we stay for the day - or most of it. We play some great jazz, Tony reads, I do Sudoku, and we doze. In the evening we cobble together some dinner - pasta with ham and cream - drink a bottle of wine and watch a Harry Potter movie - one of only 4 DVDS in the flat. WE discuss whether to also watch Pirates of The Caribbean but decide against it. After all, who knows how long the rain will last. Besides - the weather’s quite cold and the bed is so warm!
61/6 - So we'll walk up the Avenue
Sat 14th.
Tony wakes at 8 am. He’s had 17 hours sleep and is as bright as a button. I, on the other hand, am completely wrecked and feel quite sick. Worry and lack of sleep will do that, trust me. I stagger out of bed and to the table - luckily not very far - and manage to drink some coffee and eat a piece of bread, but I am exhausted. By the time we make a short trip to the supermarket I can barely stand up. By lunchtime I am back in bed. We’re planning to walk the Champs Elysees this evening and have dinner out - we’ve only eaten out once a week in nine weeks, so this is quite a big deal, TWICE in one week - but not if I don’t get some sleep first. Luckily Tony has a date this afternoon at the Scottish pub - The Olde Alliance - just a few doors down the street. If you asked Tony the three things he loves most in the world he would probably say West Ham United, Jazz, and me…. Yep, in that order. He has been a staunch supporter of the football team for 65 years, since his Dad first took him to a match after the war in 1945. The chances to see a match live on TV are very slim in Oz….but the sports bar is showing the match live at 3pm. He didn’t have the heart to suggest it, so I did, and he jumped at the chance. So Beloved goes off to watch football and I go….to SLEEEEEP!
Five hours later he is home and happy after making a few friends and having a couple of beers, ( West Ham lost but that is normal) and I am awake. We smarten ourselves up a bit - it IS the Champs Elysees after all and we take the metro to Etoile ( The Arc de Triomphe). It’s late evening but there is still about 2 1/2 hours before sunset and one of the most famous streets in the entire world looks absolutely stunning as the sun decides to come out and check out Paris before going to bed. A bit like us really!
We walk slowly - the avenue is over a mile long but we have plenty of time. We take in the cocktail parties in the new car headquarters, Peugeot, Renault, - a hots of showrooms with concept cars and the beautiful people drinking champagne. Then there are the local matrons - shopping and conversing animatedly with a cigarette between their fingers. Impeccable coiffured and coutured, they mostly look bored. There are tourists by the thousands, mostly consulting little maps or guide books with little idea of where they’re going. They’re so involved with what they hope to see that they miss the teeming panorama of life going on around them. Every other shop is a café/bistrot - most with lovely alfresco eating areas with canvas roofs. The pavements are about 10 metres wide so there is plenty of room. I think it would be great to say we had dinner on the Champs Elysees and I want to be there when the lights come on. Tony thinks it would be better to get away from the tourist traps and also cheaper to find a little café in a side street. AS usual he’s right but he gives in and I let him choose the restaurant. Money is something of an issue. We’re counting pennies now and need to save enough to get to the airport. He chooses a place called Leon’s of Bruxelles. It’s a chain restaurant ( warning, warning) that specialises in mussels ( moules) and we both love them. But the mussels are very ordinary and the service is lousy and we’re glad when dinner is over. I hope to have ONE good meal in Paris before we leave. The problem is we can’t afford to go to places where the food is always good….so the best meals are those I’ve made in our little apartment.
The sun is setting and I try to get photos as The Arc de Triomphe is due west and is now starting to stand out in silhouette against the deepening pink sky. By the time we walk down to Place de la Concorde the lights are all coming on and we’ve seen the Palais Royal and it’s little sister across the road, and numerous statues and as we come onto Pont Alexandra 1, the bridge that leads to Les Invalides, there it is, all lit up against the darkening sky….The Eiffel tower (looking suspiciously like an abstract Christmas tree) . It’s a beautiful sight - the moon is rising, the lights are on, and Paris looks more beautiful than ever.
Tony wakes at 8 am. He’s had 17 hours sleep and is as bright as a button. I, on the other hand, am completely wrecked and feel quite sick. Worry and lack of sleep will do that, trust me. I stagger out of bed and to the table - luckily not very far - and manage to drink some coffee and eat a piece of bread, but I am exhausted. By the time we make a short trip to the supermarket I can barely stand up. By lunchtime I am back in bed. We’re planning to walk the Champs Elysees this evening and have dinner out - we’ve only eaten out once a week in nine weeks, so this is quite a big deal, TWICE in one week - but not if I don’t get some sleep first. Luckily Tony has a date this afternoon at the Scottish pub - The Olde Alliance - just a few doors down the street. If you asked Tony the three things he loves most in the world he would probably say West Ham United, Jazz, and me…. Yep, in that order. He has been a staunch supporter of the football team for 65 years, since his Dad first took him to a match after the war in 1945. The chances to see a match live on TV are very slim in Oz….but the sports bar is showing the match live at 3pm. He didn’t have the heart to suggest it, so I did, and he jumped at the chance. So Beloved goes off to watch football and I go….to SLEEEEEP!
Five hours later he is home and happy after making a few friends and having a couple of beers, ( West Ham lost but that is normal) and I am awake. We smarten ourselves up a bit - it IS the Champs Elysees after all and we take the metro to Etoile ( The Arc de Triomphe). It’s late evening but there is still about 2 1/2 hours before sunset and one of the most famous streets in the entire world looks absolutely stunning as the sun decides to come out and check out Paris before going to bed. A bit like us really!
We walk slowly - the avenue is over a mile long but we have plenty of time. We take in the cocktail parties in the new car headquarters, Peugeot, Renault, - a hots of showrooms with concept cars and the beautiful people drinking champagne. Then there are the local matrons - shopping and conversing animatedly with a cigarette between their fingers. Impeccable coiffured and coutured, they mostly look bored. There are tourists by the thousands, mostly consulting little maps or guide books with little idea of where they’re going. They’re so involved with what they hope to see that they miss the teeming panorama of life going on around them. Every other shop is a café/bistrot - most with lovely alfresco eating areas with canvas roofs. The pavements are about 10 metres wide so there is plenty of room. I think it would be great to say we had dinner on the Champs Elysees and I want to be there when the lights come on. Tony thinks it would be better to get away from the tourist traps and also cheaper to find a little café in a side street. AS usual he’s right but he gives in and I let him choose the restaurant. Money is something of an issue. We’re counting pennies now and need to save enough to get to the airport. He chooses a place called Leon’s of Bruxelles. It’s a chain restaurant ( warning, warning) that specialises in mussels ( moules) and we both love them. But the mussels are very ordinary and the service is lousy and we’re glad when dinner is over. I hope to have ONE good meal in Paris before we leave. The problem is we can’t afford to go to places where the food is always good….so the best meals are those I’ve made in our little apartment.
The sun is setting and I try to get photos as The Arc de Triomphe is due west and is now starting to stand out in silhouette against the deepening pink sky. By the time we walk down to Place de la Concorde the lights are all coming on and we’ve seen the Palais Royal and it’s little sister across the road, and numerous statues and as we come onto Pont Alexandra 1, the bridge that leads to Les Invalides, there it is, all lit up against the darkening sky….The Eiffel tower (looking suspiciously like an abstract Christmas tree) . It’s a beautiful sight - the moon is rising, the lights are on, and Paris looks more beautiful than ever.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
60/7 - There is Superstition!
Friday 13th
I’m not superstitious, well….not most of the time. But it has been an odd kind of day. Today is the last chance we have to catch up with Phillipa, who has moved with her galpals from Bagnoles to Montmartre….which is the trendy place to stay if you are 21 and a Mosman girl! We arrange to meet at Sacre Couer, as I have candles to light and promises to keep. Then the plan is that we have lunch together. No sooner do we get to the top of the hill via the funicular, than it starts to rain. Not a light shower - it’s torrential. Thank heavens for the umbrella. We wait, and wait, and wait until Philly appears - by which time we are pretty wet. Sacre Couer is incredibly beautiful and looks more like a mosque than a church. It’s actually only a couple of hundred years old but it totally dominates the landscape in Montmartre. I have promised to light candles and say prayers for a number of people and I do - adding one for family friend Cath who has suddenly collapsed with viral pneumonia and is in critical care in hospital back in Melbourne. And then we leave and join the milling tourists outside. Cameras aren’t allowed in the church, and so people are snapping anything and everything outside. The view is spectacular but from the hilltop Paris looks flat and grey and gives no hint of the charm in the streets below.
We all go to lunch at a restaurant that had caught Tony’s eye on the way up. It a good Carte Formule and only 13 Euros. 5 years ago such menus were 18-23 euros, but the prices appear to be tumbling in an effort to drum up business. WE order French onion soup and beef Bourgignonne, but Philly wants A la carte - and orders Escargots and Salmon. I start to panic until I realise she has every intention of paying for herself. Go for it kiddo!
Phillipa is doing a fair impression of Paris Hilton - without the money- as she tells us how she and the girls went to the Hemingway bar at the Ritz Carlton. It’s rated in Forbes as the top cocktail bar in the world!!! The cocktails START at 30 euros ( there’s a Bloody Mary at 200 Euros….for that money it would have to be Queen Mary’s REAL blood for me.) So the girls blew a few hundred euros ( each)just so they could say they’d been there. Hell…they could have done the Orsay for 13 Euros!
When we get home mid afternoon it’s clear Tony is feeling what he calls “lumpy” which is generally unwell but with vague symptoms. He falls asleep for a couple of hours but when he gets up at six he looks terrible and says he needs to go back to bed. No dinner, not even a drink of some kind. That’s when the shivering starts. He wraps himself in a blanket, cocoon like and goes back to sleep in minutes. There’s no sweating, no sign of fever - just the shivering in spite of the blanket around him. I don’t know whether to call a doctor, make plans to shorten the trip and fly home, wake him and make him eat. When in doubt, do nothing. So I sit, and I keep watch. And I’m still wide awake - sitting, watching, till 4.am. That’s when he throws off the blanket and I can see that he has stopped shivering at last. Only then do I sleep.
I’m not superstitious, well….not most of the time. But it has been an odd kind of day. Today is the last chance we have to catch up with Phillipa, who has moved with her galpals from Bagnoles to Montmartre….which is the trendy place to stay if you are 21 and a Mosman girl! We arrange to meet at Sacre Couer, as I have candles to light and promises to keep. Then the plan is that we have lunch together. No sooner do we get to the top of the hill via the funicular, than it starts to rain. Not a light shower - it’s torrential. Thank heavens for the umbrella. We wait, and wait, and wait until Philly appears - by which time we are pretty wet. Sacre Couer is incredibly beautiful and looks more like a mosque than a church. It’s actually only a couple of hundred years old but it totally dominates the landscape in Montmartre. I have promised to light candles and say prayers for a number of people and I do - adding one for family friend Cath who has suddenly collapsed with viral pneumonia and is in critical care in hospital back in Melbourne. And then we leave and join the milling tourists outside. Cameras aren’t allowed in the church, and so people are snapping anything and everything outside. The view is spectacular but from the hilltop Paris looks flat and grey and gives no hint of the charm in the streets below.
We all go to lunch at a restaurant that had caught Tony’s eye on the way up. It a good Carte Formule and only 13 Euros. 5 years ago such menus were 18-23 euros, but the prices appear to be tumbling in an effort to drum up business. WE order French onion soup and beef Bourgignonne, but Philly wants A la carte - and orders Escargots and Salmon. I start to panic until I realise she has every intention of paying for herself. Go for it kiddo!
Phillipa is doing a fair impression of Paris Hilton - without the money- as she tells us how she and the girls went to the Hemingway bar at the Ritz Carlton. It’s rated in Forbes as the top cocktail bar in the world!!! The cocktails START at 30 euros ( there’s a Bloody Mary at 200 Euros….for that money it would have to be Queen Mary’s REAL blood for me.) So the girls blew a few hundred euros ( each)just so they could say they’d been there. Hell…they could have done the Orsay for 13 Euros!
When we get home mid afternoon it’s clear Tony is feeling what he calls “lumpy” which is generally unwell but with vague symptoms. He falls asleep for a couple of hours but when he gets up at six he looks terrible and says he needs to go back to bed. No dinner, not even a drink of some kind. That’s when the shivering starts. He wraps himself in a blanket, cocoon like and goes back to sleep in minutes. There’s no sweating, no sign of fever - just the shivering in spite of the blanket around him. I don’t know whether to call a doctor, make plans to shorten the trip and fly home, wake him and make him eat. When in doubt, do nothing. So I sit, and I keep watch. And I’m still wide awake - sitting, watching, till 4.am. That’s when he throws off the blanket and I can see that he has stopped shivering at last. Only then do I sleep.
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