Paris – Day One

Reverie…

 

I can still see my feet walking down the Rue de Lancry, about to discover the bridges, bars and leafy walkways of the Canal St. Martin. I can still smell that distinctive odour of boiled rice emanating from the labyrinthine Métro corridors. The other smells are best left forgotten. The sound of exuberant schoolchildren playing soccer on a dirt pitch bounces off the remnants of a 12th century fortress bordering the field. Even under ominous storm clouds, the Seine is magnificent, proudly reflecting the city’s glory in its leaden waters.

 

 

…

Sorry for that unbearably poetic rant. Feel free to vomit now. But I just can’t help it. Every single time I visit, Paris does something to me. It turns this sarcastic bitter old broad into a mushy pâté. I’m feeling more than a little nostalgic this week. I had a wonderful weekend and while my body is back home, my spirit is still wandering around the arrondissments. Ok, now I sound like a freaky French ghost. What I meant to say was that my on-again off-again love affair with the City of Light is back on with a vengeance. Oh oui!!

 

But let’s start with the facts:

We arrived late Wednesday night at Charles De Gaulle airport and when we finally managed to get a train ticket (not easy if you don’t have a French credit card), we took the RER down to the city. It may not be glam but it is by far the fastest and cheapest way to get to Paris from the airport.  By the time we dragged our sorry suitcases and selves to our hotel in Place d’Italie, it was past midnight. But I didn’t want to miss one minute of eating Parisian food so I forced my exhausted hubster to take me to the nearest café (a place called O’ Jules). Despite the late hour, there were quite a few people having dinner, including a table full of boisterous Spaniards. Mimmo and I both had omelettes: mine with potatoes, his with ham and cheese.  Not the best I’ve ever had but more than satisfying after our tiring journey. And get this, our waiter was actually pleasant to us. He even smiled once in a while. Un miracle! 

So with our stomachs full, we made our way back to the hotel, dodging the occasional stream of pee or pan-handling drunk. One of them wanted to get a lift in a taxi and was flatly refused. Monsieur le Drunk couldn’t understand why: “Mais pourquoi tu ne me veux pas? Pourquoi!?!”  Despite those episodes, I was so happy to be back in Paris. I went to bed with visions of tiny sugar plum Sarkozys and Carla Brunis dancing in my head.