Ahh, Paris

I arrived in Paris on Friday afternoon. In the airport in Amsterdam I met a Laotian girl returning from a month in America. She had a perfect French manicure and pedicure. She said it was her first time in the country and wanted to move there. She was born in France and had lived just outside Paris all her life, in Orly. I said that I loved Paris; she said it was small. Manhattan is small, I countered. She had been staying with an aunt in New Jersey and made trips from there. To Florida, to California, to New York. She said she ate in a Vietnamese and a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown. When I asked what her aunt did, she said she owned a nail shop. No wonder you have such nice nails, I said. She laughed.

I arrived at Nicolas' apartment near five. He lives in a street just off the Place de Republique. The location is fantastic. The apartment was empty. Copies of Guillemette's book lay in a corner. Her exploded luggage lay on the floor of the study. I showered and changed and went off in search of lunch.

I walked towards the center of the city, finding my way with the Paris Pratique from 1989, and discovered that much of Paris was surprisingly familiar. As I passed churches and other landmarks, I remembered them from my first visit, when I bought the blue book of maps. I soon found myself near the Isle de la Cite, and remembering Berthillon, I skipped lunch and had mango and blood orange sorbet. The blood orange was to die for. And, finding myself so close to Notre Dame, I crossed the bridge and soon found myself before its facade. The sun had begun to set, and the stone glowed orange in the fading light.

I sat and opened my journal, remembering the first time I sat before the cathedral and the gypsy women who patrolled the square. I had passed through the Place des Voges, and was surprised at the amount of people out enjoying the afternoon. It was a far cry from the deserted area I remembered from that February in 1989.

I began walking back to Nicolas, and stumbled upon a Brasilian festival housed in a small covered area. I asked how much admission was. Gratuit, said the attendant as he ushered me in. I stayed to listen to the band before hunger got the betteer of me, and I found a nearby cafe where I ate a small sandwich.

The next morning I arrived at the hotel at 11.30. Kit's train from London had come in at 11.15, and I settled to wait. I napped. She hadn't arrived by 1.30 and so I was getting ready to call her when she knocked on the door. Her sense of direction had pointed her the wrong way and it took her an hour to find the hotel from the metro stop. It's actually not much more than 5 minutes away. She freshened up and we left in search of lunch. Debating on a direction, I mentioned that I was planning on going to Sacre Coeur when I returned in October. Kit said it was one of her favorite places in Paris and so we set off for the 18th Arrondissement, stopping for salads along the way.

When we arrived, I started humming the theme song to Amelie. I hated that movie, Kit said, as I cheerfully hummed along. It looks much bigger in the movies, I said. Of course, she said. He shot with a wide angle lens. The square was packed. We walked up and into the church and then I asked if she had ever climbed to the top of the dome. She said she didn't know it was possible.

We wandered to the western wall of the church to a small door. A machine sold tickets; a boy stood beside it to show people how it worked. I commented to Kit that they were trying to be all modern with the machine, but the boy might as well have sold tickets for all the difficulty the machine offered.

We climbed and climbed and then soon had a breathtaking view of Paris beneath us. As we walked around the dome we could see Notre Dame, the Pantheon, the Musee D'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower. A breeze cooled the narrow walkway and we lingered over the view.

Back down, we wandered south, heading back towards the center of the city towards Le Printemps. Kit was looking for CDs, and we arrived just as they were closing. From there we cut through the Tuilleries and then down by the Seine towards St. Germain de Pres, where Kit had remembered a nice area of restaurants. As we walked by the river, the sun set behind us. Tourist boats plied the water and people dangled their feet over the edge. On the Pont des Arts, picnickers gathered on either side, some with baguettes and fruit, some with tartes they had brought from home. Kit said next time we'd self-cater and bring our own blankets to sit and eat and watch the sunset from the bridge.

In St. Germain de Pres, the restaurants were packed. We finally found a seat and finally sat down after walking all day. Our feet were aching. After dinner, we wandered back towards Notre Dame and found a cafe where we could sit and eat dessert and watch the crowds walk by. A group of French biker boys sat beside us making catcalls to all the women who passed.

By then it was getting late and we set off after our creme brulee and tarte tatin for the hotel. Kit hadn't slept the night before, and I knew jet lag would hit me hard today. This morning we met a friend of hers for brunch and then she left for London on the Eurostar. Now I have to pack and get ready to leave for Casablanca. My flight is at nine a.m.
Posted by eku at September 4, 2005 11:04 AM