Cobbled streets in ridiculous heels
I was offered another trip to Paris just weeks after my return. This time a romantic weekend. A research secondment to see if the ‘city of love’ is more than just a clever marketing slogan.
Every morning was dedicated to the Cafes of St Germain. Long drawn out coffees with a side of existential conversation in audience style seats that face the pavement to facilitate people watching.
Quiet sunny afternoons were spent eating, drinking wine, strolling and lolling in various parks. One afternoon we set out for a picnic on the Ile-de-Cite – an island in the middle of the Seine. Every square inch of grass was either being run through by toddlers, smothered by lovers in a passionate embrace, or dressed by brightly coloured picnic blankets and weighted down by bottles of vin rouge and assietes du fromage. We had been to the local fromagerie and procured France’s most popular cheese – Comte – which goes through a rigorous testing process before it can receive its coveted title. It smells like armpit, crumbles like old cheddar, is as salty as soy sauce, and is possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. We spent another afternoon lolling around in the Jardin du Luxembourg next to the fountain which seemed to be a popular spot for ankle paddling and flirtatious water fights.
Evenings started late, with drinks before moving onto succulent restaurants, and then perhaps a little jazz club. On our last evening, with a bottle of champagne in hand, we wandered towards Pont des Arts (a small wooden bridge over the Seine). Every night the Pont des Arts is densely populated with couples and small groups, all with byo food and drinks, and sometimes musical instruments. One group even brought their own table and 4 chairs and sat in the middle of the bridge having dinner. About a metre further along a man was playing what looked to be an accordian but sounded like a fiddle, while a number of couples attempted to waltz.
We walked across the bridge and continued to the quieter and more ambient inner sanctum of the Louvre courtyard with central fountain and uplit stone carved walls. After we opened the champagne we were politely forwarded onto the brighter, more populous, section of the louvre centring around the famous glass pyramid through which you can look down to see the foyer of the museum. We found a spot near the pyramid to finish the champagne and people watch.
As if for our viewing pleasure, a man approached the pyramid to peer through the glass. He had not noticed the small gutter that runs around the pyramid, so procedeed to trip and face plant against the glass wall of the pyramid. This seemed to catalyse a series of similar visual spectaculars as each and every tourist that approached the pyramid commited a similar trip, deviating on the style of fall. The couple who did a double face plant into the glass. The woman who tried to mask her trip with a dainty crumble. The macho man who tried to pretend that nothing at all embarassing had just happened. Every time we managed a semblance of composure, another unassuming lemming would do the same thing. Surely there is a CCTV somewhere that has French security guards, night after night, suavely chortling at the graceless anglais.
Tags: Paris, France
Jyai