To the latin Quarter again today but not before a brief sojourn back to the Luxembourg gardens to bask in the gentle leaf filtered spring sun and not before a brief but assertive discussion (aka argument) about where we were going to go. See when I plan, I research the basics; price, cost, historical context, socio-economic climate, GPS coordinates, potential risks including possible escape routes etc., record these on paper, on tablet and back up to cloud. This process is exhaustive, comprehensive, and perhaps lacks a certain serendipity. Di’s manner of planning is far more interesting. Di, unencumbered by myriad complex planning theories – or possibly by any, carries a map of Paris marked with spectacular hieroglyphs, the codex fragments to which are littered amongst the coffee stained pamphlets and papers back in Kenmore. Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon would struggle to make sense of it all but the Da Vinci code, paradoxically, does provide an answer. To plumb the depth of this map, to unlock the code, one must experience it – visit each place on the map.
And so….given I’d done none of my extraordinary planning, and Di had spent some hours preparing said hieroglyphs, we went with Di’s. It was great fun. One street marked on Di’s map was, well, a street and the two of us struggled to comprehend what might have passed through our minds some months before in sweltering Brisbane, but another “rue”, oo-la-la! We came out from underneath a quiet sandstone tunnel into a busselling market scene like Tommy into Brigadoon, Charlie into chocolate factory and Conway into Shangri-La. Boulengerie, chocolatier, Bucherie, Poissonnerie, merchand de vin, fleuriste, delicatessen (more merchants than metaphors in that previous sentence), all bursting out onto the cobbles vying for our attention with their colours and smells.
Wanting to maintain our good health we honed in on an open air chicken rotisserie beneath which lay a tray of par boiled spuds partially browned by the griller and absolutely drowned in chicken fat – parfait! We balanced the slightly alkaline nature of the carb load with a nice red from the Bourgorne region in a small bistro on a sunny cobbled square across from a beautiful old sandstone church.
It was here we met our first real (fabled) French waiter; condescension extordinaire, a superb “I only speak French” air, nasal angle just so, trim and propper in his black and whites. In fact he was wonderfully helpful and not a little playful, as all the French have been for us.
We wended our way back to the church of Owen Wilson fame and found this gorgeous cafe under a vibrant pink cherry blossom on the corner of rue Decartes and Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve. The road before us ran steeply down hill twisting between the old sandstone halls of learning (polytechnique, oceanography….) and in the distance could be seen the top of Notre dame’s bold square spires.
Clearly a student hot spot (Sorbonne), no less then 17 I-pads thrashed through the deeper and more interesting section of Kant, Heidegger and Game of Thrones as we sipped on our wines and watched the world go by. It’s quiet here, away from the traffic. Only the gentle left wing murmur of uni-students or the striking of a match to light a cheaper-than-brand-cigarette rollies broke the soft spring blossom quiet. It seems you can sit for hours on the price of a coffee.
We tarried there awhile then wandered home arriving 8pm ish and still light – got to love the northern twilights. Di was toast but I was famished after a day’s walking. I ducked out for a meal in Montparnasse, took me three rounds of Rue …to find a table – chockas. One Croquette de Poisson and two vin blanc later I decided the best thing to do would be to go for a walk. Two hours later I’d wandered to the Eiffel tower and back and was in big trouble…..oops.
Also today; breakfast of avocado and eggs on gluten free toast washed down with compost shake and paleo dung balls – awesome. I think Di had banana pancakes with maple syrup. Thanks again Sean – nice call.