Day 3 Tres riche

I went for a run this morning – oddly enough, as I never run – perhaps it’s a symptom of living in a cupboard, or jet lag, don’t know? It was pitch black dark (at the crack of seven) and raining. I was carrying an umbrella which will give some sense of how serious a run it was.

Some of the streets, at least around Saint Germain, have not had garbage collected since the strikes started 9 days ago and piles of wet rubbish spew out of overflowing bins and skips. There are many homeless people, maybe not as many as in 94 with all the refugees from Algiers, but enough to make you notice. It must be a tough life in winter. We saw one person buried in a sleeping bag and rags, prostrate over a steam vent keeping warm – it looked like a pile of melting garbage – how do they get dry when they move from the vent? Another man lent against a wall scantily clad, apparently asleep, or unconscious, or worse, in the rain (it was three degrees).

In stark contrast to such horrors, we headed west along Boulevard St Germain today, downstream, towards the shopping district of the tres riche. But first to a Paul’s for hot coffee and pastry to gird our loins against the wind and rain. We headed down Ru de Sein and then to Rue des Beaux arts where every store is an art gallery; paintings, sculpture, wall hangings, Reg Mombasa like multi-layered cartoon paintings and wood carvings. Some galleries were the size of a small bedroom. One place captured explosive ‘events’ in resin. There was an exploding black flouro tube with the glass turning into butterflies and a fly, bursting through a burnt match exploding into black splinters and dust – amazing!

Somewhere down an alley, the rain stopped and the sun came out. We found some neat little alleyways around Place de Furstemburg, with butcheries and parfumeries and those lovely old leaning in stone buildings with timber shop window frames.

Having used up at least the energy contained in a single cup of coffee and pastry (or so we reckoned), we sought further sustenance, and burst from the shaded, quiet, shiny wet alleyways into the sun-bright, bustle and cacophony of Boulevard Saint Germain. The comfort and warmth of Des Flores, called to us and we camped there awhile watching the comings and goings of rugged up Parisians. The waiter was lovely and full of smiles, making us feel like we were truly engaging in conversation as we tortured his native language.

Suitably revived, we rugged up and headed down Rue Saint Sulpice towards the church of the same name, now receiving far more visitors post the Notre Dame disaster. Many shops in this area, all the name brands you can think of; Hermes, Armani, Givency, Prada and the shops that have just one item inevitably raised on an ironically shaped pedestal, illuminated, in the centre of a white room, by a single spot light. Only one sale required and the catwalk dressed, Fabio looking gent in the corner bean bag can retire to his third house in Morocco.

We continued on as far as the Bon Marche, a quieter, spacious, more dignified Gallery Lafayette, where people who sell things off white pedestals shop on there off days. We snacked here (at frightening prices), checked out the bizarre dancing Christmas puppet birds in the Bon Marche street windows and wandered home to Rue Monsieur Le Prince.

In the evening we wandered over to il de cite, a fifteen minute walk, and on to a right bank bistro near Chez Julien’s where we’d dined once before. We had a drink there until Aux Anysetiers Du Roy opened in the old part of il de cite at 7:30am and enjoyed canard in honey and raison sauce and tart fine au pomme – apple pie (Di) and five meat Cassoulet stew and cream brûlée (jeff) and a wee drop of wine. Staggered home with the idea of packing for tomorrows journey – hah!

Slept easier after discovering, on the tracking app, that our ski boots had left Con’s garage and are in transit for Cortina – yeh!