Day 40 – Le Louvre

We spent the day at the Louvre today, and apart from a minor delay trying to buy tickets on-line (at one below) to avoid the massively-butt-freezing-long ‘no ticket?’ queue, it was delightful. When we came with the boys, Di had lined up a dozen ‘must see’ items which was brilliant but fairly high paced.

It really is an outstanding collection and this time around it was a joy, just focussing on the paintings and taking as long as we wished.

Coming back we decided to stop for a coffee at this place we’d been to before (a year ago), a traditional Parisian cafe & bar, a bit grungy and full of locals. It was six o’clock when we arrived, I think we left at about eleven, completely forgetting our ‘Jazz’. plans.

Apart from an American couple who came and went, it was the same crowd all night and they welcomed us into their circle (at least it felt like they did). It was a bit like a scene in a play or perhaps, ‘Cheers’, there was:

The tennis player; a smooth natured, somewhat weathered, good looking man in a grey sports jacket and scarf who once played for France – ‘top ten in the country! Ahh but that was thirty years ago – family!’

The Yorshireman who’d lived in Paris for 70 years, spoke fluent French but still broke spontaneously into homeland drinking songs at the slightest pause in conversation (must’ve started drinking young – don’t think he was more than 75). Hands pushed deep down into the pockets of his fur hooded army duffle, leaning back under the weight of his well provisioned from, he’d hold forth in English or French depending on which direction his stomach was pointing and didn’t skip a beat.

The two lovely, blond haired, cream jumpered French ladies who were amazed at how we found the place and seemed to alternate between wine and cream Dimenthe all night without falling over, ‘this place it eez unique, it is like the zee old places before all the rules’ – and indeed by ten o’clock she had to ask them to open the windows because we couldn’t breath for the smoke.

The ‘Mayor’, who sat, in a luminous multi-coloured parka, propped between one of the ladies and a friend, talking to no-one in particular and pointing occasionally. When people spoke to him he would stand and take a little half bow before easing himself precariously back into his seat.

Holding the bar up were an old man in a floppy brown hunting hat with a hand-skinned & tanned leather satchel, and a tall, very drunk late middle aged man in grey smart casual who wobbled back and forth dangerously along the bar talking to anybody foolish enough to make eye contact – by nine the barman was giving him water (they knew how the place worked).

We spent most of the night speaking to Marion and Mathieu her boss (though judging by how affectionately they were with each other, the relationship extended beyond work). They’re young Parisian’s working in the construction industry, loved skiing and gave us some hot tips on French resorts. Actually Mathieu was part Moroccan, part Californian, brought up in Paris – which he was passionate about.

So we spoke to this table and that, swapped stories, narrowly escaped being roped into singing drunken Yorkshire drinking songs and eventually had to leave. The barman poured us and Marion and Mathieu what look like four creme de menthes (We think Mathieu may have bought those, not sure) and we bid them all farewell; bon soir, au revoir! – and they all waved and fare welled us back. Cool place.