Thousands gather to watch….

“Hey Honey, which towel is yours, the left or the right?” “Mine’s the one in the middle”, came the reply. And so it goes with relationships. Di was talking hooks, I was talking towels, same picture, different perspectives. Life is all the more richer, I think, if we can drop our own perspective as the right one and be open to viewing the world in different ways…

On Friday at the Polidor, we enjoyed lunch so much we thought we’d make a reservation for a table for next week. I spoke to the matre de in French, I thought, concisely and robustly, like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings (the beard helps), “Look to my coming at first light on the 5th day. At dawn, look to the East”. “Look for our coming on Tuesday, at noon, two people, table by the window”. I gave Di the, “I’ve nailed this” nod as he ushered me through to the main dining area, I assumed, to select a table. He pointed to a lady in black, “English…reservations”.

Di did pilates while I cooked French toast, before we swapped roles to best utilise our available space. Di has to lie kind of, diagonally, feet under the desk, arms under the bed, to do the ‘supermans’. Blue sky, maybe ten degrees, no jet lag, perfect. I’ve always wanted to check out the Bois de Boulogne. It’s the forest on the outskirts of Paris where the French kings went to hunt. So, post pilates and petit déjeuner, we set off to the west from the Tuileries metro.

It was lovely as far as walks in the woods go, but not really a highlight, just bush really. There’s a rather nice lake on the Eiffel Tower side, and miles of forest trails, with the odd horse and rider bursting out of the bushes, but otherwise unremarkable.

We stopped by a pond to enjoy our cheese, salami and bottle-of-wine picnic in the sunshine before moving on.

The walk back was more fun. Up the hill to the Arc de Triomphe past some very Ritzy dwellings (embassies?), before promenading down De Champs-Élysées, with thousands of others in the Saturday afternoon sun, past the Palais Royal and across the Place de la Concorde. A lady in a skort did a dance number in the crowd (for Tik Toc?)

We stopped in the posh end of our street at a cafe, La Coupe d’Or, to rest our legs and watch the weekend parade go by. Pete, your brown cord, purple puffer vest, burnt orange jacket combo would have held you in good stead on Rue Saint Honore in Paris this afternoon. The Crosby slip-ons may have let you down? Long woollen coats, caps and scarves very popular with the men, (those not wearing said purple puffers etc) and faux fur and tights running strong with the women. As was Botox. An older gent sitting next to us, on his way home with a bunch of flowers for his wife, conversing with the staff with warm familiarity, sipped wine with his fat, black-and-white, grey whiskered chihuahua sitting on the table, their heads turning from side to side in unison – watching the passers by with equal enthusiasm.

A brief pause back at our apartment (I may have enjoyed a red wine and a cigar on the balcony) before dinner at the cafe du louvre around the corner, canard for Di and chicken with potato gratin pour moi.

Absolutely stunning day to day (Sunday) – nothin but blue sky…We spent the morning calling home, then caught the Metro to Montmartre, where we wandered deliciously aimlessly till the sun set. Dinner at the oldest restaurant in Montmartre, La Bon Bock, low lit, candles, cosy corner, fortifying wine, after the many stairs of Montmartre – perfect. A common entre, tried for the first time tonight, poached egg with red wine sauce – outstanding. I’d brought along some GF bread (Di’s genius idea), which, drawn from a crumpled clip-lock bag, deducted somewhat from our cool chic, but meant that none of that exquisitely rich sauce went to waste. It’s late, so the pictures can tell the rest of the story.