- Long-lost cafe found
- Sun along the Seine
- New Notre Dame
- Student hang-out, Sobonne
- Jardin de Luxembourg
It’s a tragedy that we lose our arses as we age. It’s not the worst age-related affliction to be sure, but a disappointment nonetheless. Jeans are made to be filled; a snug pair of trousers with a deflated airbag look arse-end is just sad. And besides, before Chesterfields came the bum, and it’s really not comfy without one. Di says I’m welcome to some of hers, but I don’t think that’s going to cut it – as tantalising an offer as it sounds. Michelangelo’s David, Canova’s psyche & cupid, all arse. Nope, I’m taking back control, I’m going to rebuild my derriere (cheek by cheek?) So post Di’s pilates, I punched out fifty squats, fifty lunges, a few pelvic thrusts and a cluster of (the ominously entitled) ‘clams’. This evening, my arse is no bigger, the lift is out of order, and I can’t walk. Not a wise move.
The steely-grey-cold morning beckons a brisk walk, and we stride (limp really, given state of quads), arm in arm, east down rue Saint-Honoré towards nothing in particular and chance upon the l’esspresso bar. A somewhat grungy but delightful café where we’d shared a wonderful evening with locals, a bottle of Côte du Rhône and les pats des jours six years earlier. We stop for coffee and to reminisce before moving on to our day’s focus, Notre Dame.
As if in concert with our desires, our lady casts off the morning’s grey, revealing blue sky and sun, guiding our course along the Seine.
It’s a joy of the European winter season, I think, that though steady, the crowds are thinner, and so it is at Notre Dame. We flow swiftly through the cattle grids and straight into the hushed throngs gazing upwards into that edifice’s grand vaults, and, no doubt, according to the architect’s design, to the limitless heavens above.
It really is spectacular, the more so given recent reconstruction (since the 2019 fire). Towering stone ceilings, spectacular leadlight glass, awe-inspiring artworks depicting devout followers in various postures of obeisance and awe, the ensemble diminished only slightly by the ‘treasury’, 12 euro entry, housing the statuary sculpted from gold ….stolen from people….that they murdered (in God’s name though, so..all good). To be fair, ‘…while Spain imported vast amounts of Inca gold into Europe, the Notre-Dame collection focuses on French and Catholic, rather than pre-Columbian, history. The items currently in the treasury, such as the reliquaries for the Crown of Thorns, were commissioned or donated by popes, sovereigns, and French noble families.’ – Google
We head south towards the Latin Quarter, and up to rue Descartes where, once again, we enjoy a sumptuous French repast (at student prices) in the shadow of the Sobonne (and the little church where Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams waited for a vintage car in “Midnight in Paris”). Students sit here for hours on an espresso and a rollie discussing Heidegger and Kant. Actually, that was the last time, today, it’s Malbec. That’s what I heard, so either they were discussing wine or referring in fact to Michel Houellebecq, French author and provocateur (pronounced well-beck), not sure.
Onwards to Jardin de Luxembourg, where the ‘petunk’ of boule can be heard in the hedge-cloistered quietness of the gardens, statuary of various famous personnages greet one’s promenade at every leafy corner, and people recline around the large central pond soaking up the intermittent glimpses of sun.
Our plan is to return to the cafe l’esspresso for tea, then perhaps on to a live jazz club, but ‘the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak’, so we make it as far as l’esspresso for cassole and steak but no further.