Only day three? Our chief concern thus far is sunburn.
A brief précis of cafe images; woman on pushbike with cat in shopping bag, Sydney Silky (Paris Silky?) with pink goggles on a motor bike, old man on push-bike wrong way down one way street across intersection in front of speeding bus, old lady steps out (on red light) in front of motor bike who locks up and nearly drops said bike, countless good looking men in tight levis on roller blades (at night they light up – the roller blades not the jeans), man reverses vehicle to accommodate another vehicle turning left nearly taking out multiple pedestrians…
One could grow concerned at the amount of sirens heard blaring through the city at all hours of the day. I can attest however, that such concern is unwarranted having undertaking an in depth study on the subject. Sirened vehicles include police, ambulance, fire, civil protection, pathology, towing vehicles and the odd ice cream van. A siren means, not danger but, get-the-hell out of my way and I can envisage a Parisian future in wish flashing lights and sirens come standard on all vehicles.
Today, what a gas. Coats, to jumpers to T-Shirts. From 12 to 26 blue sky, gentle breeze – gorgeous. We breakfasted at our local boulengerie where our regular visits have developed rapport sufficient to reveal the bakers much loved and remembered visit to Byron bay. Chausson des pommes and coffee for Di, garden salad for moi (I don’t like to dwell on it) then off to the streets of Paris.
We walked the back streets to the Eiffel tower and happened upon one thousand eight hundred Indonesians from “Star Club Prudential” touring France. They were a lovely bunch and we stopped to take phots and chat. They knew where I one worked in Kebayoran Baru in Jakarta.
Maintenance on the tower led us the long way around the base to the river and we wandered from there West to the Allee des Cygnes, a long strip of tree lined path that splits the Siene. From there to Trocadero where we stopped for lunch at a busy city café, recovering our loss of breath from the real estate window prices (Euro 5,900,000).
Down to the Grand and Petit Palais where we checked out the gallery and then wandered in the garden behind (Jardin des Arbords du Petit Palais) with a hundred(s?) years old cherry blossom in a spring flower garden; white and maroon lillies, yellow, orange and purple tulips fully opened, violets and jonquils bursting out of freshly turned soil surrounded by vibrant green. A voluptuous forty something woman in very tight jeans and a white blouse spun, arms out, beneath the blossoms as the petals drifted down like pink snow. We suspect she was stoned.
With a vague eastward intent we reached the jardin des Tuileries and wandered till we came upon the cafe/ restaurant beneath the trees. The Tuileries were amass with people of all walks enjoying the spring weather and we chatted over a couple of beers with some elderly Parisians. The Madame, olive skinned, upright, sharp as a tack, obviously a beauty in her day and still a force to be reckoned with, spoke only in French until we passed some unspoken test then was happy to chat however it came. Monsieur, with big lips and a ready smile was fond of stories:
George Bernard Shaw offered Winston Churchill tickets to his play saying, “Have two tickets for opening night. Bring a friend if you have one.” Churchill replied, “Impossible to come first night. Will come second night, if you have one.”
Di was keen for us to find a small bistro we’d visited years before with the boys. It was colder then, much colder, perhaps zero, and a light drizzle had started to moisten our skin and eyelashes. We needed warmth and the boys were ready for (another) feed so we popped in. L’assemblee was a lot different today, not the crammed, black suited, business-rush-luncheon of a winter midday, coats six deep on the hallway hooks. Rather, a few blokes relaxing in the long evening sun shine. The bloke next to our little street table seemed to know everyone that walked by. In the street at our feet were a few parked motor bikes with space for a few more between. A girl arrived and parked a car there – with some “a little more” gestures from Di. They’ll need a can opener to get it out – great spot though.
We wandered back to Montparnasse and stopped in the busy Rue de la Gaite for a feed. A small Swiss restaurant, people piling out on the street. Di was less famished than I and had a salad but I went for swiss sausage in cabbage with a side of (I think) Tarrade, a delicacy from a particular Swiss canton that consisted of potato & garlic encased in a porridge of melted cheese.
Thus far I’ve been able to eat, walk it off, suck my guts in and maintain some semblance of my hitherto svelte form. After the Tarrade however, I’ve given up all hope. Two days later it’s as if I’ve a 2kg colostomy bag under my shirt and I swear if I squeeze around a bit I can feel small pieces of swallowed-whole-potato coated in slowly dissolving Swiss cheese.
I waddled home, Di, smiling and (I thought) somewhat over-emphasising her salad-eating lightness of step….mentioned something about a light day.