A Night in Paris

How much can you cram into one night in Paris?? When you sort of know where you're going, you're with a willing partner (who happens to be a travel writer writing an article on doing things in Paris without a guidebook), and the weather is fine, a lot can be seen and done. There's endless places to discover in Paris, tiny side streets, new cafes (that are old really but new to you), and for me this evening, a small, quirky anglophone bookshop nestled away on Rue Parcheminerie in the 5th. The large Canadian flag outside The Abbey Bookshop dominates the small street, it is almost impossible to miss yet I seem to have done easily over the past two years.

As I walk down the crowded, narrow lane I can hear a loud English voice reciting something. People are milling about drinking red wine from white plastic cups, and there are slabs of wood teetering on towers of books outside the shop carrying huge chunks of cheese and saucisson. They are listening to the freckle faced man describing an unfortunate situation with sheep and shit, using many expletives in the process. Quite expressive in his reading, he shocks the ignorant people walking through who have stumbled across this little street. Some stop and listen and laugh (presumably anglophone), whilst the French or other Europeans look a bit disgusted with his f'ing and blinding. He is an author promoting his book on what is their 19th anniversary of being open, yet the names of both the author and the book escape me...

Brian, the Canadian owner, is intrigued as to how I never heard about his shop, and jokingly asks his French assistant in charge of marketing how this could be so. We decide that it's a combination of foreign ignorance and bad luck but on the bright side contains the appealing possibility of a delightful discovery in a place that isn't in your face....or something like that. They immediately put me on their mailing list and invite me on their next 25km hike outside Paris. The Canadian friendliness in a European city is very much welcomed.

Before heading to a restaurant for dinner Roger (my writing instructor from my writing course in Norway) is keen to check out the Samba dancing on the Quai near Institute Monde d'Arab. I've always wanted to do this. We jump on our velibs and ride along the river, the warm air turning to a welcoming breeze as we pedal faster. On such an evening the quartier was heaving, but we dive straight through the crowd. They do this dancing every night in the summer when weather permits, the quai is transformed into an open-air dance floor. Roger invites me to dance and I remember he told me he took Salsa lessons in Argentina. A bit hesitant but in we went, joining the other already sweaty and very good dancers. I wish I could have relaxed a little bit more and let loose, but I was a bit overwhelmed by the crowd and quality of dancing around me. We catch the last song and the music stops abruptly at 11pm. People continue to hang out and dance and drink by the river. We jumped on our velibs again and headed toward the Marais for dinner. We stop en route at Hotel De Ville which is beautifully lit up and Roger takes more photos of me on the velib and tells me I'll be in the Daily Express next weekend. Not impressed, I take some of him to use instead.

Maite, the French girl from the bookshop, recommends a restaurant on Rue de Montmartre called Le Tambour. The plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas outside put us off a little bit, but are encouraged more when we go inside to eat. Cute and kitsch with friendly anti-tourists signs on the door to the toilet and above the kitchen, you get the feel of a different kind of French flair, hurried in the staff's rushing about, but laid back in atmosphere. Service is unbelievably quick and the food is good. Whilst eating the tables fill up around us as more and more people come in to eat their dinner at midnight. The very cute French waiter handles it all with ease, shouting 'C'est chaud' about everything he carries so people make way, even if it's two cold glasses of beer.

Then we head to a small cocktail bar called 'Le Coeur Fou' (The Crazy Heart) on 55 Rue Montmartre which was apparently going to be called 'Craps' until someone saw a movie of the former name and changed it (much of an improvement we both agreed). Feeling immediatley cool after an expensive Caipirinhia, the bartender surprisingly announced last call quite early and we ended up at a nightclub down the road at 142 Rue Montmartre called The Social Club. We paid 12 euros each to get in so we decided we better check out the funky DJ called Barbie something. A complete DJ club virgin, I was slightly apprehensive but up for the adventure. Little did we know it was gay and lesbian night, or if it wasn't their night it was definitely a place favored by them, more lesbian than gay really. We had a beer each and got into the groove of the music. The consistent thumping of the DJ's bass gets under your skin, and after a few songs we were drawn to the dance floor. It is so easy to lose your sense of time and space in this kind of atmosphere. Your head automatically thumps along to the beat, you close your eyes and seem to go up to another world as the soul core of the music reaches up through the floor to your feet and reverberates through your body. Everyone is dancing alone and dancing together at the same time, we are all in harmony with each other, moving to the same beat, on the same plane. Time is irrelevant in this place, and before we know it it's 4am. I feel I could stay longer but know I will have a difficult time getting home. Taxis always a nightmare in Paris, we jump on yet another bike and go our separate ways, I have at least a 30 minute bike ride ahead of me, but it is a lovely evening (or morning!) and I need to cool off from all the dancing.

As I ride past the Eiffel tower just after four A.M., I see it all lit up blue for the first time and wonder if the music affected my eyesight or the dancing joggled my brain cells, then remember Paris was newly named the President of the council of the European Union and the blue was in celebration of this. The atmosphere in Paris even at this time of night is one of frivolity, with friendly 'Bonjour Madame's' from everywhere, people on the street, in their cars, or other fellow bike riders. I do not feel unsafe in the least, a woman on her own at such an hour, you can't help but feel at one with all the other late night partiers, slightly fizzled but jolly from their night out. At this point I did wonder if riding a bike slightly drunk was illegal, but managed to make it home, unscathed, by 4:30, only my feet aching from my high wedge sandles and from biking and dancing all night. My amazing (and slightly worried) husband offers to park my bike so I can rest my weary feet and I am out cold by the time he gets back.

I love this city...

Everybody's Happy

After driving back from Normandy on the warmest day of the week we park the car outside the flat and are met with some joyful accordian music across the street. There's two round, sweaty men playing some classic song I know the words to but not the name of. I watch with a smile and think, only in Paris, like they were playing a jolly homecoming tune just for us. I then see some old women from my building throw something on the street for the men, a pack of coins wrapped in foil. They wait a few moments to see if there's any others, then move on to play again down the next block.

Back from holiday with too much alcohol and seafood in my belly, I escape to the streets for some exercise. I am bit instantly by the happy bug as the warmer air and sunshine envelops me. As I walk towards our local square Adolphe Cherioux I hear more festive music being played and see people dancing under the central gazebo in the square. I stop to watch and see our local homeless lady (I call her Wilma), dancing her own tipsy jig by her park bench. I am now more entranced by her than the group, watching her stilted but passionate dance, wondering if she danced sober like this before, one day long ago perhaps. She's wearing a cap and a smile, her usual men's attire consisting of a grubby overcoat and workboots, with the permanent bottle of whiskey by her side. Considering the last time I saw Wilma was the backside of her doing a piss in the metro station grate, this was a refreshing perspective, her gappy mouth grinning wide, remembering old times and old dances, old loves even. It almost brings tears to my eyes and I am drawn to speak to her, find out her story, but my french understanding is not nearly good enough for drunk, incomprehensible chat.

On my bike I'm so free, moving at my own pace with no one holding me back, pulling on my hand or my bag, voices ringing in my ears, knocking each thought down with interruption. I could ride like this forever, almost effortless on the flat streets of Paris, with my own special lanes giving me the right to be there, a part of the traffic, a part of the city. I ride down Vaugirard to Pasteur, turn down Bretueil towards Invalides, people getting thicker the closer I get to the Seine. As I approach Invalides I am tempted to stop, the grass areas are full of people, mostly lounging in the sun, playing football, frisbee, flying kites, and even one couple rehearsing a tricky dance sequence near the metro station. Absolutely nothing can surprise me in this city anymore.

I am not ready to get off the bike and run however, so keep going towards Concorde and the Tuileries. There are so many people everywhere enjoying themselves, eating ice cream, drinking wine or coffee at outdoor cafes, basking in the sun, I am overwhelmed with feeling so fortunate to be alive. It is difficult to run in such hedonistic conditions, but I press on in the heat, knowing I will feel better for it. My jaunt takes me round the Tuileries, back along the river towards the Eiffel Tower, under Pont Alexandre to look once again at the trendy nightclub I've heard about under the bridge but have never been, on towards Pont D'Alma, towards home. As I walk back through our local Mairie there exists even more jubilation in the form of some kind of celebration, a low key wedding I'm guessing, with guests strewn over the steps, some with guitars and other musical instruments, some swaying to the music, chatting and laughing. There is so much vibrancy in this community, so much colour to this city, I love it more with every pound of the pavement or dusty step I take.

Black November Fades to Grey

After eighteen months in Paris things are starting to settle down and get easier. After Sarkozy's 'Black November' last year we weren't sure if we'd recover, but we have, until the next transport strike anyway. France has become a bit more interesting with Sarkozy ruling along with his new wife, Carla Bruni. The political climate feels like a virtual soap opera, full of intrigue and glamour, gossip and sex appeal. Seeing pictures of Sarkozy cuddling up to his attractive missus makes him feel more 'real', albeit in a celebrity kind of way, regardless somehow more approachable and appealing than your run of the mill politician, like someone you might actually bump into jogging along the Seine in the early hours when all the true Parisians are fast asleep.

Needless to say, Paris is never boring. With all the buzz of a big city it exudes something a bit more special somehow, unattainably appealing. It's a city that you immediately love for all the obvious reasons, then soon love to hate once you become victim to linguistic disadvantages, then slowly fall back in love with as you gain more confidence or get more familiar with the geography. Sometimes all it takes is a successful chat with a friendly waiter, a glimpse of the sun shining on Invalides golden hat, or a sip of an espresso whilst you watch the whirlwind of Paris blow around you. Such simple things all of a sudden become more meaningful in Paris, but that's an adult point of view.

Paris at knee height is much different. Most children not used to the hustle and bustle of city life will dislike moving to a city with a foreign language. 'There's too many people and they're too bossy' is how my children view the Parisians, and they are right. They are homesick, understandably. They miss the space in a house, the outdoor freedom of a garden, the even more simple things that mean much more to children than to their parents. And what do you do if you love a place that your children hate? Or at the very least aren't at their happiest? Move, of course. But not yet....

Spring in Paris is around the corner...and I wouldn't miss that for the world.

Black November

We are on day 8 of the transport strike in France. Unfortunately it has coincided with a cold, wet spell and the whole city is seething. The pavements are packed with grumpy Parisians, the streets jammed with road rage of every kind; car, motorcycle, and bicycle, the few buses and metros that are running are so full that people are risking getting limbs cut off as they squeeze in the doors. Manifestations are now taking place in busy areas with thousands of people protesting. If you get caught on the wrong side of the protest you are stuffed, the police stop traffic and the protesters take their sweet time going across while you patiently wait or take the very long way around. The French are tres pissed off and want the world to know.

Attempting to make the best of it, we have donned our trainers and scooters to make the trek to and from school every day. Once Dad does his drop off he swiftly transforms into Superman and runs the remaining 8 km to work (much to the delight of the mothers on the school run). I continue to push the pram through muddy Champ de Mars and should be bench pressing 250lb easily by Christmas. After drop off I jump on a velib and join the crazy road ragers, praying I don’t get hit by a tour bus.

The children however are coping amicably with our new regime. Scooting/walking 3 km to school with hundreds of other people in cold, wet conditions is a far cry from our cosy local school 2 minutes from home, yet they have rarely complained. It is the mothers with young children and old people who suffer at these times, or anyone who is physically disabled and relies solely on public transport to get around. I stare with disbelief at all those able bodied people who stubbornly wait for the sardine packed bus instead of using their own two feet.

Next in line; civil servants, teachers, students, lawyers, judges, air traffic controllers, and most importantly, tobacco retailers (‘fuming’ about the imminent public smoking ban) are all jumping on the bandwagon, protesting over many of Sarkozy’s reforms. Very soon normal life as we know it will cease and the country will just become one big whinging unproductive mass of moaners, huddled together outside in their hordes, smoking, debating, and idling, what the French are best at anyway. With France’s former president under investigation for embezzlement, and their new President under attack for attempting to ‘modernise’ the country and create incentives for the French to work harder, we’re wondering if this is the right place to be. Sarkozy’s hardest reforms are coming next year apparently, within the health care sector, general pensions, and the labour code. If this is Sarkozy’s 'Black November’, what are we in store for next year???

World Cup Woes & Bicycle Foes

The city is swarming with international rugby fans, and lucky for me, the players as well. Running in Champ De Mars is never dull at the moment, seeing a scrumful of rugby boys running together is more than inspiration to keep me going.

As usual, Paris has done things in style and have suspended a huge rugby ball in the middle of the Eiffel Tower, lighting it up green and gold at night throughout the tournament. They also have large outdoor screens up in front of Trocadero and Hotel De Ville for mass viewing. It felt quite unreal to be watching England play in such an atmosphere, with the late afternoon sun setting on Hotel De Ville the picture was still amazing as people lolled about on the fake grass beneath the screen. The police, as always, were in control, with high security and directing people and traffic, and numerous Gendarmerie vans on standby. A year ago I would have criticised them and accused them of being control freaks, but now I realise what they do makes sense, they don’t want it to get out of hand, and you can be sure you won’t see any drunk English louts singing ‘Sweet Low Sweet Chariot’ whilst stumbling along Place d’Hotel DeVille, for if they did they’d be quickly silenced. Most Brits we passed by nodded in patriotic showmanship, the funniest being a tubby Anglophone with his roses proudly on display above his impressive gut, teamed with a French beret…..now that is class!

The city of Paris has introduced a new, inexpensive, biking system - the 'velib'. Several thousand very good quality bikes are stationed all over Paris, 300 meters apart, with over 300 km of bike lanes created especially for those brave enough to use them. After finally working out how to use a 'velib', I set off with a friend along the Seine on a splendid late summer’s morning. It felt so liberating, and not quite as terrifying as I thought, to be riding a bike around Paris. Because so many people are doing it, it makes it more accessible somehow, easier to slip into the crowd of nervous yet gleeful cyclists weaving their way around the city, much to the chagrin of taxi and bus drivers.

As I'm getting used to all the bus/taxi/bike lanes whilst dodging the traffic of pedestrians, motorcycles, cars, and other cyclists, it all seems to be going very smoothly, no crashes or injuries…until the junction at Pont Neuf. Just after this things get a bit tricky, and we end up on the wide pavement adjacent to the bus lane, which was very narrow and full of buses, a mere gap stop til we could get on the road again. However, in Paris, you are not allowed to make a mistake or deviate from the norm, and a vendeur (man selling books along the Seine) decides to inform me of my crime of briefly riding on ‘le trottoir’ by grabbing me as I ride slowly by so I nearly fall. Unbelievably aggressive, he shouts at me in French for 'rouling' on the sidewalk. Aggressively French back I tell him ‘Ne touché pas!’ and it infuriates him (unbeknownst to me it was a form of the language used only for the lowest of the low). Enraged, he comes after me. I hop on my bike and try to ride away and he kicks me as I wobble away, shouting a very English retort over my shoulder, bien sur!

Lesson learned – wear heels next time so I can kick him back.

Holidaying with the French

I’m taking great comfort in seeing that not all French are the pristine, classy, well turned out people that the Parisians portray themselves to be. In a self catering resort in the south of France, there are all walks of French life, and in this type of place you don’t find as much chic and sophistication as you would in Paris. They are on holiday, after all, with the first rule being to bare as much flesh as possible. This is understandable when living in what constitutes basically a large microwave oven. I have no idea which parts of France these French people are from, but there is evidence that class distinction also exists in this country, we all have our versions of chav, thank goodness.

There are still, however, some things that remain exclusively French across the spectrum of classes. Their vanity for example. Only here would you see grandmothers shouting at their grandchildren to ‘jouer!’ at the poolside, swatting them away like flies, whilst they proceed to sunbathe topless, unashamed of the scars on their breasts from implants done quite some time ago. When they’re completely grey and saggy there has to be a point where those things just don’t matter, but not for the French. It matters very much for as long as they are on ‘display’.

Interaction with children on holiday seems the same countrywide. Very little basically, with the odd slap for minor misdemeanours, I even heard one mother call her little girl ‘Vache!’ by the pool whilst giving her a smack . They are far too busy browning their boobs and smoking fags in the sun to play with their kids or swim in the pool, no wonder all the little Frenchies stamp on our sandcastles, they’re pissed off their parents didn’t help them make any!

Saving grace – the French are late risers therefore there is no rush to reserve your sunbed on the beach or by the pool (as with the Germans). Just get there before lunch and leave before tea when the hordes of French teenagers arrive, most with their prepubescent breasts on display.

Gendarmerie Dreams

The mysterious Gendarmerie. Nobody seems to know exactly what they do. Apart from being military police and apparent security guards outside important buildings, their job seems so secretive, which is perhaps where the attraction lies. As they are stationed near my son’s school outside Invalides I walk by them often. As do most French men, they make their attraction noticeable and attempt to get my attention, jigging from foot to foot in that boy gang type way, pointing me out not so discreetly, chuckling to each other. Although slightly imposing in a group, they always smile, sometimes even with a wink and flirty ‘bonjour madame’.

A uniform always has an effect on me. Gendarmes look very official and quite sexy in their tight navy blue suits, black belts and boots, wearing the traditional kepis on their heads. Standing outside their windowless blue vans, they can seem intimidating.

As I walk by I come over all girly, and can hardly suppress a giggle as I am victim to their obvious ogling. I want the confidence to wink back and say ‘bonjour monsieur’ in my sexiest French accent, but end up looking down and walking quicker….mother of two children, married, nice catholic girl, shouldn’t flirt…..all racing through my head. I know they’re watching me from behind, making comments on the size of my derriere presumably, debating on size and form. Not only do I wish for a smaller butt at this moment, I also wish I could wiggle it like the French girls do, a small but controlled jerky thrust with their pert buttocks jiggling on top of high heels. Somehow, I think they’d settle for mine anyway.

What if I let them have their way with me, I wonder as I walk on. What if I just walked onto their big blue bus and said ‘Bienvenue messieurs, je suis a vous (welcome gentlemen, I am yours). What if I took one of them by the hand and had my way with him. ‘What if’s’, like ‘I want’s’, never gets……

What is this city doing to me??? Time to change temptation focus.

Saving Grace - The summer sales are starting, watch out shops…je viens!!