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.