About halfway through the 19th century, Napoléon III got out of bed one morning and decided he wanted a wee bit of modernisation. Now, being an Emperor this involved less hunting out the Dulux colour charts for the kitchen and more summoning Baron Haussmann to discuss restructuring his capital city. This is the reason for the wonderful boulevards which lounge spectacularly through Paris and open the City of Lights to the sky. There, eddication by the powers!
160 years later, an Irish tourist is making full use of the wide open spaces to gawp out the windows of the airport shuttle and resist the urge to take snapshots or nudge the snoozing Spaniard beside me to tell him "I'm on my holidays" and if he's just going to loll against the glass, can I have the window seat?
My stay in Paris was made possible by wonderfully accomodating friends, because at my time of life you are wary of booking a hostel least you not be kidnapped and sold to a Bedouin cheiftain. It would happen to the blonde Scandinavians just out of high school and that would just upset me. Besides, hostel owners don't provide you with the most delicious baguette (freshly baked) and cheese (possibly Camembert) you've ever tasted. Really the only eloquent way to sufficiently describe the succulence of the combination is om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom.....
Autumn in Paris is by far the best way to experience the season. The trees laugh at the universe's suggestion "Now, we were thinking brown for lack of chorophyll" and get their bling on, with gold and red and maroon and chestnut and well they just go all out really. It was very cold and clear and there were contrails making a tic-tac-toe game out of the blue sky. The Christmas decorations were up, the streets were thronged and we were at The Galeries Lafayette because I was in Paris and feeling expensive.
Well I felt expensive right up until we walked in and luxury took one look at us and asked if we would be paying by card or cash and more cash?
It was exquisite; All the attendees were dressed in black , hands clasped behind them, and they ever so bemusedly arched their eyebrows every ten seconds. There was Chanel and Dior and Hermés and Bvlgari and Gaultier and yes I am fully aware that on beholding I would not appear to be able to pronounce much less know these names but one of my shameful secrets I can now exclusively reveal is that I have yet to miss an episode of Sex and the City and know my Yves Saint Laurent from my Ralph Lauren. There's an extra "t" in the former there yousee...
So, assuming my best "Mah faaaaather owns Bah-clays" expression (as though everything amuses you but if it bothers you a large man will appear and snap its fingers like a Kitkat; others have informed me I look like a stunned goldfish) and we went to see Paris from atop the Galeries. And is was exquisite. I felt like I was cheating on Madrid who was at home washing the dishes.
And so we drank in the beauty of our surroundings until twas nearly lunchtime. Then there was a beautiful moment. It comes when two or more human beings are thinking the same thing at the same time and is so magical we often call it love. Unless of course it's that horrible moment when both are thinking "I'll give it five more minutes and then if he/she doesn't Facebook chat me I'm burning all my things and moving to a nunnery/monastery." It began with "Ah, there's a MacDonalds just down here..." and the smiles on the faces of your kinsmen let you know we are one in purpose. The purpose being a MacFlurry and desperately wanting to order a Happy Meal because its got all you want to eat and it has a toy!
Feeling disgustingly americanised yet not because sweet lord ah-mighty what do they put in that special French fries sauce? we saunter to Notre Dame past a town hall that could play a Disney castle convincingly. The Catherdral was beautiful but one still cannot work out where the flying f**k the famous Rose Window was.
We gazed upwards at a stained glass window, afternoon sun streaming in, the predominant colour a soft rose. It was built in a perfect circle and the faces of the saints were picked out in loving detail. We "Ahhhh'ed" in appreciation. And turned to walk on...
...and came face to face with a window which looked exactly the same. This caused raised eyebrows, squinting round to see if anyone had noticed and once again settling into a suitable expression of wonder...
...until we set up off a flight of stair and found another window, exactly the £$%&ing same as the two before. So I attempted my most respectful "here lads, sod this for a game of soldiers" and snuck on earphones to accompany the sighseeing with the soundtrack to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who needs a guidebook?
Ah, the light had faded and my feet were very nearly walked off me but it was time to head out on the razzle! Which involved of course bringing the fine Spanish cultural pillar of botellon to France. I dot E, buying du vin and drinking it in front of the Eiffel Tower which was lit up like a bride on her wedding day/night, delete as appropriate to your sensibilities.
This was magical, but more so was our daddle to le Marais, where one can find art galleries, museums, gay bars and a lot of Chinese people. If all that together is your thing. We got kicked out of the line for a hip happening gay bar daddy-o, as a matter of fact. Despite my protestations of "You like men, we like men!! Can't we work upon this mutual interest?" and "Well how do you know we're not lesbians?" Granted if I'd reversed the order this approach may have worked better.
Nevertheless we ended up in a lovely bar called Enchantuer a wee way down the road. And this is where, in al the bars in all the Marais, I met a homesick Spaniard.
We had been talking in French to a group of party goers and switched to English for some reason or other when this boyo (rather attractive boyo, mind you) made a sound like a punctured porcupine and said "Non, non, pas en anglais. C'est trop d'un effort en francais quand meme, s'il vous plait." No, no not in French, it's too much of an effort as it is, please."
This arouses my, ah, curiousity and I ask "Quelle langue préférez-vous?" What language would you prefer?
"L'espagnole." He quasi(modo)-sighs. As to the effect of my next words, I never ever seen a man smile so genuinely, in such a dark bar, without any mention of say, whipped cream or handcuffs. Made me frankly ashamed of my mind.
"Pues, hombre, sí quieres hablar en espanol no te falta más que pedir."
Well son, if you want to speak in Spanish all you have to do is ask."
So we talked about Madrid, what was happening in Spain, if I liked it, if I preferred French or Spanish, I began to wonder if we would get around to whether I'd met his granny and if she was alive and well. And at the end of all this he gave me a rose.
While this was heartachingly romantic; everyone gave me a rose... Spaniard, dear new friend who wished not to accept his from a creepy Frenchman and the bartender who gave me a rose and two cheek pecks after we sang Over the Rainbow together, the Israel UnpronounceableSurname version. Had we had another hour I could have had a bouquet.
And so Part 2 draws to a close, as we wander home over the Seine, through the Ile Saint Louis and in the predawn glow I chuck a rose into the Seine and wonder where it will wash up, perhaps far away, once it has been swept out into the English Channel on the shore at Dover. This is far too flipping romantic, the damn flower will get ground to pieces in the locks at the Oise, but hey, I'm feeling romantic.
And so my friends, don't forget to miss the thrilling conclusion to this triumvirate spectaulaire! Witness the Sacré Couer, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees possibly as you've never seen them before or wish to again! And last but by no means least, me, trusted on my own to roam around Paris and find my way back to not-so-sunny Spain! It promises to have you on the edge of your seat, on the arm of the sofa, clutching the screen in amazement then getting bored and wandering off for a snack...
Á toute a l'heure xo
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