and magnificent I can't wait to return...........
A mere 34 hrs in the beautiful city and my head is still filled with death defying images of closet suicidal motor bikers slipping effortlessly, deliciously, between pedestrians on the pavements of Boulevard Saint Michel, my heart aching for the perfumed vocabulary of cafe staff especially when silkily uttering the ordinary ....."Bonjour Madam".
We arrived in rain and left in damp darkness.
More of the departure though later....
We ate French food.
The most perfect trois oufes omelette filled with fatty thick slices of jambon, I mean, oh come on, it pushed through the yellow envelope of mountainous puffed up egg like a pink fleshed living jewel. Exquisite golden crusty petit pain with a rich off white crumb and nippled tip spread lavishly with divine President butter. To die for. Black tea, a small teapot of hot water alongside a small white cup with a Lipton tea bag. The French even make a teabag tres elegant.
Snickers bars from the Monprix and fluffy full fat fines herbes cheese and prune youghurt for a midnight feast.
And, on Tuesday evening, on the way to Gard du Nord, the reddest sweetest framboise tartlette.
We attempted to converse in French, Mr Horsehound fairing much better than me.
He gave those Parisiennes a run for their money. I wasn't surprised at all. I've always known he's bi-lingualish.
I did ok...
"Merci beaucoup" being a particular favourite of mine.
I loved everyone of those sales assistants especially the pretty brown haired madamoiselle who smiled a thick red lipsticked smile at me as she placed the
vintage handbag into my eager English hands. It's a beauty. Tan leather, battered by life, brass fittings. At least de cinquante ans.
It was a filthy price, 35 euros, but at last I had it. The perfect sac.
A funny thing happened in Notre Dame.
We were going about our devotions, well I was anyway, Mr H just added to his photo collection. When out of nowhere, actually she materialised by the devotional candles.... A little white haired paper thin gran mere. Dressed in grubby grey jumper and faded black maxi skirt and no higher than a small stool she collared us. Her big wooden crucifix hanging by a thin string lying perfectly flat against her woollen clothed breasts.
"Bonjour" she said tenderly
"Bonjour Madam" we softly replied in unison taking kindly to the friendly soul...
And so for the next fifteen minutes we were told the histoire of the world, the devil and his minions...and how the world is run by the numbre sept. She wasn't making an awful lot of sense but we respected her faith and eagerness to spread the word so let her pour her heart out.
We did though correct her when she said God worked for a full seven days... Oooops. She did not like one bit being reproached/corrected gently by a couple of crafty foreigners. This rung whacking great alarm bells.
By this time Mr H and myself were getting suspicious of the real reason for being halted in God's house by this skinny granny with watery pale blue eyes and crusty deep purple lips. She was, she said, a volunteer, but she wore no badge saying "I'm Madeleine, here to help" and she was, I thought, a little mad. It was as if the spirit was in her burning brightly, nicely, but a serious lack of patience with us was manifesting itself. A bit unchristian methought.
But being happy and of a generous nature we let her continue her homily
Oh yes.
As we shifted from foot to foot with achiness I piped up that we would prefer to continue to our walk alone peacefully, but that we had learnt from her a lot about many religions and for that we were eternally grateful.
She smiled broadly, and holding my hand asked ever so innocently if we'd make a small contribution...
John and I looked at each other and smiled. We'd been had.
The lady was an in-house beggar.
I gave her money. I admired the cheek and love a good performance.
And it was the second time I'd given to the less fortunate, the street wise, the first time was to large boned shawl covered gypsy who had, sitting at her booted feet, a small white cat. I gave her some change, she blessed me. I hadn't been conned, I knew the score, I just loved the puss.
The cathedral con though was good, being economical with the truth in a house of God... respect Madam, respect.
Even a hard-bitten dodgy merchant like moi couldn't/wouldn't pull off a coup like that.
We left the hotel on Tuesday at 11 am and had neuf heurs to kill so instead of riding the Metro from one arrondissementto the next we walked. And walked. And walked...And after dix heures and many cafes and shops we arrived at Gard du Nore.
Mon Dieu, I love you Paris.
As soon as I do the photos I'll upload them.
