Autumn 2017: Paris pour la première fois (deux)

The thing about living one of your dreams is that reality might not always come up to expectation.

I was finally in Paris, and I was terrified that the rose-gold fairytale I’d treasured for so long would turn out to be a gilded facade, nothing more.

As I bustled about the kitchen fixing le petit dejeuner, I decided I would leave today up to chance. I only had one appointment – the necessary visit to our sister hotel; I would let the rest of the day figure itself out.

So I took an Uber to the Avenue d’Iéna – the driver’s name was Jeremy and he was pleasant and helpful and had the most melodious accent – and stepped out at the former Bonaparte palace.

Waited primly in the glittering lobby and watched the guests with interest until a dapper colleague came by to take me around, with many profuse apologies that it was Fashion Week and they were full so the suites were unavailable for show.

Nonetheless he delighted in sharing historical tidbits – did I know that the floor itself was protected, did I see the royal insignia up there, and would I be interested to note that they discovered that awe-inspiring glass cupola during the restoration- and I was just equally delighted to listen to the voluble French commentary and wander dreamily around.

First impressions

Presently we found ourselves in the garden, a lush little corner tucked away in the midst of the palatial splendor. Look, there she is, my colleague pointed. La Tour Eiffel.

And there she was indeed – the famous wrought-iron lady, half-glimpsed behind the rooftops. Even from a distance, she was magnificent.

The best way to arrive at the Eiffel is by walking, my colleague said as he accompanied me back to the porte cochere after the tour. (I should have booked myself a lunch table, or at the very least an afternoon tea, but I hadn’t and it was too late.)

Just walk straight until you reach the Trocadéro, you won’t miss it.

I can…walk? I squeaked. It’s that close? I won’t get lost?

Monsieur smiled indulgently. You won’t. Enjoy Paris!

So I set off up the graceful boulevard in a daze. It was another overcast day – but zut alors, I was in France, and even sullen days are beautiful days.

When I came upon the Trocadéro… wow. Never mind the crowds, never mind the pushy touts trying to sell trinkets of doubtful provenance, never mind the fact that I had to remind myself to clutch my bag and keep it in plain view at all times despite the presence of the gendarmerie – for in front of me was Gustave Eiffel’s enduring masterpiece, rising  into the gray sky.

I cried then.

After that there was nothing for it but to cross the Seine – and here I paused for another little sentimental cry; me! on the riverbanks! of the Seine!– pass the carousel and join the queue outside the tower.

Security said to open my bag, or at least I thought they said Ouvrez something something. I did, and the officer pulled out Clancy and Moses, to my everlasting embarrassment.

Teddy bears! He laughed. The other officers laughed. Even the Asian couple behind me giggled.

Bonne journée, I smiled at them all, and flounced off. At least I hope I made their day.

Underneath

And because I was already there, I opted to climb on foot. Paris really is hard work, I wheezed to myself.

But the view of the stately Parc du Champ de Mars stretching into the horizon, and the sensation of floating up in the air on that glass floor was worth it, and I felt like I tiptoed out of time for a while, so transfixed I was.

All the feelings made me hungry though, so upon descending I went to hazard a bit more of my French. Un chocolat chaud et un sandwich, s’il vous plait, I said carefully, and was surprised when the lady behind the counter nodded understanding and handed my order over with a smile.

I passed another agreeable hour eating my lunch on a green bench in the tower’s shadow, perfectly at ease in this leafy, tranquil corner of the City of Light, and thinking that the French had been nothing but kind and friendly so far.

Then it was time to tackle the next challenge: finding my way back to Montmartre.

After consulting my metro guide, I set off at a determined trot.