Autumn 2017: Paris pour la première fois (trois)

Pardonnez-moi, I said politely to the elderly gentleman walking his dog. Pouvez-vous m’aidez? Je suis perdue. Dov’è la metro – oops, I mean, Ou est le métro, s’il vous plait?

To his credit, he gave no indication of being appalled at my attempt to speak his language (and the first three sentences had gone so well,too!)

Go straight and turn left, he replied in his own tongue, speaking slowly, with many expressive gestures, to the silly foreigner who had just mixed up French and Italian.

So I was headed in the right direction to Bir-Hakeim after all! I thanked the  kind stranger and went on my  way.

Having mastered the French machines, and fended off the sort of dubious character one tends to find around them, I found myself back at Pigalle with one stress-free line change in no time.

A quick change in the cozy flat at the bottom of the hill, and then I went huffing and puffing uphill. Paris makes you work hard is becoming my mantra – that is, when I have the space to think between breaths.

So I need to take a detour to Paris, I’d said to Sèbastien less than two weeks ago. Where do I stay?

Quartier Latin has nice bookstores. He knows me so well.

What about Montmartre?

My favorite neighborhood. A bit more pricey but just as authentic.

I’m feeling quite authentic right now as I go exploring.

It’s steep, much like Dubrovnik, with that same surplus of almost impossibly pretty corners to stumble into. Lovely, quiet, artistic, beautifully French, with a wonderfully fine idealized atmosphere that makes you think that if the movie of your life was filmed on this set, it would be one of those artsy ones that have plenty of sprightly banter with winsome characters, exquisitely lit shots of cheese wheels, and charming subtitles. Passing by Amélie‘s famous cafe encourages this line of thinking.

And there would of course be a scene on the steps in front of the majestic Sacré-Cœur, where I spend some time in the dim, cavernous space and say a silent bonjour to Him.

Back outside and heading downhill, I pop into a shop for a pastry, into another one for a drink – subjecting the proprietors to my halting French – and amble along feeling pretty and fizzy and fine; there really is nothing quite like wandering one of Europe’s great capitals all by myself.

I inspect the local Monoprix (I love supermarkets) and pharmacies (I also love French pharmaceuticals) and sex shops – but I did not take any risqué objects home. (Boring, I know.)

The four-footed residents are out and about as well, enjoying the fall afternoon like I am, and so finally I stop being a movie character and revert to being the kind of slightly creepy stranger who follows dogs around and talks to them. None of their humans seemed to mind very much, although I suppose they are used to all types here.

At home in my Airbnb I get some fancy chocolate from Sophie as a belated birthday present – she really is quite sweet – and ask Sèbastien something important:

Do you French not like lifts or escalators?

The reply comes late across several time zones and loses none of its smug Gallic superiority.

No, we are fit. And have great butts.

How does one say facepalm en français?