A heart lost to PARIS
André Rose describes his ongoing love affair with the French capital
MY love affair with Paris started a few years ago. I read the guide books, the travel blogs and the travel writings. The romantic picture painted by the movies played in my head. All this helped to create a certain expectation of the city, an expectation that was likely to be left unfulfilled. But Paris met and exceeded every impression I had created of her. Her beauty and charm continue to woo me with each visit. This, my fifth visit, proved to be no exception.
I arrived in Paris on a Thursday as a stopover to London. I made my way to friends and arrived just in time for dinner. The clatter of French, English and the odd Afrikaans phrase complemented the flair of a scrumptious French dinner. After a lengthy catch-up, I retired to the guest flat I would be staying in for the next few days. On a separate floor, it offered the perfect combination of privacy and having friends around. This time, however, I would be spending the weekend by myself as my friends had made plans for a getaway.
I reached the comfort of my bedsit and unpacked a few things. The evening was still young and the sun was struggling to give way to the night. Inspired by the passion that always seems to hang in the Parisian air, I donned walking shoes and set off into the evening. I crossed the Jardin du Luxembourg, distracted by lovers displaying affection on the park benches; fashionable parents shouting at equally stylish children; and Adonis cult members working at the muscle offerings to their god.
I found the Latin Quarter exactly as I had left it the last time I was there: filled with awed American tourists speaking too loudly and caught up in their consumerist frenzy of purchasing cheap madein-China souvenirs. Elegant maître d’s competed with kebab restaurateurs to offer a culinary experience, the imposing façade of the Sorbonne lending a pretentious scholarly atmosphere to the area. The odd student sauntered along looking very professorial. I stopped at a local creperie to indulge in an obli- gatory Nutella crepe. The warm chocolate confectionary added to the sweet flavour of the evening.
The light was rapidly fading as I sojourned along the Seine. The river was choppy as cruise boats filled with lovers and partygoers cruised along its banks. Live music and sparkling wine serenaded the impinging darkness and lifted the spirits of those imbibing. The golden light reflected off the romantic waters. I walked past couples whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Groups of friends, maybe students, engaged in frolicking banter as they drank wine and ate cheese. The odd guitarist offered sacrifices of melodies to the encroaching night, perfuming the air with ballads unsung. My heart leapt with ecstasy as myriad sensations tickled my senses. I eventually wandered down a side street away from the magical Seine, tracking my way back to the apartment.
I got pleasantly lost navigating unfrequented side streets, passing tucked-away restaurants that may never have hosted a tourist and finally found a somewhat familiar main street. The bars and bistros were filled with outrageously elegant men and women. Fashioned in the latest offerings of the catwalks, these supposedly everyday people could just as easily have been from the pages of Elle. The atmosphere was electrifying, charged with passion, romance, elegance and charm, all the qualities that endeared the city to me. I eventually found my way home and slumbered, comforted with the memories of the evening.
The morning was greeted with enthusiasm. As is my custom on the first morning in a place I visit, I was up before the sun rose.
I love going for a jog to see the city come alive. I headed off in no particular direction. My aim was to taste the morning. As the light illuminated the city, the cacophony of sound started to harmonise and shape the rhythm of the city. The noise of buses starting to ramble along, the chatter of children off to school, the arguments of furious lovers, the drone of traffic and the sigh of espresso machines started to give the day its familiarity. I made my way down unfamiliar streets, through the Jardin des Tuileries, past the Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Élysées and through the Arc de Triomphe. I headed for the Eiffel Tower and stopped to catch my breath and do my good deed for humanity as I took a photograph for a bus load of Japanese tourists.
It was going to be a fabulous weekend.
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