The flame of romance in the City of Lights

Brantley Fraser,

This week’s winner, ponders life, love and the passage of time in Paris

We strolled along the pavement with the Seine and the Ile de la Cité on our right, the Quai de Montebello on our left. We had yet to realise that the Musée Rodin was closing in only an hour and a half, so there was no urgency in our stride. My French-Canadian girlfriend wrapped her fingers into mine, sentimentally gazing into the Seine, reflecting on her past visits to this city.

For both of us, as it does for so many romantics, Paris represents an old idealism

– a delicious feeling we experienced so fervently in our youths but fail to fully reconjure as we’ve aged. I tried to imagine, in the instant I recognised that sentimental gaze, how differently she felt the city then. With the sprawl of mostly American tourists behind me queuing for the Shakespeare & Co bookshop, I recognised how differently I felt as well.

She stopped at a stall along the river where a bookstand of French titles was neatly organised alphabetically, fully adorned with paperbacks covered in a thin, translucent paper wrapping. You could smell the musky age on the books despite the care they’d been given. I groaned a little.

“I told you I wanted to

bought one more book.” Her Québécois accent was faint by comparison to her confusion in tenses.

I grinned a little as she eyed a novel by Marguerite Yourcenar. I stopped and perused while she was approached by the old man who owned the stall. I recalled the fecund literary history of Paris in the Twenties; Céline, Proust, Gide, and Bosco seemed so familiar yet so foreign.

I looked across the river, taking note of the various people squatting outside the brasseries with their drinks and cigarettes. From this

It represents an old idealism, experienced so fervently

distance I could see a young man in faded jeans and a grey shirt with a design I couldn’t make out rolling his own, speaking with a woman dressed in a similar style, already smoking.

My attention returned to my girlfriend, who appeared to be discussing two different titles by Yourcenar with the stall owner. He stood a few inches taller than her now, seemingly empowered by their conversation. His tweed flat cap that matched his trousers in the greys and browns was stuck just above his eyebrows which were signed on each end with curly grey wisps of hairs. He smiled as he spoke with her, his earlier wrinkled, weary expression transformed by a sudden lightness. I grinned a little more to myself, thinking about her ability to energise people.

They ended the exchange of money, books, and smiles, and he turned to watch her go as she crossed over towards me. He nodded to me, and we turned up the river towards the museum. I left feeling a bit envious of the interaction. Perhaps I should learn French.