I was meant to be writing this from the cafe down the street called 'Irene and Bernard' but E- upon leaving the apartment this morning for her morning run locked the door behind her and now I am trapped inside. I have taken off my shoes and opened the windows to the street. I will write from the enclosed comfort of the couch while Paris life clatters by on expensive heels on the street below.
I love Paris. I love it for all of the cliches that have been repeated a thousand times before much more eloquently than I could hope to match so I will only say that I truly do love Paris. It has been seven years since I was last here.
Yesterday, we went to the local grocery chain, Carrefour, and bought wine. There were aisles upon aisles of wine. I bought a bottle of St Emilion with prize-winning stickers for 5 euros. I was truly in heaven. The yogurt aisle was varied and exotic. I bought whimsically shaped pots of coconut and chestnut flavours.
Last night, E- brought me to a bar in the heart of a park where the doors open at 6 pm and dancing finishes by midnight. My kind of place.
I am now at the cafe, E- having returned mortified that she locked me in. I was turfed from the terrasse where I get the impression only those planning to order food are allowed to sit. It was suggested I have my coffee standing at the bar but I managed to negotiate a table inside. It's a shame because it is a beautiful sunny day. Only in Paris.
Where was I? Rosa Bonheur, with sparkly lights and a tree in the middle of a garden where we wolfed down take-away pizza on a park bench before entering. Tons of people of various ages. It was so nice to go out and not feel like I was somehow impinging on the amusements of the young. The hook: for a piece of i.d. you could borrow a headset that was tuned-into one of two d.j.s who stood behind a table with their laptops. Depending on which channel you chose you got completely different music. And to those without a 'casque', the spectacle of people shuffling about rhythmically, head-bobbing and hip swaying was absolutely hysterical. So in the silence of Parisian night, people danced and danced, the only sound the scraping of foot soles on the grit of wet pavement. It created a wonderfully convivial atmosphere: strangers would share headphones with each other, dancers would gesture with their fingers to indicate what channel they were listening to ( I remember a man across the garden indicating an A with two fingers of his left hand and one finger of his right, a big grin on his face as he grooved to what turned out to be a remix of an old Whitney Houston song. Whitney Houston! Only in France.) I met a tall, curly haired Spaniard who was so full of joy, a beautiful Parisian with long blonde hair, tight jeans and high heels who cried and cried and told me "je suis malheureuse" and wanted my phone number. Of course I gave it to her. And Nicolas, the Toulousian with an accent so thick I was sure he was putting it on. Headphones in a nightclub: the great social icebreaker.
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