I experienced my favourite moment in Paris when we weren’t supposed to be there.
Our plans derailed by a French rail workers’ strike, we were meant to be 300km away in Dijon, at the start of our rural Burgundian idyll.
Instead, we found ourselves tired, frustrated and uncertain, tumbling out of a TGV from Barcelona onto the forecourt of Paris Gare de Lyon at midnight.
That’s when Richard halted, a look of wonder on his face, to declare, “Holy shit, Paris really looks like Paris.”
And there it was. The Belle Époque facade of the station behind us, a cafe with its sidewalk chairs, tables and aproned waiters in front, all lit by the neon signs of the bars and hotels.
Paris carried a burden of expectation possibly heavier than Barcelona. The Catalan city was new to both of us. But the City of Light not only carried its traditional reputation, but my desire to share the magic I had experienced on earlier visits.
When we returned to Paris as planned three weeks later, the city responded with true Gallic indifference to delivering what I wanted.
It rained part or most of every day, with unrelenting steely skies. The peak season holiday crowds meant at best queues, at worst bodily crushes and obscured views of any given sight. The combination of the upcoming Bastille Day celebrations and a terrorist threat meant a disconcertingly high police and military presence.
But there were glimpses. The rain refracting the lights of nighttime Paris; the winding, cobbled streets of Montmartre; the voices of a youth choir in the stillness of La Madeleine. The sheer pleasure of seeing Richard’s face when he saw the glass of Sainte Chapelle, Chagall’s ceiling in the Opera Garnier or Van Gogh’s brushstrokes at the Musée d’Orsay. Sitting together at sidewalk tables, watching the Parisians go by.
And I’ll always have that first moment of delight, when Paris really looked like Paris.
MELANYA
STRAY OBSERVATIONS
- Parisian parking. Wow
- After weeks of threatening to do so, Richard finally bought his yellow Lamborghini Euro scarf in Montmartre, home of Amélie and, briefly, Van Gogh
- Trying frogs’ legs for the first time, at a bistro in Île Saint-Louis. Tastes like chicken
Kiwis on Tour 