The downside was that I hadn't slept well again, really not sure why, so I switched my alarm off as soon as it sounded at 8.30am, hoping I could rest a little more. Thankfully, I had forgotten to hang the 'please do not disturb' sign over the outer door handle before going to bed, and was woken by a chambermaid knocking to see if I was there as she wanted to clean the room. It was about 9.45am. I stumbled to the door, she took one look at my sleep-swollen eyes and backed away, apologies falling from her smiling, embarrassed lips. If she had not arrived, I may have slept until past breakfast, and that would have been a waste of time, money and lovely food.
Having made the effort to stand up, I progressed to the window and was greeted by a beautiful day. So, I showered and made my way down to breakfast where I filled my stomach with some of the most delicious bacon and scrambled egg I've eaten in ages. Plus fruit, bread, cheese, pastries and lots of black tea...
I was sad to leave my garret room (albeit an executive suite...) with its stunning views and lovely interior, and sad, too, to check out. The hotel staff had been superb. I hope to return. The time I had this far spent in Paris had somehow cleared my head, given me energy and – yeah, OK – given me back my joie de vivre, which had been hiding, suffocating and fading away underneath a pile of work and exhaustion. Oh, and another thing was that people were talking back to me in French! I had studied the subject when exams woz exams – GCE O-level, not GCSE sub-level... I managed to get an 'A' and to this day regret not studying French at A-level and beyond. The language is, to my ears anyway, magical. It was rewarding to converse in French (where it all came back from, I don't know). I understood more than I could speak but I did sit my O-levels more than 20 years ago, so that was OK. It was strangely empowering.
So, today was shopping day and my first target was to buy candles at Diptyque. I sneezed after inhaling one particular version and couldn't stop, which was slightly annoying for me and the sales assistant. Eventually, I chose two that didn't cause an allergic reaction. The dapper assistant asked if the candles were for me or were a gift so I said 'a gift', knowing that they were a gift (ahem) for me... This meant they were presented wrapped in delicate pink and purple paper, tied with ribbon, and he also threw in some fragrance samples with a wide smile.
Next, I walked towards Notre Dame en route to St Paul and Le Marais again. My ultimate target was Place des Vosges, which had been too packed the previous day when I was out with Inz and V, what with it being the weekend. The sky, as the picture below shows, was clear and blue. I was even wearing sun protection cream. Yes, it really was that hot.
Approaching Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved
Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reservedIt was one of those mornings that made your eyes open wider and your lungs expand. People walked around smiling, or perhaps it could have been the case that I had a smile plastered on my face and they were simply smiling back.
Seats around Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reservedCould this street (below) be anywhere but in Paris? It was on the way to Place des Vosges, its surface still wet from the rain that must have fallen (mercifully) the previous night.
Narrow street, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reservedOn my way, I spotted this traffic light. It made me do a double-take, especially as my long sight is no longer what it used to be. But, yes, there it was, a heart-stopping sight. The lights then went green so I stood there fiddling with my camera until the cars stopped again. People watched me watching the traffic light, possibly thinking I was slightly eccentric. Good.
Heart traffic light, Parisian street © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reservedAnd then, I reached Place des Vosges, with its archways and tiny shops and galleries, many of which were extremely expensive and exclusive. I bought a couple of things (yes, they are presents, yes, they are for me, and they were within my budget)... and had a very long and pleasant chat in French with a middle-aged man who explained the history of a company to me (in French), with me able to make observations (in French!) back to him. For that moment, at least, I felt like a bloody genius, especially when Monsieur fell for my haggling in his mother tongue. I was triumphant.
Place des Vosges, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reservedHaving eaten no lunch, I stopped off for a takeaway croque monsieur and a mille-feuille from a café near my hotel and encountered the only rude Parisienne of my entire trip (apart from two snooty ones in a shop in Le Marais but that's slightly acceptable; they did at least say hello, while conveying "you cannot afford this"; little did they know, the silly idiots, I am a woman with a budget, I have not had four weeks' holiday per annum for five years and this was payback time. I felt like Julia Roberts in the shopping scene in Pretty Woman, but without being a whore, of course).
Anyway, the sour-faced café woman, who looked at me as though I was an alien, handled the pastry with her fingers and was rude (in French, which, yes, I understood). "Take it! Take it then, go on!" she demanded, holding out her sloppy, heated, cheesy offering. Bitch. I glared at her as I left and muttered something Anglo-Saxon in her direction. While waiting for my taxi in the hotel lobby, I ate some of the croque monsieur but chucked the pastry in the bin. At least the sealed bottle of Badoit was uncontaminated by her ugly bitterness.
So, that was nearly that. The taxi arrived, I thanked the front of house staff at the hotel for a wonderful stay and before I knew it, I was hauling my bags around the Eurostar terminal trying to find somewhere to sit. I gave up on duty free – I couldn't leave my baggage, not in this day and age and all that, and my fingers were already strained and purple from the effort of carrying the things I'd bought.
When I found my seat on the train, which took longer than it should have as I was initially in the wrong carriage as the Eurostar staff hadn't bothered to number them on the outside as they normally do, I took out some paper and sketched out a storyline and characters for a new novel. The woman next to me, who was French, and had terrible halitosis, kept glancing over at my frantic writing and smiling at me. I just wanted her to keep glancing at her book and not breathe in my direction, but it was nice to be seated next to a friendly, if smelly, face.
From Waterloo, it's easy for me to get on to my London train and get home. Dear S was there on my home station platform, beaming, if looking a little peaky and thin. He had been ill while I was away. Poor S, he doesn't look after himself very well when I'm away. He eats poorly and loses his ability to sleep like a log. It was lovely to get home. I began to tell S some of my tales but as he had been – and was still – unwell, I encouraged him to sleep, which he did soundly after making protestations, while I pottered around in a state of rejuvenation, tiredness and happiness. I slept like a dream that night, too.
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