Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 12

The very phrase, ‘A morning in Paris’, conjures up so many images and expectations. I was conscious long before our precious morning, that we would have to carefully watch the time – or once, again there would be a recurring theme and we may well see a train slipping away right in front of our eyes. On our first trip to Paris, one of the very first things I learnt, was that the last day of June is the start of solde season. Tempting as it is to be in Paris, the very morning the sales start, I promise Stuart not to be sidetracked and slip into any sales – just ‘for a few minutes’. He tells me that I can always meet him at Gare d’Austerlitz if I want to shop while he wanders the streets of Paris, soaking up the atmosphere in a few short hours.

I decide against this tempting offer for several reasons, despite the fact that arriving on the very first solde day seems too good to be true. One, I have a terrible sense of direction. We both know that I would be highly unlikely to find the station. Two, even if I did; it’s likely that I would board the wrong train and end up far away in Barcelona or Milan. actually, perhaps not a bad idea after all for solde season. I also remember only too clearly catching the train home from Sydney one day – Stuart had boarded the train, the doors closed and I was left standing forlornly on the platform.

So, thoughts of solde delights are reluctantly cast aside. After all, Stuart has promised that this year (for after all we have also once again been renovating at home), that our first week will be one of rest and relaxation. He has enticed me away from thoughts of shopping in Paris, with a possible solde trip to Limoges, a new destination. Last year we didn’t even get to the sales in nearby Brive until they were well into their third week.

By then, the racks were empty and desolate. Limoges brims with the hope of full solde shelves and racks, simply overflowing with French chic. Mind you, at home we would never dream of venturing on a four-hour round trip to shop. In France, however, it all seems to be quite different and our everyday selves are cast aside.

We have carefully planned our precious few hours for our morning in Paris, to absorb as much atmosphere as possible. The very name, Quartier Latin, conjures up images of bohemian Paris and the Sorbonne, which is not far away. The student atmosphere creates a lively collection of second-hand bookshops and cafés, while the myriad streets entice you to wander and simply immerse yourself in all that is glorious in Paris. However, we have to be careful not to fall too fully under the spell of the crooked lanes, for after all, there is a train to catch quite soon. The famous Luxembourg Gardens are also in this district, as well as Palais du Luxembourg, where there is a park with a large pool where children sail boats and Parisians read the paper or bask in the sun in striped deckchairs that you can rent. All of these enchantments will have to be for a future visit.

We take delight in the shops, restaurants and boulangeries, and as the lunch hour approaches, we join a patient, snaking queue for baguettes. A long queue is usually a reliable indication of excellence and we are not disappointed. We find a little park and sit on a bench in the shade, immersing ourselves as fully as possible in a fleeting taste of Paris. Time ebbs rapidly and we make our reluctant way back to Gare d’Austerlitz to collect our luggage. Our path takes us through the stunning Jardin des Plantes, three hectares of botanical gardens, and there is just enough time to linger and admire the outside photographic exhibition.

Our fleeting morning has been all that we hoped for; the sun shone, we had our first espresso and delicious baguette – and most importantly, the train did not disappear imperiously into the distance.