Sunday morning in Paris
Coffee then the pharmacie. The French shower gel was expensive but buying it from a pharmacie meant there must be medicinal benefits (French ones too, the best kind).
And this grand crème coffee would not come cheap, sitting out on the uneven but sundrenched café terrasse. That said, it was made with love. Paris: the city of love, light, wibbly-terrace coffee and expensive shower gel.
The true Parisian option would be un café standing au zinc [at the bar], with an elbow on the worktop and a foot resting on the long metal strip running along the bar’s length. Taking one’s morning coffee like a true Parisian, stood atop the spiral staircase leading down to the antique washrooms, meant spending just enough time over the coffee to benefit from a break, but not so much time that you end up overwhelmed by the smell of toilet creeping up the stairs.
But today I felt like being outside, on display like a Parisian flâneur. [This means sauntering about aimlessly, observing the life and culture of the city, and moreover being observed back.]
So here I was: a foamy grand crème in a red ‘Cafés Richard’ cup with charmingly mismatched saucer, together with a Speculoos biscuit which I’ll keep for later, and a small packet of sugar which I don’t need but will fidget with for a while.
Behind me, between the Denfert-Rochereau metro and an iconic dark green Morris advertising column (next to a newspaper kiosk), handsome firemen are selling tickets for this year’s 14 July Firemen’s Ball. The more weathered firemen are out fighting fires/doing fire-related paperwork, whilst the young, new recruits have been deployed to Sunday morning market streets to entice people to join them for a Bastille dance at their traditional bals de pompiers.
Young ladies flock to chat with the men in uniform. I am trying to look aloof though am secretly miffed to have not yet been offered a ticket.
Could it be that they remember me from the firemen’s calendar incident years ago, for which I had already apologised profusely?
Horror of horrors, could the firemen be assuming that I am not a local? This is galling, given all the efforts I have made to blend in, sat there with my red beret and ‘J’aime Paris’ shopping bag (ready to be filled with Roger & Gallet shower gel).
I clearly belong here. In case of any lingering uncertainty, all they need to do is smell me. Then it dawned on me: what if the Lolabell-avoidance is linked to the nude French beach incident last summer, where I had unwittingly ended up on France’s ‘Most Unwanted’ list?
Just as I was asking Google Translate how to say “come and smell me”, there was a commotion as someone started the fire engine and the firefighters all ran and jumped on board, faces concerned and focused.
“What’s going on? Is there a fire?” I asked a passing waiter, with a mixture of worry and nosey excitement. He wiped the table and shrugged.
“Bof; non. It’s time for lunch”.
Click the button below for Lolabell’s French beach incident:
And click here for Lolabell’s previous French pharmacy antics:
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