Chapter 4 #2
Perhaps I had been overprotective of him.
I didn’t consider myself a helicopter parent, but maybe he needed some time on his own too, time to grow up and sort all his stuff out just as I did.
This was a positive step for both of us, and maybe he would begin to see me as a fully formed adult too, not just his mother.
We passed houses and building sites and at last went into the long darkness of the Channel Tunnel and I think we all tried not to visualise the millions of tons of rock and water above us.
When we got off in Paris, the man collected his belongings, storing everything into a rather stylish suitcase on wheels – so he wasn’t travelling light either – and darted off to be lost in the crowds.
* * *
We spent that night in a very modern, characterless but perfectly acceptable hotel near the Gard de Nord railway station.
There were three single beds, a bathroom with plenty of space and breakfast included.
It was the first time I had shared a bedroom with someone for nearly eight years and it felt very strange.
‘It was nothing like this last time,’ Anna said the following morning as we went downstairs to the breakfast area. ‘Last time we slept in a rather disgusting place and there were police sirens wailing outside all night.’
Interesting, this also didn’t fit in with the sunny, fun-filled expedition I had imagined all those years ago.
‘I remember,’ Harriet said, ‘and Paul got horribly drunk in the rooftop bar. We went to see Montmartre and he had to stay behind in the hotel that day to sleep it off. Such a waste.’
‘Well, we won’t be doing that today,’ I said, checking my copy of the paperwork yet again, although by then I had looked at it so often I should have known it by heart.
‘We have only got a few hours for some sightseeing before we get to the Gare Austerlitz this evening. Just think, this time tomorrow we will be in Nice!’
‘We could get a taxi to the station?’ Harriet said.
‘Did we do that last time?’ Anna said. ‘No, we didn’t, and you know, if we are trying to recreate the whole experience of being in Paris with hardly any money, shouldn’t we do some walking?’
Harriet rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t promise that bit, and anyway, we couldn’t afford it then, but we’re a bit older now. Think of my poor knee.’
‘If you can drag me around the Bicester Outlet shops looking for the perfect white T-shirt for two hours, then you can manage an hour walking through Paris,’ Anna replied. ‘And we can stop off along the way to look at things and get refreshments.’
‘Oh, okay then,’ Harriet said, mollified, ‘if you promise. As long as it doesn’t turn into one of your forced route marches.’
We finished our hearty breakfast of pastries, coffee and fruit before we shouldered our backpacks again, wheeled our cases to reception, checked out and set off into the bright Parisian morning. It was just after eleven thirty.
It felt wonderful and everything I had hoped for. Even the air seemed different. I took a deep breath.
There were people hurrying to work or appointments, tourists consulting street maps and arguing about which way to go, sophisticated couples glancing into shop windows and workmen pushing street-cleaning carts.
And as we walked there were so many things that awakened our senses: the aroma of strong coffee, an occasional drift of Gauloise cigarette smoke, the bustle of a city starting its morning routine as we strolled along the broad, tree-lined streets and past cafés and pharmacies.
We went into shops to look at the fashions, a wonderful stationery shop to buy notebooks and pens so we could record our travel adventures, and a small supermarket to stock up on snacks.
And it was fun; we were taking our time, enjoying just wandering around the streets, dodging the other people and generally soaking up the Parisian life.
There was a lot of traffic of course, occasionally car horns tooting at some delay and everywhere French people doing French things.
Blue and white enamel street signs, a woman in tartan with a little French dog in a matching tartan coat.
A cross-looking man puffing on a cheroot and shouting into his phone.
After a while we reached the Place de la Republic and we stopped at a glass-fronted café, glad to put our backpacks down and our cases under the table. We had some reviving coffee which was bitter and very hot and somehow absolutely right.
‘Is it too early to have a cognac with this?’ Harriet wondered.
‘I don’t know what time it is,’ I said, and I really had no idea.
We consulted our watches and then our phones.
There was another text from my son.
Ben
Which bin goes out today?
Me
Look on the fridge door. Probably recycling.
‘One thirty, so that means two thirty local time,’ Anna decided, ‘so not too early at all if you think about it. Actually, it is definitely lunch time. And I’ve noticed they do pizza. I had my first ever pizza on our trip all those years ago.’
We sat people-watching for a while, slowly drinking our coffee and cognac, glad of the rest even if sitting at a pavement café in the Place de la Republic was probably going to cost us a fortune.
After that we shared two pizzas which were huge and hot and absolutely delicious even though Harriet grumbled because she didn’t like anchovies but had forgotten to say so.
And then we shouldered our backpacks and set off again.
Then after a few steps we went back because Anna had left her case under the table and we had neglected to pay the bill.
‘Well, that was a narrow escape,’ I said. ‘They might have called the gendarmes and then we would have had the shortest holiday on record. I’ve never been arrested, although once a security guard in Sainsbury’s gave me a hard look because I left my trolley in the wrong place.’
‘Some of these gendarmes are rather gorgeous though,’ Anna said. ‘Have you noticed? I wouldn’t mind that one with the moustache taking down my particulars.’
‘But not so attractive if they are chasing you down the street, waving their guns and shouting “Arrête ces femmes!”’ I said. The other two agreed.
We passed the statue of Marianne, the heroine of France high on a plinth, and stood admiring it. Harriet pulled out a small guidebook.
‘The most famous painting of her is by Delacroix, and recent statues of Marianne have been modelled on Brigitte Bardot and Catherine Deneuve. At least this one has her vest on,’ Harriet murmured.
‘Why is it they could make wonderful statues back then, but these days they aren’t nearly as good?’ I wondered. ‘Google it if you don’t believe me!’
‘Oh I believe you,’ Anna said. ‘I saw a bust of that famous footballer in Barcelona airport only recently. Wow, do you remember in French class, we were taught the Marseillaise? I can still remember it; I always sing it before France versus England rugby matches to annoy Rupert. Aux armes citoyens. Very rousing.’
I stood to attention and saluted in front of the statue of Marianne and sang a few bars, much to the astonishment of my friends and a few locals, but then Anna and Harriet joined in.
I thought we sounded quite good, actually, but then we saw a pair of gendarmes coming in our direction, so we stopped.
‘Come on, troops, marchons, marchons! Qu’un sang impur,’ I sang rather more quietly, and we hurried off giggling.
We wandered on, our cases trundling obediently behind us, towards the Seine, passing shops with five or six storeys of flats above them. I wondered who lived there, and Harriet wanted to know what places like that cost.
Who was that woman sitting up there smoking a cigarette on her balcony while beneath her the traffic surged and fought to get past the man with the hand cart who was having a spirited argument with a gendarme?
There was a toddler being pushed along in a stroller by an elderly woman who was probably his grandmother.
Where did they live and what was his life like?
At last, feet aching, we reached the river and stood for a moment looking at the water below.
I dabbed at my face and neck with a wet wipe from the special travel-sized packet I had brought.
The day had heated up, the sun high above in a blue, cloudless sky.
I felt a trickle of sweat run down between my shoulder blades and wondered if we should have got a taxi after all.
After checking the map again, we lugged our cases down some stone steps to the tree-lined walkway along the river, sat down with relief and dropped our bags at our feet. If nothing else, it was wonderful to be away from all that traffic.
There were barges moored on the opposite bank, and a bateau mouche slid past us, filled with tourists sitting on orange seats, and for a moment we could hear the crackly commentary from the tour guide over the loudspeakers, but it was very fast and in German so we didn’t learn much.
I could almost imagine Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron in An American in Paris dancing there, although that day there were a lot of people around who would have got in their way.
Some people were eating candyfloss, a group of girls were doing a lot of hair tossing and giggling, and a couple of rigid-faced women in sunglasses were walking their dogs. In front of us was the ?le de la Cité and the familiar bulk of the newly restored Notre Dame cathedral.
‘Isn’t this odd,’ Harriet said at last, looking wide eyed, as though she had enjoyed a Damascene moment of realisation.
‘All my life I have been restricted by timetables and commitments but at this particular moment only the three of us know exactly where I am. And I don’t have to be anywhere apart from on the right platform at the station in time, and after that on the train to Nice this evening.
Perhaps this was a good idea after all.’