,
Galloping throughout the Parisian streets, trying to outrun
the horses, my pink sneaker clad feet were on a sprint like no other. Trapped in a quagmire of cheering Parisians,
screeching kids, regal horses and men in uniform, I could only hope and pray that
there would be an alternate escape route that would eventually guide me to
freedom. All of the major rues and
avenues had been blocked off, security was on full alert and police cars were
the only vehicles within visible radar.
Yikes!! What on earth was going on?
All of the inhabitants of the City of Lights were out and about,
anxiously lined up for what seemed to be an event of monumental proportions.
It was not yet 10:30am on a leisurely Sunday summer’s morn
and it was as if pandemonium had struck while I had been sequestered on a bus
en route from the airport, having dropped the Kid off for her overseas flight
home. When I had left le dreaded
apartment at the crack of dawn, the city was still in slumber mode,
languishing in a state of sleepy contentedness, offering not a glint of a hint
as to what type of controlled chaos was about to unfold.
Clueless as to what all of the brouhaha was about, I was
none too worried at first, as I would be safely nestled in my new Parisian
hotel by noon, snug as a bug in a rug, in a state of delicious cat napping mode
for the next hour or two. But, alas,
that was clearly not meant to be, as it took me the rest of the day to finally
place my pink sneakered foot inside my new pad.
What would normally be perhaps an hour or two long trek to le Rive
Gauche, was now instead an arduous and grueling adventure by way of cordoned
off streets, blocked exit routes and a cavalry of horses parading regally along
the boulevards.
Stranded somewhere within the vicinity of the Opera House, I
had planned to lazily stroll along the avenues, scoot across Les Champs-Elysées
and meander along the Seine until I reached my new home away from home. A totally do-able and fabulous plan, that is,
if you’re not planning on sauntering and meandering out and about on one of the
most celebrated of French national holidays. Yikes!! What had I gotten myself into?
Police and gendarmes seemed to have quite literally swarmed
upon the capital, camera crews and radio vans were positioned about, and the
sense that something colossal was in the works permeated the atmosphere. What the heck was going on? And then it dawned on me - it was Bastille
Day, or la Fete Nationale and the celebration of the storming of the Bastille
on July 14th, 1789, which ushered in the French Revolution, and
which was now in full-blown processional swing.
Puzzled that the barricaded streets were barren and devoid
of vehicles, I still hadn’t clued in as to the magnitude of the festivities,
with the shutting down of Les Champs-Elysées for the arrival of the French
president and his military arcade.
Darting up and down the garrisoned avenues, my pink sneaker clad feet were
reluctantly turned back, politely told that this or that particular rue was
temporarily closed, locked down until the end of the parade and festivities,
some several hours from now. You’re
kidding, right?
Not one to argue with the French military, I thought, well,
surely there must be some way to get from Point A to Point B and how difficult
can it possibly be to find an alternate route to get across town. Map in hand, seasoned traveller that I am, I
rationalized that if I can’t walk to my hotel, then I’ll just have to fork out
a couple of extra Euros for the luxury of a taxi ride to wisk me to my destination. Easier said than done, as not only were
pedestrians barred from accessing the majority of the streets, so were the
cabs! And so the hunt for that lone taxicab
took on larger than life magnitude, my desperate attempt to flag down such a
vehicle quite the daunting task indeed.
Veering further and further away from Les Champs-Elysées, I was by now
almost in Montmartre, and miles and miles away from the hope of arriving at my
hotel anytime before sunset. Yikes!!
What now? Well, dear reader, not to bore you with the
mundane details of my frantic sprint along the rues and avenues, but let’s just
say, my poor aching tootsies had no choice but to dejectedly traipse along the
boulevards in search of a park bench to rest up in anticipation of the next leg
of my journey.
And that is how I ended up in the midst of an ever-growing
crowd of curious spectators, cheering Parisians and military personal, finding myself
smack dab in the heart of one of France’s most celebrated of holidays, enthusiastically
hooting, hollering and reveling with the best of them.
As, after all, being such the Parisian wanna-be, it somehow seemed appropriate that I partake of the
festivities and experience for myself the magnitude of the day’s events.
And, last but not least, the proud men resplendent in their
decorated uniforms were quite the pleasing eye candy indeed– ahhhh Paris – just
another joyous fete in la ville de la joie de vivre…
Come scamper along the deserted rues and avenues with me,
as all routes somehow collectively conspire and lead one towards the direction
of La Fete Nationale, a celebration of France’s most glorious of holidays.
Next week – still stuck in the park along Les Champs-Elysées
or do my pink-sneaker clad feet eventually end up in le fabulous hotel, on le Rive
Gauche? Stay tuned!!
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comments
Posted by
Nora K ,
,
No matter how many times my pink sneaker clad feet scamper
about the rues and avenues of my beloved City of Lights, it never fails to
amaze me that there is yet another discovery to be made and new perspectives to
be gleaned, as if appreciating the Parisian landscape for the very first
time. I’m often asked as to why I jet
away to Paris so often, as surely there are other equally as fascinating and
appealing foreign lands to traipse about, and don’t I get bored travelling year
after year to the same mundane location?
You’re kidding, right? And so
I’ve compiled my top 10 reasons as to why this French gem has been and
continues to be a magnet for artists, writers, dreamers, lovers and just
regular folk, all of whom harbour their very own reasons for stepping foot on
this seductively mesmerizing parcel of land.
Reason #01 – Who
hasn’t envisioned languishing the days away sequestered in a quaint nook of a
café, sipping vino whilst penning that next great “yet to be discovered” novel,
immersed in the inspiration of long-gone masters of the written word. My imagination runneth over as I fantasize
about randomly bumping into the ghosts of Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Callaghan
as we linger over a pint or two and enthusiastically debate about plot
structure and character idiosyncrasies. Who
wouldn’t jump at the opportunity of being mentored by any one of the literary geniuses
of the 1920’s “lost generation”, but
alas, that is clearly not meant to be, so I’ll reluctantly have to contend with
absorbing all of their creative wisdom through the power of osmosis and hope
that some of it filters through my pink-sneaker noggin.
Reason #02 – There
is nothing more magical than meandering along the banks of the Seine on a late
summer’s eve, watching the blushing heavens transform from a glowing salmon hue into an effervescent rainbow of twinkling lights and shadows. A mesmerizing mélange of dusty pinks and vibrant acquamarine colours playfully shimmer from above, as if elevating the
intricately carved arches of the ancient bridges below to a heightened level of
perfection. Add an element of mysticism
and romance and you’ve got a picture perfect postcard of a hauntingly
spellbinding moment in time forever imprinted upon your soul.
Reason #03 –
Waking with the roosters and queuing in a snaking line-up at the boulangerie at the onset of dawn,
jostling with the locals for that melt in
your mouth deliciousness of a fresh out
of the oven golden croissant. Scrumptious. I don’t even feel guilty ordering a dozen of
the butter infused delicacies, savouring each and every last crumb, all the
while rationalizing that since I’m in Paris, it is my duty to consume as many
heavenly baked goods as possible, as, after all, I’m in the land of gastronomic
delight. Hence, this is why I walk and trudge and schlep luggage for hours and
hours and hours on end. If you’ve read
my previous posts, then you know what I’m talking about.
Reason #04 – the
Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Sacre-Coeur and so much more...
Reason #05 – Le
vin rouge, le vin rouge, le vin rouge – need I say more? On that note, time for another libation of
the bubble bath for the mind kind...
Reason #06 –
Cutting edge fashion, where 12 year olds and babes in arms are attired in cooler than cool ensembles, setting the
bar for that unattainable “je ne sais
quoi” in attitude and “to die for
outfits”.
Reason #07 – Les
moules et frites.
Reason #08 – Stumbling
across a quaint nook of a café or bistro that becomes your home away from home
whilst traipsing about the City of Lights.
Reason #09 – Le joie de vivre pretty much says it
all.
Reason #10 –
After all, it’s Paris and in Paris anything is possible. You just have to dream and believe.
Come believe in the dream of Paris and all
things French….
Next week – where else in Paris do my
pink-sneaker clad feet take me? Stay
tuned!!
Posted by
Nora K ,
,
No matter how
many times my pink-sneaker clad feet have traipsed along Parisian rues and
avenues, they return time and time again to familiar stomping grounds and queue
with the rest of them to gawk at one of the world’s most photographed landmarks,
the Eiffel Tower.
Constructed in 1889
for the International Exhibition of Paris or Exposition Universelle
commemorating the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution, the
300 meter tall structure was originally purposed to be the main entrance
archway, a wrought iron monstrosity situated on the Champs de Mars. Chosen from more than 700 prospective
designs, Gustav Eiffel’s winning bid was petitioned against by 300 plus artisans
and architects, all of whom canvassed concerns that the proposed design would
be an eyesore on the landscape, a revoltingly ugly tower dominating over Paris “like a gigantic black smokestack”. The litany of complaints, led by Charles
Garnier, who was the architect of the old opera building, read as such: “a gigantic factory chimney whose form
will disfigure the architectural harmony of the city” and “we, writers, painters, sculptors,
architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris,
protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection
– of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower”.
Despite the
uproar, construction forged on and the Tower was completed within a 2 year
period, the 7,000 steel ton structure an instantaneous sensation with locals
and foreigners alike. Slated to be
dismantled upon expiration of Gustav’s 20 year land lease to the city of Paris,
the Tower was granted a second lease on
life, as the onset of World War 1 elevated its status from questionable
curiosity to a bona fide necessity, as its radio tower technology intercepted
enemy communications and aided in the capture of renowned spy Mata Hari.
From a
meeting place of scientific minds conducting out of this world experiments such
as measuring the speed of wind as well as dabbling in radio transmission
technology, the Eiffel Tower secured its position as a now prominent landmark
dominating the French landscape.
Fast forward
a couple of decades and the rest, of course, is history. The Eiffel Tower is beloved the world over,
symbolizing the heart of Paris, its allure drawing millions of visitors a year,
250 million at last count.
Pink Sneaker Interesting
Tidbits and Fascinating Facts:
·
Did you know that the cost of construction was 7,800,800 gold
francs?
·
The Eiffel Tower is re-painted every 7 years in order to protect
it from rust.
·
More than 50 tons of paint is used in re-painting the tower.
·
The wrought iron structure sways up to 12 cm. on windy days.
·
The tower has been quite the alluring object for daredevils to
conquer, as it was scaled by a mountaineer in 1954, was parachuted off by two
Englishmen in 1984 and in 1987 a bungee jumper was arrested after completing
his one and only jump.
Come hang out with
globe-trotters and locals alike in appreciative wonder of Monsieur Eiffel’s
lattice wrought iron structure, a tower like no other...
Posted by
Nora K ,
,
Now that I
had somewhat uncomfortably settled into my temporary Parisian digs, full blown
on paranoia hit, as the idea of being sequestered in this labyrinth of a maze
apartment complex was not my idea of fun, and certainly not what I had
envisioned for my five day stay in the City of Lights. Casually languishing the morning away in a
cocoon of contented bliss, sipping endless steaming cups of café au lait whilst
gazing out the picturesque window pane mindlessly contemplating the
deliciousness of life, was clearly not meant to be, replaced instead with a
frantic determination to bolt for the door and race towards freedom. Savouring the melt in your mouth buttery
decadence of golden hued croissants baked in my very own French kitchen was
also clearly not in the cards, my inner Martha Stewart stubbornly refusing to
spend even an extra nano-second in these confining and cramped quarters. Visions of culinary perfection of creating
that succulent duck a l’orange or coq au vin no longer danced excitedly in
my head, the five star gastronomic delicacies that were to be creatively replicated
in my quaint Parisian kitchen would now have to be forsaken with cuisine of the
nutritionally challenged fast food kind.
The quaint breakfast nook of my favourite Paris apartment from years ago |
Languishing the morning away in contented bliss was clearly not meant to be |
Really wish this was my Paris apartment - Le grand sigh |
Parisian fast food |
What's a gal to do if she can't use her fancy French oven? There's always a Patisserie around the corner! |
Day five of not cooking and indulging on le French fast food |
Breakfast
took on an entirely new meaning as I woke with the roosters and waited for
daylight to stream through the grated windows, the now sleepless nights spent
counting down the minutes until the pinkish blush of dawn. Never one to embrace the cheery optimism of
morn, snug as a bug in my rug, I now jolted awake at the witching hour, wishing
the tic tock of the clock to speed up its pace and chime the start of a new
day. A tad dramatic and somewhat over
the top, I know, but desperate measures call for desperate descriptions of the word
embellishing kind.
Plotting and
planning my escape from le not so quaint
French apartment consumed my nocturnal thoughts and prevented me from slumber,
my last resort being to watch endless You Tube videos of Chunnel trains
speeding underneath the Strait of Dover, effectively lulling me into a much
needed couple of hours of fitful sleep.
Secure in the knowledge that I was home safe and sound, no matter that I
was currently residing in a cracker-jack box, I was strangely comforted by the
thought that at least I wasn’t trapped hundreds of miles below the English
Channel, sequestered in an even more constricting space. Sad but true.
Not a morning
person and one to repeatedly hit the snooze button until at least noon, I now
found it ironic that the 5:00am shrill of the alarm was music to my ears, no
longer an annoying interruption robbing me of much desired sleep, but a much
anticipated beacon of limitless possibilities, one of them being to jump
ship and hit the pavement lickety-split.
Meandering along the darkened rues and avenues |
As I shook
the Kid awake, my pink-sneaker clad feet scampered about, eager to hit the road
and traverse the darkened avenues in search of a patisserie that was open for
business, lest we spend even one more second in le claustrophobic cave of a
dwelling. Needless to say, we became
fixtures at the café around the corner, where I willingly forked out Euro after
hard-earned Euro for yet another cappuccino and a pain au chocolat, all the
while beaming contentedly that we wouldn’t have to step foot into le dreaded apartment until the descent
of nightfall. Once again, sad but true.
Waiting for le bistro to open |
Come traipse
along the rues and boulevards from the wee hours of the morning until the onset
of dusk and midnight, all the while wearing out the treads of our sneakers day in and day
out, in our desperate attempt to stay away as long as possible from you know
where….
Next week –
what next? Where else in Paris do our
pink-sneaker clad footprints take us?
Stay tuned
for more on the fabulous escapades of the Kid and her slightly cuckoo and eccentric
Auntie!!
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