,
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.
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| The quaint breakfast nook of my favourite Paris apartment from years ago |
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| Languishing the morning away in contented bliss was clearly not meant to be |
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| Really wish this was my Paris apartment - Le grand sigh |
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| Parisian fast food |
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| What's a gal to do if she can't use her fancy French oven? There's always a Patisserie around the corner! |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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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