Samedi’s sandals had done the trick, but Dimanche demanded firmer footwear.
Team leader Linda, and I had decided on our itinerary, we knew where we were going and we knew how to get there, we were ready to go by 10.00.
A quick sleush with the uber shower, on with the dalmation dungarees, which by the way are white with black spots, not black with white gaps, and then the elevator down four floors.
I slipped off the step, opened the metal door and we were greeted by a warm summer Sunday.
Sunday is still Sunday in Paris. The supermarkets close their doors, the background noise of the city is muted and most of the shops are shut. The ambiance is different, lazy, lazy like a Dimanche morning….
Left over the roadworks and right onto Blvd. Edgar Quinet, where instead of fruit and veg there were artists. Real, live French artists who smoked, individualised their paint splattered jeans, and hung their canvases under white linen tents.
It was Marche Parisien de la Creation. Tous les dimanches, give or take a couple of acute accents. Every Sunday 120 art and crafty types set up shop, open their big sudoku puzzle books and settle down to sell their wares. As we sauntered between hand-touched photographs of India and naked torsos fashioned out of wire, my stomach started to rumble. Linda thought I was getting excited over the whole art-work thing, I hadn’t the heart to tell her it was because I had a hole in my belly where my breakfast should have been.
There are moments in life that stay with you forever. The first embrace under dripping beech trees in Wales 32 years ago when the old-git looked like Paul Newman and I looked like Natalie Wood. Th moment the child looked up and said ‘Mummy I don’t need you to give me money I’ve got a … Read more