The way to go

I can be quite scathing about tourists, but I’ve just spent a very pleasant weekend being one. I was the traditional kind (Eiffel Tower – river cruise – Montmartre) but the experience hasn’t scarred me in the slightest. When the next suitable visitor arrives at my door, I’m sure I’ll be ready for more.

Until then I’ll continue as I am, avoiding high points and trying not to be too obvious in my destinations. For this kind of exploratory behaviour, the bus is definitely the way to go. It’s so much more interesting being above ground than under. And already a few formerly unemotive numbers have transformed themselves into exhilarating itineraries, and the humble bus-stop has developed a certain je ne sais quoi. And I now have a few favourite ‘bus moments’ which are, for me, as memorable as the Balcombe Viaduct was in my commuting days: the 69 as it turns left under the arches of the Louvre; the 68 as it dives under the Tuileries; and –– at the risk of becoming a little undiscerning here – any bus as it crosses the river.

But life here isn’t all aimless wandering, and I’ve had to divert a little time and energy into simple maintenance. After six weeks of being in each other’s company, my flat, my son and I were all starting to show signs of wear and tear. So the flat has had a little bit of a spring clean (which I’m praying will be enough to keep it looking spruce for the foreseeable future), and my son and I have been for a haircut. It’s not often I put my head in the hands of another person, and even less often that I cede control of the situation, but that’s exactly what I did on this occasion. And I came away with three different products in my bag, each of which will apparently change my hair, and therefore my life, for the better. I can only conclude that Paris must be getting to me.

Fresh blood

More declining standards to report this week: I’ve stopped caring about the tea I drink. I’ve just used up the last of the proper teabags in the flat (supplied by a certain Englishman who does care about such things), so in fact I don’t have much choice in the matter. But actually I find I can do quite well without, and a weak, flavourless cup of tea can be surprisingly refreshing.

The mosquitoes, meanwhile, have been acquiring a taste for fresh blood in the form of four-year-old Wilf. He’s thin-skinned and easily digestible, and we’re near the Seine and up in the warmer eaves of the building, all of which make him the perfect target. Or so I’ve had it explained to me. I’m considerably less attractive with my tougher hide and perhaps saltier taste. But on his account I’ve stocked up on a few toxic substances and I’m keeping the windows closed at night.

The weather – as in England, I believe – has been of the blue-sky variety, and we’ve been out and about exploring the Parisian equivalent to the back garden: little ‘squares’ tucked away in all sorts of unlikely places. They’re communal, well used and, for a big city, very convivial. And I haven’t heard anyone complaining about not having their own piece of outside space, let alone not having a big enough piece of outside space (which is what I’ll be doing when I’m back in Lewes). These ‘squares’ are small and dusty, and if you find grass you’re in luck; and if you find grass and you’re allowed to walk on it, you’re in even more luck. So they’re like Grange Gardens or Baxter’s Field, but without the greenery, without the expanse, and with even more rules as to suitable behaviour.

But on Sunday we found Parc des Buttes Chaumont, a park in a disused quarry. It’s all steep slopes and rocks and water and unexpected views. Wilf acted as if unleashed after six weeks’ confinement, which probably isn’t too far from the truth. I think I’ll make an effort – for my sake as well as his – to get out a little more often.

The heart of things

I’m living in a one-bedroom flat right in the heart of things, and one look at the kitchen is enough to know that eating out is the better option. But I’m not here for the fun of it, so instead I’m getting to grips with the microwave. I’m probably undoing twenty-five years of striving to better myself in the kitchen, which must mean twenty-five years of slowly becoming a civilised human being, and yet this regression isn’t as easy as I expected. First I have to guess the density of the food in question, and then I somehow have to translate that density into minutes. There’s obviously an equation at the root of it all, but I haven’t quite got there yet.  Anyway, it’s good to be in Paris and learning something new about food.

In fact, it’s good to be in Paris with or without a microwave, and one thing I’m particularly appreciating is the flatness of the landscape. This might not be what most people come to Paris for, but for me the symmetry of a walk in one direction and a walk back the other way feels like a novelty. Gone (for the moment) are the days of a pleasant stroll downhill followed inevitably by a slog back the other way, which is the way of things back home. And since on most days I do the eight-minute walk between school and home eight times, I’m unusually grateful for this. (Eight times might seem excessive, but it’s accurate: my son comes home for lunch which means my main job seems to be shuttling back and forth, picking up bits and pieces for the microwave as I go.)

Apart from the lack of gradient, though, the streeets around here do remind me of Lewes, or at least of Lewes a few years back. It might have been just one very regular dog which coincided with my very regular toing and froing, but it certainly made an impression on me. And now I’m faced with the same kind of hazards. I’ve slipped up once so far, but on the upside I realise I chose my Paris footwear well: no grooves to speak of and a nice smooth sole.

On the whole, then, I seem to be well-adapted – or adapting well – to my new surroundings. And although Wilf (the reason for those eight trips to school and back) hasn’t yet turned into the French boy I imagine he could be one day, he’s not quite as English as he was just one month ago. So Paris is doing its job too, it seems.