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.