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.