,
Weaving and
winding its way along the narrow medieval passageways, scanning the street
signs for “Rue Michel LeComte” in the Le
Marais district of Paris, our taxi cab had now been frantically driving around
the block for what seemed to be several long hours. Still feeling somewhat
groggy, fatigued and suffering from a little bit of a “headache”, having
indulged in way too much vino on our 8 hour long claustrophobic overnight
flight from Canada, I was anxious to set up camp in our rental apartment and
introduce my niece to the culture, cuisine and couture of this intoxicating
city.
Speaking a
melange of Francais with “un peu de
l’anglais” thrown in, we were eventually deposited at our Parisian
digs. Pleased that I, being the
responsible adult that I was, had even been brilliant enough to arrange that
the same cab collect us 10 days later for our return journey home. Unfortunately, the irresponsible adult in me
had neglected to take note of the cab driver’s name or phone number of the taxi
company. Yikes!! Oh well....can’t worry about it now....just
have to hope that the taxi shows up on the designated morning. And that’s a whole new blog post entirely on
its own!
Schlepping
our luggage up 3 flights of 18th century wooden stairs, my
sleep-deprived brain was barely able to concentrate as our rental agent toured
us through the apartment, explaining the intricacies of how the stove,
television and internet work. This would
have been quite useful information to have carefully absorbed when needing to prepare
meals or hooking up the laptop. No wonder then that we became frequent
customers at our newly favourite eatery, Pizzeria Eno, located just steps away.
With Paris
being the ultimate fashion capital of the world, I first needed to freshen up,
coif my disheveled locks and attire my pink-sneakered self in an ultra-chic,
glamorous and sophisticated frock and attempt to pass myself off as an
uber-cool French fashionista. Plugging my electric hot rollers into the two-pronged
European socket, I immediately heard a popping sound and stared in disbelief as
plumes of smoke emanated from the bottom of the tray.
Yikes!! This
can’t be good. Yanking the electrical cord from the socket, grabbing the smoking
curlers and hurling them into the kitchen sink, gratefully thanking my lucky
stars that this time I did not accidentally plunge our entire apartment complex
into complete darkness, as I did when our coffee maker blew up in Barcelona. (Sept 22nd post – When the Lights Went out in Barcelona). Do I sense a pattern here?
Ambling along
the laneways and corridors of our bustling French quarter, darting in and out
of the multitude of unique whimsical shops, my niece and I spent a delightful
rest of the afternoon blissfully content under the seductive spell of Paris.
Since it’s a
six hour time difference between our neck of the woods and the City of Lights,
being the responsible Auntie that I am, I needed to get the kid home and get
some shut-eye. Having stayed in the 3rd arrondissement on my
previous Parisian excursions, I considered myself somewhat of an unofficial
expert on the neighbourhood. Perhaps it was because Rue Michel LeComte is one
of the narrowest medieval passageways I’ve ever placed my pink-sneakered foot in,
the cobblestoned corridor tucked away and sequestered from the larger bustling avenues,
our leisurely ten minute walk home turned into a three hour frantic quest.
Yikes!! We were hopelessly lost amongst
a labyrinth of twisting and winding laneways.
Rue du
Temple, Rambuteau, Beaubourg and Blvd Sebastopol were no longer the familiar
arteries that I had once confidently strode on, but a maze and jumble of routes
leading everywhere but home. In
hindsight, perhaps I should have taken that map with me after all.
Re-assuring my niece that “we’ll be there in just 5 minutes”, scrutinizing my memory for any
recognizable landmarks, I zealously re-traced each and every step and cringed
at the thought that I might have to fess up and tell the kid that we might not
make it home in time for dinner.
By now our
pink-sneakered feet (yup, pink-sneakered kid) had pretty much canvassed most of
the Rues and avenues of the 3rd and 4th
arrondissement and had left no stone unturned in our quest for the holy grail,
that of course being, Rue Michel LeComte.
A bit dramatic, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
Turning the
corner of Rue Beaubourg we unexpectedly found ourselves on familiar territory once
again, my niece excitedly squealing: “Look,
Auntie Nora, there’s our building, across the street!”
Note to self
when globe-trotting with the kid: take a
map with you!
Thought I’d add this note about an odd,
curious and coincidental find in our Parisian dwelling:
How curious, how wonderful, how
coincidental, how odd? “Les chiens de
Riga” was one of the few books prominently stacked on the bookcase. My niece
pointed it out, as the title of the book had the word “Riga” in it. The reason
that I mention this book is that we are of Latvian descent and found it coincidental
that we happened to stumble across this volume in our randomly chosen rental
apartment. Riga is the capital city of
the country of Latvia. What a delightful
and unexpected synchronicity!
Come
promenade along the cobblestone laneways and get lost in Le Marais with us....
Next week –
En route to the Louvre....waiting for Mona Lisa
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