Week 16: "Where the magic hasn't yet dispersed"

Seeing somewhere after the Christmas festivities is always a bit like seeing a birthday cake after the candles have been blown out, all their smoke evaporated and the candles all removed but for their little wax-catching saucers, their perfect-circle, ‘O’ mouths bemoaning the concluded celebrations. When I got back to Paris, pre-New Year’s Eve, Paris’ atmosphere and lights were still sparkling. But on January 6^th, everything was extinguished, and Boul-Bi’s pavements have since been continuously laden with sad sapins, awaiting their removal, and recycling, by the council (an admirable, if depressing, scheme which collects about 12,000 trees each Jan!). However, I found possibly the only place where the magic hasn’t yet dispersed: the ice skating rink at Paris’ L’Hotel du Ville, which stays until MARCH. Last Sunday evening, I came out the metro to be met with the town hall lit up like a Christmas tree, in those erratic lights also on the Eiffel Tower, of which nicer ones could probably (and should probably be found). Still, any semblance of that December joy and I’m happy.  

Not only did I nail the ice-skating thing like a some crazy Torvill-Happy Feet penguin hybrid, but Rosanna introduced me to some of the (German) friends she’s made through au pairing and luckily for the 2 hour queue to get our skates, we had loads of time to chat…in the freezing cold January evening. It was lovely to meet some new people, and although we didn’t speak French, I did get to fine-tune my near-perfect German from GCSE. We all shared our most recent Paris discoveries afterwards in a lovely shabby café in Le Marais – where the artwork on the wall cost 8,000 and was for sale? Not so shabby after all. 

On Monday evening, I went to say au revoir to the children I babysit. After three weeks of screaming baby every evening, we decided to save the poor darling’s lungs and vocal chords. As much as the constant wailing wasn’t a barrel of laughs, they were both utterly gorgeous kiddiwinks, and I’ll miss them! And the Playmobil. Baptiste and I had this whole great narrative going on, where the girl lost her hair and had to go find it on the horse over the mountains…

Monday was also what is becoming a bi-monthly visit to Bistro de la Ferme, a stone’s throw from where I live and absolutely delectable, for a surprise birthday meal for Rachael. With no questions asked, she had been readily accepting when Marleena told her that “everyone has plans for Monday”, so couldn’t celebrate her birthday with her…as if she’d forgotten that our only friends are each other, because we live in France and can’t easily communicate with anyone else. 

Inspired by hearing of my new friends’ Parisian experiences, Wednesday afternoon was spent checking out some of the places they’d recommended. Beforehand, Rachel and I visited a photo exhibition by David Lynch called ‘Small Stories’, the idea behind which was to read your own story into the still photograph presented. For lunch, we went to Breakfast in America and had pancakes. Doing it very wrong, I know. In a country known for its creped, we had thick, fluffy American-style pancakes with blueberries… . I spent the afternoon further exploring Le Marais, which has become my favourite part of Paris. I found a stretch of vintage shops, including the Kilo Shop, where you can buy second-hand clothes according to their weight. I also pottered on over to Le Voltigeur to have a warming hot chocolate. With its warming, nectar golden hue, and unpretentious yet charming decoration, this café was lovely. As I sat and wrote postcards, no-one asked me to leave once I’d finished my drink (as is so often the way in Paris, with their quick turnovers of espresso-drinkers). And the hot choc itself deserve special mention, for being simply a pot of melted chocolate and a jug of hot milk, to mix to preferred strength.

The Kilo Shop

Le Voltigeur

And one of Paris' best hot chocs

To further project Steph Learns French, my Wednesday evening was meant to be occupied by trying out a French course I’d seen advertised at L’Anti-Café (a café where you pay for the time you spend their, and get unlimited drinks and nibbles). However, when I arrived, the exchange (in French) went something like this: “Hi, I’m here for the French course.” “Great. Do you speak Russian?” “No, I want the French course.” “I know. It’s taught in Russian.” “Oh…” “You’re welcome to stay and learn French AND Russian?” *Hasty goodbye and backing away*

Part of Joan Fontcuberta's "Camouflages" expo at the MEP

I finally got around to visiting the Bookshop Bar with Claire and Rachel on Thursday night. Called La Belle Hontese, in Le Marais, the first time I came across it in October was during the daytime, when it was shut. Posing as a bookshop, it was only when I saw the menu stuck onto the window, through which was a book display, that I realised it was a bookshop-come-bar. On Thursday, the arty-looking types were spilling out onto the narrow, cobbled pavement, to smoke with their verres du vins. Absolutely jammed pack in the front salle, where the bar was, the back parlour, by contrast, was empty, bar (!) two dining groups, who we were seated between, both of which were speaking English. At one point, I even heard the French lady to our left point out to her American visitors, on hearing us chatting, “see, I told you no-one speaks French in Paris!”. I think she was trying to persuade them to move to Paris, despite their lack of French. One wall of this room was clad with a full, wooden-bookshelf, from which books could be taken down and read. There was also an art display on the walls of this tiny room, which meant every so often people would stumble in to try and take a look at the “exhibition” of about 12 paintings. On the floor were hopscotch tiles, and mounted onto one wall were metal casts of books with ears and mouths protruding from them. All this made for a very original setting for our drinks, whilst simultaneously allowing for us to read children’s books about “Les Câlins” (Cuddles. A key word to know.).

La Belle Hontese

And on Saturday night, we enjoyed the scrummiest cocktail at L'Eclair, made even better by the pun in its name, the "Two for Juan" and the fact that boiled eggs were presented on our table as snacks.

L'Eclair on Rue Cler