#4 Dimanche à Paris

Coucou mes amis! Nous voici en la belle France!

We landed at Charles de Gaulle at the ungodly hour of 7am-ish, which remains, just between us, my least favourite airport. You know how much I love Paris, and France, and the French, but the CDG terminal reminds me of those round pigeon tower-houses in Iran—circular, with floor after floor around a giant hollow centre.

In Iran the pigeons flew in from above and did what they were meant to do—turned it into a fertiliser factory. At CDG it’s tourists, travelators and trolleys doing exactly the same thing.

But it works. This morning was lightning fast.

So puh. Laisse tomber, as they say. Get over it Shell.

When I finally stepped outside, the air was pure April in Paris—ultra-crisp, about five degrees, and absolutely delicious. The driver started chatting away in rapid French so I asked him to speak more slowly please, Monsieur—in French, please. It’s coming back!

The Paris Marathon was on today, but it runs west to east through the middle of the city, so staying up in Montmartre meant our arrival was unaffected by road closures. By the time we reached the 18ᵉ, café tables and chairs were being lined up on the footpaths (with the frost chipped off), crockery stacked, crates of wine dragged over cobblestones, and a few tourists wandering about taking millions of photos.

I dropped my bags at City Locker on Rue Durantin—even though I had early check-in—the mere thought of dragging wheels over Montmartre’s cobblestones while I wandered gave me a nervous tic.

The streets are ridiculously, perfectly Montmartre—tall, mismatched buildings, row after row of chimney pots, dormer windows, mansard roofs, old cobblestones, steps steps and more steps, and wisteria in flower everywhere.

I kept expecting someone to yell ‘CUT!’.

The apartment is all soft light, carved panelling, high ceilings, creaking boards, and windows that open onto two streets—streets once walked by Renoir, Picasso, Utrillo, Toulouse-Lautrec et al—the cast of an Impressionist and early 20th-century art movie. And in a restaurant just over the hill, Picasso’s closest friend, Carlos Casagemas, shot himself when his proposal was turned down—by Germaine, who would later marry the owner of La Maison Rose next door. Carlos tried to shoot her first but luckily he missed.

Nicolas, the Argentinian greeter, pedalled all the way up from the Marais on his bike to welcome me and do the full orientation.

Our bite-sized kitchen and generous double living area—complete with full bathroom and sofa bed—are on the rez-de-chaussée—ground floor—which means we can give passersby a new hairdo straight from the kitchen window.

I’m a tiny bit sad that the beautiful carved timber panels have been painted over, but the soft eau-de-nil colour is perfect.

Pablo Picasso may have sunk a pastis here! Aren't the original (not sure what era) hand-painted panels amazing? I'll show you more photos during the week.

The bedroom and main bathroom are upstairs, and right below our window sits the teeny Clos Montmartre vineyard. Rows running down the hillside, vines just beginning to unfurl their leaves, with tulips planted along the edges. All safely enclosed behind a grille fence that would make Fort Knox jealous. This whole hillside used to be covered in vineyards and windmills. Now we’ll wake up to it. Pinch me.

The bed faces the triple-glazed window with the scrunchy silk curtains, that panelling, and that soaring ceiling with a Murano glass chandelier. Heaven.

One of those photos might make your eyes pop. You can click on them, and a slideshow will come up.

I wandered out for lunch and to buy flowers, wine, cheese and a baguette. Flowers from Le Pic en Fleurs, wine from the Bar à Vin, cheese from a proper fromagerie, groceries from Intermarché, and then a perfect lunch at Chez Pitou.

The creamy white asparagus soup with parmesan crumble, herb-infused oils and fresh chives made me close my eyes. Followed by the chef’s crunchy take on tarte tatin. And although the owner doesn’t normally do emporter, she very sweetly cooked me gnocchi for dinner—with artichoke cream, chilli oil, gremolata, parmesan and chives. I cannot wait to eat it.

This afternoon when I was walking home up Rue de l’Abreuvoir, pulling my trolley behind me, I suddenly got that prickly ‘someone’s watching me’ feeling. I turned just in time to see a man spin around and scuttle off with his wife. It took me a second to realise he’d been taking photos of—the flowers sticking out of my shopping trolley. I burst out laughing.

The apartment keys are clearly designed to keep residents in—or out. There are two of them—one high up, one down near the floor—and the pink one is particularly temperamental. When I arrived home, I hauled my trolley onto the top step and by the third attempt, if I’d known any French swear words, I would have used them.

Right now, I’m lying on the bed, window wide open, cool air drifting through, and the murmur of French voices floating up from the street below.

Bienvenue à Paris., mon ami.

First night. And already it feels like home.

As always, I wait you,