Café, crêpe and a Carrousel – perfectly co-ordinated at the Hotel de Ville

Outings are all the better when everything is easily combined to suit all those concerned. Case in point, the Hotel de Ville.  Lovers of glorious architecture can stare upward and be gob-smacked by the beauty of the Hotel itself, city hall as it might be known in other parts of the world.  The vertically challenged can ride the Carrousel that sits on the square in front, followed by freshly made chocolate crêpes that drip down their fronts and smear deliciousness across their rosy cheeks.  Then a mere saunter across the Rue de Rivoli  for cafés and hot chocolates where the chairs and the decor are perfectly co-ordinated and blend in with the colours of the Carrousel.

Everywhere you turn in Paris is a little corner of heaven.

Advertisements

Sans commentaire “Mi-ange Mi-demon”

Les manèges enchantés – a le Parisien

A city for lovers, for foodies, for dreamers.

And, with all the carrousel rides to be found across the city, Paris is a magical roundabout of a city for children.

From Montmartre to Chatelet, the Hotel de Ville and across to the Eiffel Tower, the magic just never fades. Not for young, nor for old.

Not your average Valentine

Arrete de m'envoyer des fleurs

Never one to get into the Valentine’s theme of things, this photo sums it all up for me.

Translation, “Stop sending me flowers. Kidnap me you idiot.”

Barbara – L’aigle noir on the Ile St Louis

She sang in the years when I wish I could have lived.  Like so many of the greats of French literacy, poetry, music, theatre …. Barbara’s star had stopped shining by the time I finally arrived in France. Her voice, poetically haunting, how I imagine it might have been to sit in a smoke-filled cabaret with her standing alone in the spotlight, her voice soaking deep into everyone’s veins.

Not to be, I just have to be content with this YouTube montage and the above photos that brought Barbara to life again on the banks of the Ile St Louis.

L’ombre d’elle même

He looked up over the rim of his glasses as he heard the familiar softness of her footsteps entering the room.  He knew the sound of those footsteps, distinguished, belonging only to her. When she wasn’t there beside him, he would miss her company intensely.  When she returned, with each of her steps, his heart would flutter.

Ever the delicate butterfly he had first caught sight of in a garden many summers ago, her place in his heart grew more and more intense over the years. Never a day passed when he didn’t wish to be in her company, never a moment when he didn’t long for her in her absence.

When the day arrived and he was no longer there, when his chair sat empty and she waited and longed for that pitter patter she felt each time she sat beside him as she’d done for a lifetime before, she softly tread the floorboards, yet something was terribly amiss.

She longed to once again see the smile that would rise on the lips that rested on that same face that peered over the glasses as he looked up at her.  To touch the hand that would reach out from the chair to stroke her hand, squeeze her fingers, and say everything that wanted to be said without speaking a word. 

She was still that same person from the summer long gone, the flick of her hair had remained unchanged for an eternity, yet without the half that made her whole, she had become a shadow of her former self.

******

Il leva les yeux en entendant ses pas pénétrés dans la pièce. Il connaissait par cœur le son de ces pas, qui ne pouvaient appartenir qu’à elle. Lorsque parfois elle s’absentait, le vide qu’elle laissait derrière elle, lui pesait. Dès son retour, et dès l’approche de ses premiers pas, son cœur battait de nouveau la chamade.

Elle était restée cet être délicat, aperçu au détour d’une allée de jardin il y a déjà de si nombreux printemps.  La part de son cœur qui lui était dédiée n’avait  fait que s’accroitre au fil des années. Il n’y avait de journée que pour être avec elle, pas un moment de solitude qui ne fut pour lui une réelle épreuve.

Lorsqu’un jour c’est elle qui constata son absence, que son fauteuil à lui resta désespérément vide, elle se languit de longs moments de pouvoir s’assoir à ses côtés, comme elle l’avait toujours fait avec tant de plaisir. Elle quitta la pièce sur la pointe des pieds, faisant tout doucement craquer le plancher, le vide se faisant sentir peu à peu.

Elle regrettait tant ce sourire dansant sur ses lèvres qui accompagnait toujours son regard.  Cette main qui caressait la sienne, ces doigts enlaçant les siens, ses nombreuses paroles qui n’avaient jamais eu besoin d’être prononcées, tout cela lui manquait encore davantage.

Elle était toujours la même femme que celle qu’il avait rencontrée d’antan, sa manière de redresser une mèche de cheveux rebelle n’avait en rien changé, et néanmoins, en l’absence de cet être qui la complétait si parfaitement, elle n’était aujourd’hui plus tout à fait la même… l’ombre d’elle-même.

Half

 

Half above water, half under.

It’s just how it is these days.