We arrived at Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris at 9:30 a.m., ten minutes earlier than our scheduled arrival time. Checkout took no more than five minutes with the nonchalant French border officer taking a quick look at our passports. He did not even ask about the purpose of our trip or even where we were staying, standard questions at the U.S.-Canada border crossing. Even our luggage was on schedule, duly routed out of the baggage area as soon as we got there.
The only problem was, our daughter Isobel was either running late or waiting elsewhere. It took another half hour before she appeared, telling us that according to an Air Canada announcement, our plane would be delayed. She did not want to wait and waste her time, so she left for the airport later than her scheduled time.
In the meantime, waiting allowed us to observe a few things. Charles de Gaulle Airport looked a little frayed and somewhat nondescript compared to the newly opened Terminal 1 of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. With all the thousands of people getting in and out of CDG, it would have been quite a feat to do a redesign.
Isobel hustled us off into a taxi and took us to our Paris flat at the 1er Arrondisement, in the Louvre-Rivoli area. It didn’t take us long to agree that Isobel’s choice for our apartment had been a good one. As first-timers, it would have been more convenient for us, her aging parents, to stay in a one-bedroom flat close to the museums and downtown core. In fact, the flat on 1er Arrondisement sits in the heart of Paris, in a small lane kitty-corner to the Louvre, the Palais Royale, and rue St. Honore. Staying there was like having the Louvre for your neighbour. The museum was a staring distance away, only about 300 metres from the corner of our flat.
After testing whether stuff worked in our temporary home away from home, Isobel gave us a few pointers in navigating the Paris Metro or subway, and warned us about pickpockets and thieves. We did not carry the Bank of Canada on our trip; still, we listened and carried our bag and wallet close to our chests for all they were worth.
Since it was our first day, we thought to take the day slowly, and not to frazzle ourselves by doing errands and visits right away.
To set the proper mood, we decided to start our Paris stay by going to the Café de Flore, the café of our dreams, on rue Ste. Germaine-de-Presse.
The Paris Metro ride to that famous boulevard was an experience in itself. The trains have see-through windows from all sides; you could see the cavernous tunnels throughout the ride. Instead of rows of seats as in a regular train, the Metro train, although narrower, had face-to-face seats that allowed more people interaction and legroom. The subway’s walls were postered with all kinds of announcements in a whirl of colours and designs. It was like going to the Sunday fair, with each subway stop topping the next with its own set of posters, seats and stands.
We took a short visit to the Eglise Ste. Germaine-de Presse as soon as we got off the Metro. Instead of wooden pews, the church had woven wicker chairs lined up to the front and to the sides. The silence and solemnity inside astounded us.
Our first stop, the Café de Flore, looked smaller than was depicted on its website and Internet postings.
I had expected a geyser of vines and flowers gushing from its rooftop, instead a steady thin rain marred our view of the boulevard from its outdoor roofed-in extension. We peremptorily ordered two espressos and the house chocolate special (my choice). It turned out the chocolate pot special contained about three cupsful of chocolate as I began pouring one cup after the other, thanking my good fortune. The hot chocolate was divine, served with a tiny chocó bar on the side. Xavier, our waiter, obliged us with a smile when we took his photo as a souvenir of our short but sweet stopover.
As we braved the rain again searching for an umbrella store, we traversed the cobblestoned sidewalks with Sonia Rykiel, Ralph Lauren, Prada and assorted fashion houses trailing on our side. Isobel warned:
“Mom, you‘ll never find your Dollarama umbrella here!”
And, of course, we didn’t and couldn’t, even if we tried. We found it about a dozen Metro stops away, where Isobel lived, on the 17th Arrondisement.
Farther away, but where, according to Isobel, real people lived.
We found the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, and the vegetable and fruit market in a tiny cobblestoned street that also offered some of the cheapest wines and cheeses and smoked meats this side of Paris.
And yes, as if by some magic, this gaunt and charming French vendor plying his huge cotton and canvas umbrellas fit for the queens and princesses shopping at rue St. Honore. For ten Euros, his umbrellas were a steal.
However, before we found our umbrella man, Isobel took us again for another espresso and pistachio glacé at the top-floor restaurant of a Le Bon Marché outlet. Although it was still raining and we could not stay in the café’s beautiful indoor garden, we knew in our hearts why Isobel has found bliss in this lovely green spot to while her schoolwork cares away.
