So, we went for lunch and shopping. Oxy is such a nice fellow, and happily stood about while I tried in bad French to get across the idea that I wanted a silk scarf like all the other ladies in town had, not a nice warm cashmere scarf like the stores all apparently think I ought to be wearing in October. Nobody has told the French women this, as they’re all still trundling about wearing silk. I had spotted some scarves in the Champs-Elysees metro station, but there were cheesy in a Cheez-Whiz, not Camembert sort of way razz After a few shops in the Abbesses area (where the promised Art Deco station was closed for repair cry ), I got some advice from a nice shop girl (also wearing that scarf I wanted!) and found a small Indian silk import shop. Yippee! I am now fashionable. Well, let’s not kid ourselves. I have a silk scarf. And so will my mother and my Glastonbury friend. At around 120E for all three, it’s my big purchase for the trip, but I feel as if I’ve fulfilled my duty to shop in Paris. I’ve been trying to get Oxy to dress up a bit, too, but he resolutely has refused all my fashion advice, preferring to trot about in his ancient Banana Republic ensemble. Could be worse, he could be one of those fellows who affects “Party Nekkid” T-shirts and whatnot whee Anyway, for the record, I was kidding when I suggested the beret to him.
Listen to me! I’m still struggling with the French, but I’m already starting to fret about fashion. Give me another six months and I might start wearing make-up on a regular basis rolleyes Or, as I keep saying, all this Gaia shopping has infected my dowdy sensibilities. Well, the Chunnel train is cheap—nothing like a few days in England to remove all my fashionable affectations. The rain starts, and the shapeless sweater and tromping shoes come back on mrgreen
Lunch was a wonder, as always, and I was pleased to finally get a waitress who spoke no English. I still have no idea how we managed to order a half-carafe of Burgundy when we clearly had asked for “un verre du vin rouge”, but c’est la vie. At 6E for the jug (in a pretty ceramic pitcher), we weren’t bankrupted. And it was very pleasant, especially after all that running about from shop to shop.
We were woken from the resultant nap by the desk clerk phoning us to let us know Dirk had arrived. A seasoned traveler, he insisted on continuing to run about until late so as to reset his clock. Well, we couldn’t disappoint him, could we? We ended up on a grand tour of the Metro system, followed by an excursion to Montmarte, where he took a thousand photographs of the setting light. He’d never been to Paris, believe it or not (most of his travels have been to Australia and Southeast Asia), and it was wonderful to get a chance to vicariously experience someone’s first day in this city all over again.
Grabbing his arm as he stared at the city below, I pointed out the Eiffel Tower to him—quite visible from the steps of the Basilica.
He just shook his head and said, “I see it, but I’m not sure I believe it’s really there.”
I know exactly what he meant, for I still feel like that.
Living in a real virtual world,
V
