the books with the iconic Shakespeare & Co stamp. I decided, before leaving the shop, that I must venture upstairs to see the writers’ rooms. Whilst exploring the labyrinth of tiny rooms, I found one I loved. The room was small with every wall stacked with books. A little desk was positioned by the window which overlooked the Seine. I fantasized that I was staying on in Paris in this room to write my memoir ‘The Charm Vignettes’. A kindly Swedish student took a picture of me reading at the desk. So, the best I can do is to write ‘The Charm Vignettes’ back home but with this treasured photograph close by to give me inspiration.
To shake off this reverie, it was time for a coffee. We found a cute café just around the corner from the bookshop where we could watch the Left Bank world go by. And then a visit to the beautiful St Severin Church, one of the oldest in Paris.
My foot was complaining bitterly today (despite several days of crunching down Neurofens and icing and binding up the foot). Funnily enough, the other foot seemed to be coming out in sympathy. It too was swollen, sore and red. So, we headed for the sign of an illuminated green cross denoting a chemist shop (of which there seemed to be to a million in Paris). I was measured up for a clamping type of foot bandage which helped, so off we trotted down Boulevard St Germain. But I have learned a valuable foot lesson. Never take one’s feet for granted. They are central to happiness. Sore feet equal misery. I vowed to care for my valuable feet much better in the future.
I was hunting for a perfume shop called Diptych which was some way down the Boulevard St Germaine. I hoped to sample their various potions and choose one that would remind me of Paris. After stepping into this glamorous shop and trialling every one of their gorgeous range of scents involving amber, rose, musk and jasmine, I settled on a favourite eau de toilette. I was thrilled with my exclusive purchase until I read in the newspaper the next day that the rap star P Diddy’s list of demands whilst on tour, included the provision of Diptych scented candles in his dressing rooms.
We continued our Left Bank day and walked to the Sorbonne. We purchased paninis and some wine from a nearby student café to take away. We were making for the Luxembourg Gardens for a picnic beside the restful, shady Medici Fountain and Grotto. But first, a quick coffee stop opposite the gardens. The busy café we settled on seemed to attract eccentric older women customers. These women were chatting away in pairs, drinking café crème or wine, and occasionally powdering their noses peering into old fashioned compacts. One woman in particular caught our eye. She must have been over eighty years old and was sporting vivid make up, a crocheted cream beret perched on bright red thinning hair, and an attitude and body language which gave out the vibe ‘screw you , I’ll be and do what I like. Vive la France!
We paid our bill, then walked across the road to the Luxemburg Gardens. The weather could not have been better. Sunny and warm. The Gardens were very inviting. We found a spot alongside the Medici Fountain and ate our picnic. It was lunch-time, and Parisians and tourists alike were gathered around the oblong Grotto waters and its art nouveau iron fence. People were relaxing on comfortable wrought iron park chairs, munching their food, reading their newspapers, or talking (often animatedly) to their companions. This peaceful setting may be my favourite place in the world. I mentioned this to Steve and he suggested that when I die, he could return to scatter my ashes in the Grotto. I’m not sure about this.
We strolled around the gardens and saw people enjoying chess, boating, pony rides, sandpits, sketching and snoozing in the sunshine. Paris at play!
Our next Left Bank project was to drink wine at Café Flore. It was vastly overpriced and we were served by snooty waiters, but it had to be done.
We talked to three American women from Washington…a grandmother, her daughter and granddaughter. They had just arrived in Paris, and were in shock over the price of the granddaughter’s coca cola. Seven euros!
