Lost In France By John Ritchie
I suppose it’s obvious really, once it’s pointed out. You can go somewhere, and miss it. Miss it in the sense of not getting the essence of it.
Like when I went to Prague.
I saw the trams; one nearly ran me over, and the Vlatva river from the Charles Bridge, but I completely missed the Josefov and the Kafka museum and the Old Town Square. In other words, I missed Prague. My principle memories are a stinking hangover and cheese and cold meat for breakfast. But the beer was good. So much for the Czech Republic.
However, now that I know I missed Prague, and several other European cities for that matter, I am determined not to miss Paris. I have my guidebook and my phrase book and I have watched ‘Taxi’ in French by that bloke who did ‘The Fifth Element’ so, although I didn’t understand a word of the film, I have got some idea of French pronunciation.
Well, that’s a turn up for the book, most people here speak English: especially the English, who seem to be here in droves. However, very few of the English seem to speak French, which makes getting help from my countrymen in this foreign land a bit tricky, particularly at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I edge my way through a packed crowd of Cockneys and back to the lifts.
It’s April and the Champs de Mars is bloody freezing. I cast around for a Metro station, hoping to see one with the Art Deco entrance. I try accosting strangers with “Metro?” and “Montmartre?” and eventually two American girls take pity on me and lead me through the labyrinth that is the Paris Metro, before abandoning me outside the famous Moulin Rouge. The Red Windmill according to my phrase book.
At some point during my meanderings through this noisy, busy, village, my wallet is stolen and I am at once a stranger in a strange land with no visible means of support. I’m wondering which would be the easier option: committing suicide or asking a gendarme, not that I can actually see one, for help, when I hear the haunting strains of ‘La Vie en Rose’ coming from a nearby cafe. The singer is no Edith Piaf, but she can carry a tune and with the accordion accompaniment is making a reasonable fist of the song.
She segues into ‘La Mer’ and I am lost to reason. I find myself standing in the doorway of this tiny bistro, tears running down my face, drowning in the sheer beauty of this lovely melody. The next thing I know my face is buried in an ample bosom and I am hearing and feeling the song at the same time.
With the final notes fading away, I am kissed on both cheeks and a voice that only forty Gauloises a day could produce murmurs . “Ah Cherie, ne pleure pas.” Et voilà, I won’t miss Paris, because I’ve just found her.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
Like when I went to Prague.
I saw the trams; one nearly ran me over, and the Vlatva river from the Charles Bridge, but I completely missed the Josefov and the Kafka museum and the Old Town Square. In other words, I missed Prague. My principle memories are a stinking hangover and cheese and cold meat for breakfast. But the beer was good. So much for the Czech Republic.
However, now that I know I missed Prague, and several other European cities for that matter, I am determined not to miss Paris. I have my guidebook and my phrase book and I have watched ‘Taxi’ in French by that bloke who did ‘The Fifth Element’ so, although I didn’t understand a word of the film, I have got some idea of French pronunciation.
Well, that’s a turn up for the book, most people here speak English: especially the English, who seem to be here in droves. However, very few of the English seem to speak French, which makes getting help from my countrymen in this foreign land a bit tricky, particularly at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I edge my way through a packed crowd of Cockneys and back to the lifts.
It’s April and the Champs de Mars is bloody freezing. I cast around for a Metro station, hoping to see one with the Art Deco entrance. I try accosting strangers with “Metro?” and “Montmartre?” and eventually two American girls take pity on me and lead me through the labyrinth that is the Paris Metro, before abandoning me outside the famous Moulin Rouge. The Red Windmill according to my phrase book.
At some point during my meanderings through this noisy, busy, village, my wallet is stolen and I am at once a stranger in a strange land with no visible means of support. I’m wondering which would be the easier option: committing suicide or asking a gendarme, not that I can actually see one, for help, when I hear the haunting strains of ‘La Vie en Rose’ coming from a nearby cafe. The singer is no Edith Piaf, but she can carry a tune and with the accordion accompaniment is making a reasonable fist of the song.
She segues into ‘La Mer’ and I am lost to reason. I find myself standing in the doorway of this tiny bistro, tears running down my face, drowning in the sheer beauty of this lovely melody. The next thing I know my face is buried in an ample bosom and I am hearing and feeling the song at the same time.
With the final notes fading away, I am kissed on both cheeks and a voice that only forty Gauloises a day could produce murmurs . “Ah Cherie, ne pleure pas.” Et voilà, I won’t miss Paris, because I’ve just found her.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012