A weekend in Provence

  

Picture a weekend in Provence. Sun warming the soul, fun and care free atmosphere to enrich the good in life, time to relax and recharge the batteries. Maybe a spontaneous barbecue with friends, some wine and cheese, or picnic together under the shade of a pine tree or even an impromptu bathroom refit……. Hang on…. a WHAT?????.

It was far to early to be landing without sufficient coffee

In any long distance relationship, one of the most challenging aspects is getting to see each other, and I mean physically as opposed to seeing each other over a phone screen. For this particular visit I had booked myself on a very early flight from an airport 2 hours from home. Result was I arrived in the sun, tired, groggy, and in need of a shower and a coffee.

Maybe I should have had the coffee first.
Maybe I would have been more awake.
Maybe I wouldn’t have slipped on the soap and slammed hard against the tiled wall and then maybe the wall wouldn’t have decided to join me in the bath tub!!!. Soapy, naked and surrounded by tiles I then had the rather embarrassing task of calling for help. ‘Ma chéri, je suis desole,  j’ai détruit votre salle de bains’, ‘My dearest, I am sorry, I have destroyed your bathroom’

 

I was planning spending the day like this!

 

Repairing the destroyed bathroom was now the priority for the day. The romantic meal she had planned for us would have to be put on hold for another time and be replaced with a visit the local DIY store. Luckily for me a DIY store in France is much the same as a DIY store in England on a Saturday morning. Full of clueless people pointing and umming at things they would like to put into their homes but have no idea how to do it, so it didn’t look at all out of place asking my girlfriend to ask where the tile adhesive and grout was, and with the instructions being in French and the last thing I needed at this point was to get back to here place with a tub of white emulsion by mistake

 

 

 

This is how Sundays should be spent

With emergency planning, the rest of the day went well. We found another activity we could do well together and despite me trying to destroy a large proportion of her flat, she at no point tried to thump me! The romantic meal for two was exchanged with an impromptu evening with some of her friends. I overhead the start of the conversation that sounded like ‘Hi, How would you like to meet my new boyfriend, he needs a shower!

Sunday was then clear to spend a day in Provence the way I had imagined. Relaxing with friends, chatting and having fun. Enjoying good food, good wine, great company and the sun warming my pale English skin. A day of pleasure that somehow was made even more special by the chaos of the previous day.

The bridge of love

  

The French love their bridges. Really, everywhere you look there are postcards and paintings of these beloved treasures. They light them up and decorate them. A timeless love affair. It is very fitting therefore that the one we found around Notre Dame was a true bridge of love. Could this be the most romantic spot on the planet?

Pont de l’Archevêché (Archbishop’s Bridge) is the narrowest road bridge in Paris, but arguably one that caries the most traffic, not of cars but of love and hope. The idea is simple. Two lovers write their names on a padlock, attach it to the bridge and throw the key into the river Seine. It is referred to as a Love Padlock.

As I stood there with my girl, both looking at all the locks couples had left behind and some truly romantic stories we both thought the same things.
1. Why didn’t we bring a padlock to do the same and 2. Where are they now?

Some of the padlocks date back at least 10 years. I suspect some much further, but only the well prepared had their names engraved so time would not fade the writing. One in particular stood out, ‘Pètá a Pavel 9.12.2001′ Over 10 years ago they secured their love at this very spot and sent the key into the depths of the river. Wouldn’t you like to know their story? Quite frankly, I would!

 

More recently “Big boo” proposed to “Little Boo”. She must have said yes as there is a follow up padlock telling the world. I am not usually moved by this kind of thing but I have to say it was very touching. Who said men can’t be romantic?

As the mood on that bridge was so perfect we did what any slightly romantic couple would have done. We kissed, for what seemed a lifetime, at least long enough to become accidental love icons to a senior couple that was taking their own photo of the bridge. As I am now sitting in my kitchen writing this post, I am trying to imagine on what fridge or what photo album our perfect kiss will end up on…

With Paris often being described as the world’s most romantic city it is hard sometimes to see past the crowds and turmoil. The magic started as we were walking in the most ancient part of the city, the Ile de la Cité, where Paris was born and grew from. The little stone bridge, on a grey and rainy day, suddenly became the most romantic spot in the world’s most romantic city.

 

French men don’t get fat

  

There is a best selling book you may have heard of, by Mireille Guiliano called “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. This very title kept rolling in my head as I was spending my very first romantic week end in Paris with my girl friend this Easter. And as hours were passing by, I started wondering if by French… she meant Parisians?

Spend sometime on any RER or TGV and you will be reassured that some French women do get fat. I have been there, all squashed against the window as they sit next / on top of you. Just like at home.

No its not French Women but Parisians that don’t get fat, men and women. You see, it is simply impossible, at least without a lot of work and dedicated gluttony, to get fat when you have to walk half a mile just to get your bread. And the French ALWAYS insist on FRESH bread.

I found this out the hard way. Saturday morning and I awake next to my long distance love.  “I will pop out and get une baguette and les croissants, ma chérie” says I, in the hope to impress her with my chivalry. Almost an hour later, I am back with baguette and croissants and she is happy. My feet however are not!

Look how far away we are still. My poor feet!!

Wind the clock forwards to later in the afternoon. After walking the length of the Champ de Mars to the Eiffel Tower and then along the bank of the Seine, she suddenly remembers she had promised her sister to pick up some more Nespresso for the coffee machine. Well… you know, this is not a case where you jump in your car and drive to ASDA. In the French version of this, she grabs my hand, pulls 2 metro tickets out of her handbag, and drags me down the stairs of the closest station.  “Where do we get the coffee ma chérie?” “Nearest shop is on the Champs” says she (NB: les Champs is local slang for Champs Elysées apparently).

By the time I know it, I am changing lines at Châtelet Les Halles, the worlds BIGGEST underground station. Really this thing is massive, looking after something around 750,000 passengers a day. You can walk for half an hour just to change lines, even more if you are blonde and find yourself looking at the wrong train.

Any one with a belly must be a tourist

By now I am thinking I must have lost a good few pounds in weight over the day. Using the mad rush as an excuse we  stopped at a very nice looking Café.

Relaxing and enjoying the simple pleasures in life, a cold beer, my French girl by my side and my throbbing feet were being forgotten about. But then who turned up but the pee pee fairy. Off I go in search of the local convenience only to find it wasn’t in the slightest bit convenient.

Little did I realise that just to use the loo would require climbing up and down 2 flights of stairs. Shattered and exhausted it was becoming very clear that even the belly expanding pastime of beer swilling could not produce excess calories.

Watching the thin and even thinner population of Paris passing by it was clear. It is not French women that don’t get fat, nor is it French men, it’s Parisians. It is almost implausible to think that a Parisian could get fat. A mile walk for bread. Several miles to get to and from the office and even a mammoth task to go for a pee.