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Published: November 5th 2009
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As I was jogging along the rue Francois Premier today, on my way to the river, I was halted in my tracks by the most gorgeous pair of boots.
Anyone who knows my predilection for footwear (and boots in particular), will understand. I stood in the street, soaked in sweat with my black running shirt dripping in the rain, and ogled the supple brown leather, exquisite craftsmaship, and wondered how they would look on me.
Then I glanced down to see the price displayed in gold type on a small black placard. 1200 euros. Good heavens.
I had forgotten for a moment that I was in the 8th arrondissement, where my friends Liz and Alan have a palatial apartment (courtesy of the U.S. Embassy). This is a neighborhood where black-clad Parisians park their brand-new Porsches on the corner curb outside the fur boutique, so that they can pop into a nearby jeweler and purchase diamonds after sipping a10-euro-cup of coffee and flicking their cigarette into the near-spotless gutters.
It's a far cry from where I used to live.
I am convinced that the sole purpose of shops putting prices in their windows is to let the
riff-raff like me know that we are too poor to afford the merchandise. It was signs like these that kept me from ever setting foot in Hermes or Lanvin or Baccarat, no matter how much I would have enjoyed looking through those museum-like stores.
I started running again - running away from the too-expensive boots now, and finally found myself on the right bank along the Esplanade des Invalies. As I made my way up to the gates of the Invalides (where Napoleon was buried, which now houses a military museum), a typically sour-looking Frenchwoman in police uniform yelled in my direction for me to stop. As I couldn't imagine what on earth I was doing wrong, I turned around and started back in the other direction. She followed up her first command with "Ne pas courir!" ("No running!").
What?! I can't run here now? If I had been inside Napoleon's tomb, I could understand that common respect might prohibit dancing on his grave, as it were, but I was not even inside the complex. I had to wonder if the woman was just irked that I
could run, whereas she looked like a steady diet of baguettes
and chocolate might have made a brisk walk challenging. It seemed a bit much to think that running is prohibited within
sight of the tomb.
I tossed an English profanity back at her and speed-walked away, back towards the river. I knew she wouldn't be able to catch me.
Maybe I'm giving you the wrong impression, though. I am really thrilled to be back in Paris after nearly three years without visiting. The briskness of fall, the busy-ness of the city, are intoxicating. Paris still holds magic for me. After all, it was the scene of one of the greatest epochs of my life. Despite the crowds of photo-snapping tourists, rude people shoving past me on the metro, and bitter policewomen. There are the gallery windows of patisseries displaying confections every bit as beautiful as a painting in the Louvre; large orange leaves that carpet the sidewalks of the Champs-Elysees; window-studded metal rooftops; the musical language; and chalkboards standing on the sidewalk advertising crepes and soups and delicious indecipherable preparations of meat.
I love Paris!
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Neomi
non-member comment
I miss you guys! This was so fun to read. Isn't running in Paris is the best - you're distracted from your misery by all the beauty and history around you.