The cold is worse today, I stare out over the rooftops, rose pink in the sunrise, feeling like a struggling writer in a garret, sickly but hopeful. I am going out regardless of feeling so poorly. I dress in what I feel is a very Parisian black jersey dress, pulled in on one side with a metal clip, tres chic. I walk kilometres because I'm too scared to take the Metro. I don't like taking the underground trains when in big cities, my anxiety prevents me from heading down the beautiful belle epoque entranceways. I head towards the #Musee D'Orsay to see the paintings I had studied in art school. Matisse, Renoir, Degas...I am blown away. This used to be a railway station/hotel, built in 1900. There's an amazing clock there, in memory of the train station After I'm done here, satiated after room after room of paintings only every seen in books, I wander through the #Tuileries gardens, loving the elegant outlines of the bare branched trees against the wintered deep blue sky, and in the distance, I see the Eiffel Tower. I'm heading to the #L'Orangerie to see Monet's Water Lilly paintings. Maybe it's my flu condition but I'm strangely unimpressed. I have been coloured in by the vibrancy of the Gauguin's and Matisse's from the last gallery and this seems washed out. I see a woman sitting on a bench, her head on the wall, asleep. I feel like I could be her soon so I head off for what will become my affordable 'go to' meal in France - goats cheese on rounds of toast, drizzled with honey, nestled on salad; and as much as I want to go on, I have to head back for a nap as I have a date with an old friend of my husband's later in the afternoon.
Fact check. My husband was always late and I am always on time. When we were dating, we lived in opposite parts of the city and I would meet him in between at a trendy cafe in King's Cross. If he was caught up on a job, he would send his architect friend to meet me and keep me company until his arrival. This was the man I was meeting, who had moved to Paris many years ago and has been here every since. He was an eccentric then and even more so now, as I meet him at the restaurant and he stands to greet me. His skin is whitewashed, he's wearing a paisley waistcoat, there's an old diamante brooch on his lapel, he looks like he has just stepped out a meeting with Hemingway in the 1930's. We catch up of almost thirty years of news and then he takes me to a poetry reading across the river at #ShakespeareandCo, which, since 1919, has been a gathering place for writers and poets. I feel again as if I've stepped out of time. The building is all wonky, it's beams at odd angles, sagging here and there. I love it. We listen to two wonderful young women poets and then make our way back past Notre Dame in the early evening light. She is lit from within and we admire her beauty and I decide not to visit this time; a huge mistake on my part, as not long after, she is consumed by fire.
We eat at a French bistro on the Seine, duck a l'orange, crisped potatoes and vegetables. I watch as a huge tray of meat is delivered to a young couple next to us. Chips accompany it but that's all. I wonder how they'll get through what looks like half a small calf but by the end of our evening, they've consumed it all. My companion tells me that wealthy Americans still have apartments here and have evening soirees with talented artists and writers and that, as an architect, he has managed to get invites. Paris, I think exists in a time warp, I hope it continues to do so.
I am so exhausted by the time I get home, that even Audrey, who looks up with a face that shows no emotion, has no effect on me.
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