Blue Dress Hot Mess

Series: The Paris Diaries: 05/03/25

Notes for the confused reader: Gabriel (Gabe) is a dog, not a child. This is a collection of pieces from my notebook, typed up; as such, some is written in real-time, some with the benefit of hindsight. It is fragmentary, but so is my mind. If something says (FA) in brackets, read: French Accent.

We have seen acid-green parakeets in the Jardin du Luxembourg. (I have at last worked out which part of the Jardin Gabriel is allowed in: the upper part, where the parakeets are, presumably so that he can chase them). I have extended my lease.

It is heaven. I know with every inch of my 5 foot 7 (8?) lankiness that I have made the right decision. I knew it when I caught sight of the girl in the mirror in the lift this morning: she wore a blue cap on top of her straight blonde hair, and the blue-green eyes which looked out from behind rectangular tawny sunglasses were crinkled at their edges with smiling, like the pages of a book that has been dropped in the bath. I told her “We did a thing” (with multiple “g”s) out-loud, and she grinned at me and bent down to stroke her dog between his ears.

I knew it when we were walking along the Seine this morning – people took off their jumpers in order to wear them like capes around their shoulders. There is an unmistakable taste of the optimism of Spring (though it is 1° at night, it promises to be 16° and sunshine, uninterrupted, all afternoon). The sky goes white – hovering over the water -, blue – baby, the colour of a child’s bedroom -, white again – a heat-haze hugging the towers of Notre-Dame. The tourists drink hot chocolate and white wine at the same time in an all day 7am to 11pm restaurant at the end of my road. I picture the mixture of chocolatey cream and sour grape coating my tongue, and I balk. I turn my face to the sunshine – a crack, between the rooftops of the buildings – and feel happiness seep through my soul like Communion wine.

A lady backed out of one of the blue-painted doorways along my street with a baby strapped to her back and two slightly larger babies riding in a double-decker pram which she heaved along in front of her. There would be nothing particularly unusual about this – bar perhaps the children’s mode of transport – except that each child was so differently dressed that if they were a Pop-Culture meme they would have been playing Justin and Hailey Bieber — going to the same event, one looking like it had been dragged off the street, the other looking like Marilyn Monroe, glammed up enough for the red carpet. The baby on the lower deck (of the ‘bus’, if that’s what we’re calling this pram; it might just as well have been a bunkbed) wore a yellow anorak with black-and-white striped lining: either a fisherman or a Petit Bateau advert. He had straw-blond hair and an ear to ear smile. The boy on the top deck might have been going to a funeral; he was neatly dressed in black, head-to-tiny-toes, except for a little white pom-pom hat which he wore wrapped around his head, and pulled down over most of his eyes. The Joey in the pouch remains a fashion unknown since he was so swaddled against the bite of the March morning that I can only hope this distracted little lady had remembered to leave him an air hole.

Three large American tourists barred our route (the stereotype, in this case, is true). They had already been to Notre-Dame (or at least to the gift shop, since they all carried paper bags with the Cathedral sketched in blue next to their Louis Vuittons with their LV monogrammed in brown), despite it only being 10am. One, lagging behind, was overtaken by Gabriel – eyes set firmly on a flying napkin (used) – and nearly got caught in his lead.

“Watch out, y’all”, she cried, loud enough to stop the street. “Puppy coming through!” (Two second’s pause). “And, Gawd, he’s cuuuute!”

We are sitting with the lovers in the sunshine in the Jardins des Champs-Élysées just off the Avenue Gabriel. Paris is like a festival in the sunshine. I have removed my coat — and now my jumper. It is pure Spring. I have a book in my pocket, but I am just as happy just sitting; smelling crêpes burning slightly in the kiosk by the playground; listening to horns and pigeons and the tinny music which is coming from the brightly coloured children’s carrousel. I would be annoyed at the interruption of peace, but I cannot bring myself to be, either because in fact there is no peace in this city – I hear sirens constantly, and the traffic is ten yards away, moving sluggishly in the midday heat down a boulevard famous for shopping (and therefore teeming with people, all noisy, all talking, all so unnecessarily busy) – or because one small boy is riding the carousel, sitting in Cinderella’s pink princess carriage and waving his hands up and down as if geeing on the horses. (They have feather plumes in their hair). I was once that little boy, and I have always loved carousels. My sister and I went in one once at the base of Sacré-Coeur. There is not a single thing to annoy me: the sky is blue. (That said, the tinny music has now become a brass-band version of Despacito. I feel twinges of pain at this small cloud on my peaceful horizon, then I see the boy step down from his princess carriage and dance happily away from the carousel, his life apparently complete: the sky is blue again. No clouds. Not even an airplane). Some lovers are leaving; it was their lunch break. They have freed up a bench which faces the sunshine, but I am wondering whether Gabriel will try to eat me if we go to lie down in the grass. I have decided it is a risk I am willing to take for that sublime feeling of Summer, felt in every blade’s tickly touch next to my bare arms (long sleeves rolled up). I have not laid in the grass yet all year. The 5th of March seems very far away; so does Paris; so does home. I am a floating balloon in a city of lovers, who read books with their heads resting on each other’s knees, and who take up whole benches with their legs stretched out. I feel no jealousy. Gabriel flits between watching the pigeons and resting his dark head on his white paws, sleepily. (He was too hot on the way home, and sleeps now as I type this up). This is his Avenue. I want everyone in it to know it: Gabriel is here, I am here – but I am the ‘inconnue’, remember – and we are so happy. Please be happy too. The sky is blue. 

A little girl came over, dragging her brother for moral support. I think he is the same boy who danced off the carousel, but maybe all 6-year-olds look the same. She asked me if I wanted to buy one of the bracelets she had made. She thrust out her arm to show me: they were loom bands, neon, mostly pink, and despite having at least 10 identical bracelets on the lower shelf of my jewellery box at home, I wanted to buy one very, very much. She was thin and smiley, and wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans (her Granny sat behind them on the bench I had vacated in preference for the grass. Her Granny held their coats; French children must never, never be cold). I told her I wanted one, but that I had no change, pas de petites espèces. She said it was no problem and she patted Gabriel’s head. She skipped back to her Grandmother, dragging her brother (who had remained silent; still mentally going round and round on the carousel?), and moved onto the next. Three women sat on the bench (green); a mother, two grown-up daughters. I hope they bought a bracelet. I hope they bought three. 

There is no peace in Paris. There are sirens; there is music. The sky is blue. Not even an airplane.