Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
Imagine. It’s early February, and here, on the exact spot where the guillotine once dominated the city, Paris has set up a temporary public ice-skating rink, which stretches across the vast open place or plaza before the Hôtel de Ville, squeezing up against the fountains and nudging pedestrians off to the far edge. The big clock above us says 10:30.
The Hôtel de Ville itself is lit at night, with the gentle richness that has earned French illumination such fame. We cross over the bridge. To right and left, as far as we can see along the Seine, stretch other old and famous bridges, each with its own special character, each lit with fantastic delicacy and charm, glowing warm and magic against the water. In the far distance, down the Seine, the Eiffel Tower is copper and proud against the dark sky. At night, la Tour Eiffel is the undisputed queen of the city and knows it.
On the Île de la Cité, we turn right at a corner featuring an elegant clock dating from the Renaissance and follow a smooth sidewalk along the edge of the river, past the Conciergerie, its two conical medieval towers a silhouette of great age against the low sky. No stars hang above. In all my time in Paris, I’ve spotted a star only twice, faint and far off, unable to compete with the city lights. When Sébastien came to my country home at Christmas, he didn’t even know his constellations. I made a note to myself to teach them to him one day.
Two gendarmes are standing watch outside the Conciergerie. We nod to them, and one of them grins broadly at my one-legged chugging and gliding on my scooter and makes a comment to his colleague just after I pass. I assume he’s jealous. Sometimes you have to suffer the envy of lesser mortals to be as fashionable as I am. Besides, the day Parisians don’t make comments on whatever catches their eyes, the world will end.
It’s smooth gliding down to the end of this sidewalk, until we reach the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, built in 1604. The statue of the equestrian Henri IV rises above us, less obviously green at night than during the day. Down the stairs behind this king, the Vedettes Parisiennes are still running, one of several companies along the Seine that escort tourists up and down the river in boats. We rattle over cobblestones to the statue side of the bridge, then cross over to the Left Bank of the Seine. The sidewalks are better on this side, Sébastien assures me.