Idol series.8. Week 22. Intersection "The Bridge".
Bridge to Maturity.
It was bone numbingly cold. The clock said 2.30.am as we drove to the bus station. A quick goodbye to my parents and I was alone. This excursion was unusual for the mid fifties, school trips were rare, and the journey for me, a shy fifteen year old would be the longest trip I had made so far. Two hours on a coach, and four at sea.
I was the only one of our party who remained on deck and wasn’t sea sick. I felt quietly proud of that, it proved I was a born traveler didn’t it? The steamers slid slowly into the harbor of Dieppe. I was at last ‘on the continent!’
Softer air and warmer breezes assailed me, and as I set foot on French soil on my way to Paris I began to allow all my senses to savour every new feeling. Sunshine danced and flickered as we drove along the boulevard to our hotel. Paris didn’t just creep into my heart; instead it grabbed me by the throat, and dared me not to like it. The vivid personality that is Paris was evident in every landmark, like the icing sugar dome of the Sacre Coeur, the four legged monster Eiffel Tower or the glimpses of the river winding round the Il de la Cite. Even the lethal weapons of traffic hurtling about didn’t faze me. I was opened mouthed and drinking it all in.
There were so many bakeries near our hotel, the heady smell of baking bread was always in the air. Everyone in our little street carried a loaf under their arm, or so it seemed. The underground had a sweet smell, hard to define, a mixture of perfume, cigars and an aromatic pipe tobacco that was popular then. As it was April there were flowers everywhere, and the street sellers spread across the pavements, jostling with the coffee drinkers and the artists. We did all the tourist things, gazed at Mona Lisa, went to the tomb of Napoleon, and shopped in Bon Marche. Most of all though, I wanted to stay; and wear a long black sweater, and swig absinthe from a bottle on the left bank. I knew without any doubt I belonged in Montmartre with the struggling artists. I imagined being under the bridges with one; as he devoured me with garlic flavoured kisses.
My first real exchange with a French boy was on a boat trip on the river. We swopped slips of paper with addresses. I think I wrote to him for about two months before he wrote back ‘Dear Susan’ instead of ‘Dear Jacqui.’ Love died and romantic dreams were on hold for a while, after that.
My newly acquired taste for coffee, foreign boys, wine and fashion stemmed from this one trip. Ten short days changed my expectation of my life. The understated elegance I saw on the streets of this city became my yardstick, - ‘that was how women should look’ I thought. Females in my native Bristol, mostly wore grey coats and headscarves. The cold winds from the channel not conducive to high fashion. Most of them had worked hard all their lives in factories anyway. If you dressed up you were thought to be 'flashy.' I so desperately wanted to be flamboyant, ostentatious, and wild. But this was not the time, not yet anyway.
On the last night in Paris we travelled to the city by tube in the twilight. When we got to the Champs Elysees it looked like a lighted caterpillar leading to the Arc de Triumph. I walked away from the group to absorb these last moments. The reflected lights of Notre Dame danced on the inky water; the beautiful bridges arcing gracefully. I memorized every detail, ‘I am coming back’ I vowed.
We went back for our 25th wedding anniversary and loved it so much we went again, both of us as spellbound as I was at 15. We had a small room in the roof of a hotel in Montmartre, I was in heaven.
Now I stir my creamy coffee, and gaze at the river. Along the wide path a fashionable parade of people come thronging. The pungent scent of garlic and seafood drifts from the restaurants along the river. On the bridges across from the busy cafes and shops, people stop to admire the view. A cruise boat pulls away and I hear laughter and the clink of champagne glasses. I walk up the steps to the roadway, the elegance of the carved buildings picked out by late sunlight. The Cathedral clock strikes as I wander looking at the winter fashions in the shops. Clang!; suddenly I am in real time again, a tram passes, this is Melbourne. Melbourne, with its winding, muddy river at its heart just like Paris; with art galleries and coffee shops. Cobbled laneways and the bustle of China Town. Melbourne hasn’t quite taken the place of Paris, it never could, but it’s a close second.
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/553736.html
This is an intersection piece, I am paired with the wonderfully talented kickthehobbit Her piece is The Straw.
Note; Yay awesome partner has penned a fabulous piece and between us we can walk hand in hand into a French dream. Find her entry here; http://kickthehobbit.livejournal.com/470420.html
It was bone numbingly cold. The clock said 2.30.am as we drove to the bus station. A quick goodbye to my parents and I was alone. This excursion was unusual for the mid fifties, school trips were rare, and the journey for me, a shy fifteen year old would be the longest trip I had made so far. Two hours on a coach, and four at sea.
I was the only one of our party who remained on deck and wasn’t sea sick. I felt quietly proud of that, it proved I was a born traveler didn’t it? The steamers slid slowly into the harbor of Dieppe. I was at last ‘on the continent!’
Softer air and warmer breezes assailed me, and as I set foot on French soil on my way to Paris I began to allow all my senses to savour every new feeling. Sunshine danced and flickered as we drove along the boulevard to our hotel. Paris didn’t just creep into my heart; instead it grabbed me by the throat, and dared me not to like it. The vivid personality that is Paris was evident in every landmark, like the icing sugar dome of the Sacre Coeur, the four legged monster Eiffel Tower or the glimpses of the river winding round the Il de la Cite. Even the lethal weapons of traffic hurtling about didn’t faze me. I was opened mouthed and drinking it all in.
There were so many bakeries near our hotel, the heady smell of baking bread was always in the air. Everyone in our little street carried a loaf under their arm, or so it seemed. The underground had a sweet smell, hard to define, a mixture of perfume, cigars and an aromatic pipe tobacco that was popular then. As it was April there were flowers everywhere, and the street sellers spread across the pavements, jostling with the coffee drinkers and the artists. We did all the tourist things, gazed at Mona Lisa, went to the tomb of Napoleon, and shopped in Bon Marche. Most of all though, I wanted to stay; and wear a long black sweater, and swig absinthe from a bottle on the left bank. I knew without any doubt I belonged in Montmartre with the struggling artists. I imagined being under the bridges with one; as he devoured me with garlic flavoured kisses.
My first real exchange with a French boy was on a boat trip on the river. We swopped slips of paper with addresses. I think I wrote to him for about two months before he wrote back ‘Dear Susan’ instead of ‘Dear Jacqui.’ Love died and romantic dreams were on hold for a while, after that.
My newly acquired taste for coffee, foreign boys, wine and fashion stemmed from this one trip. Ten short days changed my expectation of my life. The understated elegance I saw on the streets of this city became my yardstick, - ‘that was how women should look’ I thought. Females in my native Bristol, mostly wore grey coats and headscarves. The cold winds from the channel not conducive to high fashion. Most of them had worked hard all their lives in factories anyway. If you dressed up you were thought to be 'flashy.' I so desperately wanted to be flamboyant, ostentatious, and wild. But this was not the time, not yet anyway.
On the last night in Paris we travelled to the city by tube in the twilight. When we got to the Champs Elysees it looked like a lighted caterpillar leading to the Arc de Triumph. I walked away from the group to absorb these last moments. The reflected lights of Notre Dame danced on the inky water; the beautiful bridges arcing gracefully. I memorized every detail, ‘I am coming back’ I vowed.
We went back for our 25th wedding anniversary and loved it so much we went again, both of us as spellbound as I was at 15. We had a small room in the roof of a hotel in Montmartre, I was in heaven.
Now I stir my creamy coffee, and gaze at the river. Along the wide path a fashionable parade of people come thronging. The pungent scent of garlic and seafood drifts from the restaurants along the river. On the bridges across from the busy cafes and shops, people stop to admire the view. A cruise boat pulls away and I hear laughter and the clink of champagne glasses. I walk up the steps to the roadway, the elegance of the carved buildings picked out by late sunlight. The Cathedral clock strikes as I wander looking at the winter fashions in the shops. Clang!; suddenly I am in real time again, a tram passes, this is Melbourne. Melbourne, with its winding, muddy river at its heart just like Paris; with art galleries and coffee shops. Cobbled laneways and the bustle of China Town. Melbourne hasn’t quite taken the place of Paris, it never could, but it’s a close second.
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/553736.html
This is an intersection piece, I am paired with the wonderfully talented kickthehobbit Her piece is The Straw.
Note; Yay awesome partner has penned a fabulous piece and between us we can walk hand in hand into a French dream. Find her entry here; http://kickthehobbit.livejournal.com/470420.html