A Walk through Paris & the Champs Elysees

We step out of our apartment and tip toe down the narrow, lopsided, spiral staircase. The steps are uneven with wear and some have crumbled away over time. I don’t mind the steep descent so much this morning, but it wasn’t much fun lugging our suitcases up these yesterday. (Or at least, it wasn’t much fun for my husband, while the house-keeper chatted to me about the local restaurants and showed me around the apartment!)

It is Saturday and the Marché Baudoyer has sprung up across the road. Wandering through the marquee-ed lanes, it is exactly like what we’ve read about Paris’ open air markets; everything we’ve expected – and more.

The courtyard is filled with the freshest flowers, fruit, vegetables, seafood, and cheese. Alongside one stall is a simmering copper cauldron filled with what I can only imagine to be a provencale-style casserole, given the fragrance that erupts from it. I examine an extensive display of butter and honey at another stall while he sneaks off to surprise me with a bunch of deliciously aromatic pink roses.

I wish I had taken my camera with me this morning, but I urge you to visit this charming market yourself. It is open Saturday mornings and Wednesday afternoons – a Parisian “must-see”.

Afterwards, as is our routine, we order a couple of coffees at our local cafe, just across the street corner from our apartment (and directly opposite the markets). We grab a croissant from the boulangerie next door, although it’s hard to choose from the freshly-baked selection:

These two shops become our breakfast staples for the next week, and we are sad to say au revoir when it comes time to depart the city. In particular, we become quite fond of our waitress at “Little Cafe“. She delights in pushing the boundaries of my French, as I nervously stumble over the most simple of pleasantries. Nevertheless, she breaks into a grin as she patiently awaits the usual order of encore deux cafe s’il vous plaît while we pour over our maps and guidebooks with marker in hand.

Our adventure today takes us to to the Champs Elysees; the infamous strip of shops to rule them all. No Pitt St Mall or Rodeo Drive can impress like this boulevard. Crowning it, in the centre of Place Charles de Gaulle, is the magnificent Arc de Triomphe; a monument built to honour all those who gave their lives for France during the Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars. Beneath it lies the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, whose flame burns forever in tribute.

The intersection at Place Charles de Gaulle is known to be the most dangerous in Paris (if not Europe!). The motorists make up their own rules on this round-a-bout; there are no marked lanes as the weaving traffic merges from 3-deep to 8-deep at any given time. And indeed, we see an accident almost unfold in front our eyes: an unlucky tourist does not realise that in Paris, while driving on the round-a-bout, one must give way to vehicles entering it – not the other way around! (We learn this later in the week, from an ex-pat Aussie who owns a bike hire company, “Left Bank Scooters“.)

We continue our walk along the street (walking down the incline of course, as tradition has it, to avoid looking “up” at anyone else), past the designer boutiques and find ourselves at two places I’ve had my heart set on.

1) Sephora is a mecca of beauty products, and is packed with so many women it could be mistaken for a Wittners factory outlet on Boxing Day. Nevertheless I drag him in, and we eventually emerge an hour later with perfumes and bath treats for us both.

2) Speaking of treats, we also make it to Laduree merely days before the grand opening of the Sydney store back home, much to the envy of my girlfriends.

The queue to enter is worth the wait. As you step in, the decadent scent of sugary-goodness hits you front-and-centre. Rows of exquisite sweets are displayed in refrigerated glass cases like prized jewels (no photos allowed). The price tags are no surprise; a match for the ruby-studded tart, or the gold-crusted pastry in the neighbouring cabinet. We restrain ourselves and choose a small box of rainbow macaroons and a chocolate eclair to share. A beautifully made-up attendant with an impeccably pressed uniform and white gloves hands us our gift-wrapped dessert. It almost looks too pretty to unwrap.

Almost.

Taking a break from our shopping spree in the shady haven of the Jardin des Tuileries, we find a grassy spot and spread out a picnic.

The macaroons are divine. The flavour of the tiny biscuits pop in your mouth; each mouthful a starburst of intense strawberry, smooth salty caramel, or fragrant violet.

Meanwhile, the finger-like eclair is pure indulgence; the perfect combination of soft pastry, silky cream and sweet milk chocolate so delicate it melts across your palate before you have a chance to swallow.

Sugar-fixed and rested, we march on towards the Place de la Concorde; famous for being the site of the beheading of King Louis XVI and his extravagant Queen, Marie Antoinette. I imagine the terrified woman facing a revolt of peasants in this barren place; the unjust orchestration of her last days in this world is a tragic tale… but more on that later (Versailles is just a few days away).

The splash of the fountains is a grateful relief from the September sun, but we can’t linger long. The obelisk that stands in place of the guillotine from those dark days casts a growing shadow, and we have a way to go yet before nightfall.

We cross one of the many bridges over the Seine and deliberately cross back, taking the scenic route along the magnificently-gilded Pont Alexandre III. This particular bridge was designed to not obscure the line of visibility between the Invalides and the Champs-Elysées, so proud the French are of their city. (Similarly, it’s interesting to note that there is also an un-obscured line of sight between the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre; with the Champs-Elysées, Place de la Concorde, and Jardins Tuileries inbetween!)

Making our way back to the tower, we pass through the Trocadéro, and notice a circle of spinning couples, entwined in an outdoor dance class as the sun sets over the Palais de Chaillot. They move in elegant swoops and twirls; each step taken with purpose, each twist of their hips as if moved by passion, each dip as if thrown by a lover. It is intoxicating to watch in the twilight. The romance of it catches in my throat and I perch, transfixed, on a nearby stone staircase.

He pulls me away as the light fades, and we end up staring at the long legs of the Tower once again. By the time we reach the top, it is dark, and the stars have lit up the sky. We have time now, unrushed, to bask in the clear night air of Paris. Not a cloud in sight, just the quiet and each other, and the lights of this glorious city…