I wake early. The double doors are slight ajar, room for the wind to whistle through and cool us in the Parisienne July. Nothing but a white linen sheet across us. This room – I wonder how many things it has been in its time. An important office, no doubt. A secret rendezvous spot, perhaps? A frustrated writer’s den? The apartment of an artist’s muse? It has elements of them all.
I slowly swivel my legs out of the bed and place my toes quietly on the floor. He sleeps too peacefully to disturb, the sheet draped only across one leg exposing his chest to the early morning air. I wrap a cotton towel around myself and go to the windows. Below us, Paris is ever so slowly waking up.
I peek the doors open to stand on the balcony. The view is unmatchable. Below me is the renowned Champs-Elysees. Paris has partied last night and now the workers are tidying away the remnants of the night before. The cobbled streets are swept, shop keepers are washing their windows. I can hear someone whistling in the distance. Somehow, even the whistling has a French accent.
In front of me, across the divide, are rows of French balconies attached to Haussmann style buildings. Cream render, wrought iron twists and turns, window frames like artists’ borders. Just behind this view peaks the Eiffel tower. He’s stopped twinkling for now. Maybe He too is waking up – a big day of attention ahead.
I walk to the edge of the balcony and place a hand on the stone railing. The ledge is cool to the touch, a refreshing feeling from the air that has already begun to warm the morning. I peer around the corner of the balcony and see the Arc de Triomphe to my left. Beautifully poised to bookend the street. Standing vigil, tall amongst the sky line. Cars warming up their horns for the roundabout.
I breathe deeply.
This apartment is a dream. The thing of French novels inspired by French Jazz.
A big day of sight-seeing ahead of me, I turn and sneak back inside. There is always more to see in Paris. A stone unturned, a wine untasted, a gallery untouched.
A visit to the Rodin Museum is in order. I’ve heard so much about the Thinker but we’ve never been properly introduced. The macarons at La Durée await, a river cruise with a picnic along the Siene, some obligatory people watching under a blood-red awning, hot chocolate at Angelina’s and a stroll down Rue de Rivoli.
With the sun not yet quite out, I stow away back under the covers just as he stirs and throws an arm lazily around me.
“What time is it?” he grumbles, peering at me through one sleepy eye.
“Too early. Go back to sleep for a bit,” I reply, curling back under the covers to wake up again in an hour or two with the rest of the city.
