Thanks to the Olympics, ye canna get far awa’ fae Paree just noo.
Despite the rain at the opening ceremony, it looked every bit the most beautiful city in the world.
Mind you, I wisnae sure Celine Dion’s haunting song was exactly appropriate – words by Edith Piaf fan her man had jist perished in a plane crash.
I love the City of Love. Been there mony times with husbands, bairns, friends, even EE competition winners. Not a bad batch, n’est pas? Except that, during almost every visit, it was marred by some daft drama.
First time, early 70s with my new hubby. How beat my passionate breestie on night one, wandering the wonderful streets of the Left Bank, me – a keen young foodie – surveying the menus for the best of the best.
Him, whatever the opposite of a foodie is, scranning them for delicacies like battered haddock, scampi, chicken Maryland.
When he did finally locate a palatable dish, his inside inspection revealed the typically gloriously French cafe was too big/small/dark/bright/noisy/quiet.
After nearly two hours, in fully fight-mode, we stomped back to the B&B around 9pm, empty-bellied and wordless. Couers blesse.
Years later, with the bairns after three weeks camping across Europe, me seated in front of the Mona Lisa in The Louvre, my camera was stolen with all the superb holiday snaps. Sacre-flamin’ bleu!
Husband number two, before we were wed, and a great-value Air France weekend direct from Aberdeen.
How romantic can you get second time round?
All was well until Mo insisted on lingering at a pavement table late Sunday afternoon instead of hitting the train to the airport.
As we reached the Air France desk, the wifie pouted: ”Pardon, but we are juste clozing ze gate.” I protested, I wept, I declared I had to get home to my kids that night.
Only wye we could get to Aberdeen was by flying via London. That journey cost more than the entire weekend in Paris. Merde!
Ah but. Then came the most affa and, yes, in my evil mind, the funniest of my adventures en Paree.
The 1990s and the EE ed decided the paper would run a Valentine’s Day competition; loons and quines would volunteer to be chosen by readers as the ideal couple.
Not so much Love Island as L’Amoure Mastrick. Once the final two were chosen, they’d be whisked off for a weekend in Paris to see if they fell for each other.
Just to add to the romance, Mo and a photographer tagged along.
I could fill a book with what happened. Some highlights. Romeo succumbed to ower much early morning ale at Dyce.
The plane mid high-speed take-off, he up fae his seat and doon the aisle, confronting the mademoiselle cabin crew with: “Far’s the lavvie?”
Ditto oor loon on the Champs Elysees, he up to a super-chic Madame with the words: “Far div ye get a Tennants pint roon here?” Sadly, the EEs efforts to create love in the city of it came to nought. She fell for him, but he chatted up another quine on the flight home.
C’est la vie.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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