it’s 3AM in Paris.
we had a few hours of sleep.
mais no more, it seems.
but this is different.
everything is different in Paris.
especially when surrounded by such sumptuous 19th century beauty.
we even had a Very Noel Coward Moment when a footman slipped a Telephone message under our door while we took our bath, hair piled (for the synthroid has made it grow in abundance) on our head, getting ready for the Day Job’s evening Events…..
Then into a waiting car. And glam companions. To a red carpet or two….
we don’t like to Queue. So at one point we slipped to the front with a what-we-hoped-was-a-winning-smile and explained who our companions were (we are only queue worthy jumping at other’s shimmeringness and the lack of patience – sigh – and the fact it was Cold) and Tickled Pink to get a “no speak English” from the surly hired muscle (we were so tired we had no language recognition powers ourself to Know Which we had been speaking) so we Switched Into French (which was surprisingly fluid at a Late Heure!).
And slipped into the festivities with our companions.
we noticed that we don’t want to be in any photographs (harsh lighting, logo walls and a lack of retouching have Never been our favorite – where oh where is Cecil Beaton’s soft bounced light off a sheer toile?) but it’s more than that.
anonymity suits us.
flashbulbs and smiling when we are So Confused about immigration status and roles and jet lag descending made us happy to lean into a small crevice by a statue and watch for a while.
then we Did the Rounds.
made sure we fulfilled our duties with a modicum of grace (and gave thanks for knowing Such Interesting People from so many Lands) and then slipped out…..
pass Les Deux Magots, lights blazing and fashionable types in suspended animation…..La Coupole le meme……a brisk walk to raise our spirits (Paris par nuit!) and then into a waiting taxi to thrill at crossing the Seine.
our constant companion has been this excellent guide…..
tres chic and insider-y and delicious.
as is the becloaked author herself…..for we are now clandestine correspondents……which we simply thrill to…..nothing like exchanging bon mots on today’s equivalent of parchment and vellum as the driver’s horse scratches its hooves on the gravel driveway, waiting for a return message, while Cook gives the messenger a chocolat au lait chaud (oooo, got a Downton all of a sudden with a wartime nesquik sense memory).
and so we are here.
sleep is not returning.
time for a pot of coffee from room service, Day Job email catch up and yesterday’s newspapers and a fresh subtle Parisian night air with the shutters Flung Open to embrace the dawn over rooftops……
we are going to be exhausted.
but we can still be Terribly Romantic about it All.