|Just before Sunday afternoon storm|
I notice the difference as soon as I exit the courtyard doors and turn left towards rue Cler. Avenue Bosquet is quiet except for the huffing of early morning runners and the occasional vélib swishing past. Even Le Petit Cler has a different group of Sunday morning regulars, mostly families and couples that linger over tiny cups of coffee and buttered tartine. Children accompany their parents riding on strange stroller devices that manage to look both old fashioned and futuristic, like a red ladybug stroller with yellow spots and a flowered pop-up umbrella. You can even guess what Paris did the night before by the amount of broken glass underfoot and the slightly sour smell of wine mixing with garbage.
Shops on rue Cler are open for a few hours on Sunday morning. Rush hour regulars stand in the middle of the street, hips resting against their shopping baskets, comparing Sunday plans. The fish monger's son, dressed in his own miniature fish guts covered apron and gumboots, kicks a soccer ball against an unused ATM machine. This morning I saw the dark haired Louboutin wearing goddess exit her apartment in scuffed ballerinas to buy roast chicken and white asparagus at Davoli. I don't rush on Sunday mornings at Le Petit Cler. I watch the street wake up, order an omelet and often indulge in a second café crème.
Bon Dimanche from beautiful Paris!
I market bombed a hearty looking Dutch couple on Friday in the 18th when I was looking for the entrance to Le Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. I ended up wandering too far down a graffiti covered boulevard full of shops selling plastic knock-off Pumas and polyester track suits. Let's just say the vendors weren't the kind that sell vintage LV trunks! The couple had made the same mistake but were on the correct path to the entrance and thankfully didn't mind adopting a clueless Canadian.
Things tourists say...
A wife to her husband walking down rue Cler this morning, "Is this what you envisioned?"
His reply, "No. Not at all. It's much worse."
9am riding his European designed silver street bike down the centre of rue Cler, complete with his basket full of baguettes, and wearing a lavender cashmere sweater with matching socks.