First Nation solar farm plans
Suit claims prison assaults
Pair facing drug charges
Searching landfill for woman
Poland urges more spending
Cutting rates at own pace
Israeli strike played down
Full Trump jury seated
World's largest election 
Investigating pipeline blast
TikTok testing new app
Body Shop explores sale
Warriors ready for Round 2
Kalamalka Bowl cancelled
Rockets live to fight on
Hilton teams up with Sia
Swift still 'can't forgive' Kim
Grimes to ‘cap the disarray’
This week's Trip Shot is by Jeff Stathopulos, who writes the weekly Castanet column, It's Your Life.
City of Light
Paris. Few cities will create an instant impression in people’s minds like this one, even for those who haven’t been there. To some, it’s just another collection of landmarks and museums, to others a place whose parts are equally as great as the whole.
There’s not much one can say that hasn’t already been said. As a city known for its over the top fashion and excess, it’s also a place that runs on practicality and tradition. There is a way to do things, time is different here.
Everyone who has been, holds their own impressions. Rather than try to describe mine like a misspoken tour guide, I’d like to pass on three stories that for me, are Paris.
The Espresso Bar
I woke at 3:00 am the night we first arrived. Rather than toss and turn, I decided to try and get some night shots. I grabbed my camera bag, told Tanya where I was going and slipped out the door before she could wake. I asked the front desk man where I might get espresso. He shook his head. As I started out the door, he called me back, he had an idea. He said to turn left at the corner and keep walking several blocks to where the Boulevard des Italiens meets Boulevard Haussman. He told me no cafés were open, but the clubs all served espresso.
As I walked, I passed the dark windows of the famous cafés: Le Grand Café, Café de la Paix and the Café Napolitan. Next the Palais Garnier – the Opera. Continuing, I soon heard music. Reaching the corner, I turned and saw a different city - not one of sleepy streets and closed shops but of ardent discourse and young passionate love. Like a B movie, there were entangled couples in every doorway.
I went to the first club I saw, the windows were open wide and burgundy canopies hung over the facade. A large man in formal wear waved me in. I explained I was looking for an espresso. He smiled, said yes, come in. With a hand on my shoulder, he directed me towards the back, then called out to the woman behind the carved wooden bar in French. I sat down. She pulled a double espresso, put it in front of me with a glass of water and carried on.
I drained the last of the crema and asked her for the bill. She smiled, shook her head and said no charge. I thanked her, grabbed my bag and went back out to the street. The large man tilted his head, smiled and bade me goodnight.
The Bikes
It was an early night. Waking up two hours later we realized we’d missed dinner. It was only 10:30 pm so we decided to go out. On the corner was a row of cruiser bikes locked in a stand. We could rent the bikes right there. After paying, we chose our ride and started towards the Eiffel Tower. Between us and the Tower lay the Champs-Élysées. Riding along the cobblestone streets, we passed the Church of Madeleine, rode through the Place-de-la-Concorde and turned down the Avenue de Champs-Élysées. At the end stood the Arc de Triomphe. Below where outdoor restaurants filled with people; it was now close to midnight.
We chose one, waited in line briefly and were soon seated. While dinner wasn’t amazing, dining at one in the morning on the Champs-Élysées, with the drift of foreign words, the scent of grilled food, and the mosaic of perfume is indelibly stamped.
We left for the Eiffel Tower. A few wrong turns, a bridge or two and we arrived at the base. There was only the aircraft warning lights on, the tall dark shadow of the Tower dwarfed everything. Trinket vendors still peddled their wares to anyone who would listen.
We started home and slowly rode back along the path following the Seine River. People strolled, the diesel engines of riverboats throbbed, the lights of the city danced on the rippled water. Lock filled bridges spanned the river along the way. We arrived back at our hotel near 3:00 am, sleep came easy this time.
The Little Black Dress
My final story is a shopping story. We’d found a small shop that Tanya loved. Filled with unique displays, awesome clothes and brilliant art, we spent quite a bit of time. There was one black dress Tanya couldn’t decide so she didn’t purchase it. The proprietor was a wonderful woman who knew exactly when to step in and when to stay away. Tan picked a few things and we paid at the counter. The shopkeeper carefully folded the clothes, wrapped them in paper, tied them with ribbon putting them in a stiff paper bag. She walked us to the door and thanked us.
Fast forward a month, Tanya’s still thinking she should have bought the dress.
Her birthday was soon and I had the perfect idea. Remembering the name of the shop, Bouche B, I looked it up online. I called and attempted to explain, she remembered us though and more importantly, the dress. After a brief hold, she told me it was still there. I asked her if she could arrange shipping to Canada. She said if I would send the funds Western Union (they can’t process credit card purchases over the phone), she would take care of the rest.
Three weeks later a yellow and blue package from La Poste arrived. Inside: the black dress and a handwritten note.
Paris is overwhelming, old, new, the famous and the not so famous. Of all the cities we’ve been to, it has left the deepest impression. The modern world tries to encroach it like ivy on a building. Yet just beyond the facade lays the foundation of a city who’s roots date back almost 2,000 years. Long after the trendy restaurants, the neon signs and the corporate logos are gone, the heart that is Paris will still beat.
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Been on a trip lately? Around the world, around the country, around the block, or around anything that felt like a journey? If you took pictures and want to share, drop me a line. [email protected]
This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.
