Plants, trees and bicycles

Summer in Paris has been … interesting. The city empties itself of Parisians and replaces them with tourists, both French and foreign. This has given me the opportunity to hone my tourist-radar, but to be honest most of the tourists are far too obvious.

I have been approached on the street and asked questions in English, and depending on my disposition I either respond in basic French or let loose in my mother tongue. This often draws a surprised “oh, you speak English!” from my inquisitor, which makes me wonder why on earth they began in English, without even a simple “bonjour” or “parlez-vous anglais?” … I have not yet become a rude Parisian (a particular strain of the French I am yet to encounter), but I can empathise.

Much like the cold, dark winter that brought snowfall to a particularly unsuitable city, and which inspired many Parisians to tell me that such a winter was not normal, my first full summer in Paris has been colder, cloudier and rainier than I had hoped for, or had even expected. I am repeatedly told that such a summer is not normal, and start to wonder…

But when the sun shines and I’m not at work, Paris is a certainly a lovely city to explore. Especially by bicycle. Some weekends I cycle off in a random direction with a book, a baguette and a beer, getting myself thoroughly lost before finding a sunny spot to sit and read. And there’s always something to see or do (although it often helps to be fluent in French).

One of the spectacles I haven’t taken advantage of yet is the “Paris Plages” (Paris beach), where thousands of tonnes of sand have been shipped in by barge and dumped on the (closed-for-summer) expressway that runs along the bank of the Seine. Call me old fashioned, but I certainly prefer a beach where you can enter the water (illegal and highly inadvisable for health and safety reasons) and catch some waves.

I also took the opportunity to watch the final stage of the Tour de France from a shady street corner. As you can see, I wasn’t the only person to come up with the idea. In particular, devout fans of Norwegian cyclist Thor Hushovd lent a festive atmosphere to the proceedings, when lesser fans might have become sedate as support vehicle after support vehicle passed, with nary a bicycle in view. Thankfully, we were finally treated to eight laps of hectic, densely packed cyclical madness.

Even the support vehicles got in on the act, tooting their horns and waving (especially the medical staff lounging in the back of an open-top sports car). One of the motorcycles took the corner too fast, tires slipping and squealing, before regaining control and retaining both occupants. My inexpert eye was able to spot Cadel Evans in the yellow jersey, although there was another rider who wore a red/yellow affair, which confused things somewhat. And, through sheer blind luck, you can even spot Cadel Evans in the (above?) photo, wedged between the idle policemen and the proud Norwegian flag.

And my plans for next weekend? I fly to Knoxville, Tennessee for a three-day workshop on modelling renal hemodynamics. But I’d rather skip the hours of dealing with aeroplanes, airports and the good ol’ folks of the TSA, and stay here in Paris.

À bientôt