We're here

Sitting at the table in our flat on the 7th floor in the 7th arrondissement,

• having flown in to Charles de Gaulle at 6.30am to 7ºC and fog, and got through immigration, baggage collection and (non-existent) customs with a few confident bonjours and mercis;

• having caught the Air France bus into Paris at peak hour, and realising that the Boulevard Peripherique is an eight-lane version of Parramatta Road, only uglier (‘C’est impossible!’ I hear you cry);

• having caught a cab and experienced the thrills and danger of the traffic at the Arc de Triomphe, and remembering that the French invented Grand Prix motor racing;

• having found our flat and realised that the lift will take both of us, or the luggage, or one and some luggage, but not everything, and that we can see the spire of Les Invalides from our kitchen window;

• having strolled over to the Champs du Mars to see the Tour Eiffel and take a few photos, and having contemplated which boulangerie we might grab a coffee at later;

• having bought a few days’ supplies from the G20 supermarché down the road, and having lunched on inexpensive camembert purchased at said supermarché;

• having discovered that French people are not rude and arrogant but friendly and welcoming, even the checkout fille at the G20;

we contemplate, what shall we do next? What is the best way to spend the afternoon that stretches before us, that is a natural consequence of what we have so far experienced, and will prepare the way for new adventures to come?

A shower, and a sleep. That flight is LONG.