[Please note that this post contains whimsy and love]
And back to Paris, and at this time of year. Lucky enough to have been here so often, walking and walking and seeing. The drugging city of my student days, returning whoozy-headed: the winter light and the big skies; municipal ambitions and unambitious plumbing. Luckier than Luke to walk these streets in the present with B., and to be the one not passing by the windows of the interesting bars. To be sharing this city.
There is an Indian restaurant up in the 5th, a little way down from the Panthéon, on Rue St Jacques. It’s long been one of our favourites. Sabraj. On our last visit there we reserved for New Year’s Eve, unthinking that nobody round this way heads out until just before midnight, and so we had the place to ourselves for an age. Calling by this time only to check in, we find it not just closed, but closed down. The de-bossed silvered panelling is all gone from the frontage. We take some pictures and feel sad for whatever has happened.
Press on up to the Rue Mouffetard – tard indeed in our discovering this lovely and unpretty part – and we flounce lazily, happy, along there; silly and drunk returning in the rain after midnight, and throwing our arms around each other.