Yesterday, Benoît left me a bunny, which is how the French say, “I was stood up!*” Benoît is was my bricoleur. He has a day job in construction and would come to my home evenings or weekends to work as a handyman. Yesterday he was meant to be hanging curtain rods, fixing closet doors and removing a radiator. Instead, he stayed home nursing a hangover. I had gotten rid of the girls, borrowed tools and risen early on a Sunday morning. I was vex-éd.
Mr French was not exactly thrilled either. It had been a gorgeous Saturday and Sunday looked even better. Normally we’d already be on our way to the beach for an early morning run. Or we’d have spent the night in the countryside. Of course, when he mentioned this I was only more vex-éd.
AND I shouldn’t have been home at all! I should have been running the 6km La Parisienne race. I’d been training all summer and was keen to beat my personal best record, but my fall at Fashion Night Out had put the kebosh on all that. So I was even more vex-éd than called for.
The thought of spending an absolutely gorgeous Sunday afternoon in Paris with a severely annoyed woman did not seem like a good plan. Mr French jumped into action. “Get out the isotherm bags, we’re going on a pique nique.”
Yes, I know, in Paris, you imagine charming woven market baskets, which is exactly what I have. But Mr French is very into temperature control, so we use those practical, horribly un-romantic isotherms when he is in charge. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen often.
I complied then scurried off to get dressed while he took care of the feast. 20 minutes later the car was packed, the top was down and we were off for Versailles. Not the chateau, but the town, with its fabulous Sunday market where I have a rather serious crush on the mushroom lady. But we wouldn’t be visiting her today. We already had our picnic. So I was really confused when he parked and headed her way.
Just as we hit the market, he made a sharp right turn into what looked like a private courtyard et voilà…. there was a tiny collection of vintage shops selling canes, postcards, French fashion and even some serious antiques from timber framed shops built in the 1670’s. We spent an hour combing through the treasures as I fantasized about buying a queen carrier. That’s not the official name, but several shops had those large boxes, with a seat for one inside, windows around the top 1/3 and large metal clasps for pole bearers to use for transporting nobility across the palace grounds. They’re called sedan chairs (thanks Google) and I could just see the lines of clamouring tourists scrambling to pay a small fortune to ride one through the Tuilleries gardens. And then I thought of Benoît and employees who don’t show, and my stomach started growling and I was ready to head to the chateau grounds even if Mr French was not willing to carry me there.
*Il m’a posé un lapin (espèce de con may be added for some local color)
