Romance in Paris

this is a feeling, no one can ever reprise

I’m sorry for my quiet, I’ve been creating and cooking in Provence. Words and food to come on that, but for now, words I wrote in April this year, on the cusp of (Euro) summer. Words on romance and bookstores in Paris. It’s nice to be back here with you.

From a parquet floored, light flooded apartment in Saint Germain you’ll be reminded of romance. From the candle-lit balcony under the night sky, you’ll be reminded of romance. From a wander around the city you’ll be reminded of romance.

The romance you have with yourself. And the romance you have with friends. You’ll be reminded that these two romances will be two of the greatest romances of your life. Two romances that don’t take up enough space in our world — our books, our films, our desires, our minds.

On your first night back in Paris, the two candles will flicker in the wind from the balcony looking out at an apartment façade so Paris-perfect it sparks something in you every time you lay eyes on it. Is it real? Couldn’t be. But it is. The two of you could sit at the table in the kitchen, but perching on the balcony under the inky-blue sky is too tempting as spring shows its first promising signs that yes, there are warmer days ahead. He drags out two chairs and finds a little table from one of the bedrooms.

The small wooden table will hold a board of sauccison from Corsica, a pile of cornichon and baby spring onions. Your glasses will hold Cap Corse Rouge, an ice cube and a slice of orange floating about in the red apertif. You’ll talk, and talk and talk. About Anaïs Nin and writing on sensuality; about writing on grief; about dressing down when you’re expected to dress up; about The English Patient. The sun will go down. The Coriscan red vermouth will turn to Italian white wine, the sliced saucisson to a weighty piece of grilled slice veal. Baby potatoes with garlic in their robes and a green salad will play the sides.

A few days later, there’ll be a Sunday lunch — she’ll bring her favourite rotisserie chicken in Paris, I’ll par-boil potatoes to be roasted and make a vinaigrette. And I’ll buy a big bag of strawberries, with a few cherries tossed in. We’ll sit on the sofa, a board of olives and saucisson in-between us, and talk, and talk and talk. About living in the city versus living in the country; about the joys of creative collaboration; about skincare; about family and friends. Eventually she’ll carve the chicken, I’ll slide the roasted potatoes onto our waiting warmed plates and we’ll drench the chicken in the warm onion sauce. After lunch we’ll lie on the two sofas in the lounge room, her on the yellow and me on the floral beige, looking up at the elaborate molar (ceiling molding). Our Sunday lunch will last until 7pm.

A friend for dinner, a friend for lunch; two meals, two occasions bursting with romance. Occasions that leave you feeling full, and not from the hefty veal T-bone you brought in your suitcase from Corsica, or the chicken she brought across town. Occasions that will stay with you.

Then there’ll be a day of wandering between book shops around the city, just you and the words of Richard Olney, Colette, Elizabeth David, Virginia Woolf, Simone de Beauvoir, Annie Erneaux, Ruth Rogers. You’ll wander slowly, along the Seine, through small streets, through busy streets; main boulevards and back streets; through the Tuileries Garden. Just you, the city and its words. You’ll stop for coffee and sit and watch people from the sidewalk. You’ll stop for a lunch of French onion soup, or maybe a crêpe at the old Saint Germain stand. You’ll wonder as you wander how you could better spend a day with yourself.

Starting on the left bank, there’s the San Francisco Book Co — my favourite second hand English book shop in Paris. Not far from here is English bookshop The Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore, this time new books. Buy a book and wander across the road to the Luxembourg Gardens, or to the little café on the corner — either one will delight. To another second hand book shop, The Abbey Bookshop — I was told once the man who owns it isn’t so kind, so I don’t buy anything here, but it’s a pleasure to scan the shelves. Of course there’s Shakespeare & Company as you make your way towards the Seine, sitting facing an almost-finished Notre Dame. Take a left just before you cross the river and continue to wander until you find the iconic bouquinistes selling cookbooks — one of the oldest remaining booksellers along the river. If you don’t live in Paris you’ll be considering how easy and how insane it is to ship a box of books home. You’ll talk to the man, expecting he might not be so thrilled to chat to yet another visitor to the city, but his love for his books is all that comes through.

Cross the bridge over the Seine into the Tuileries Garden, through the Louvre. Pull up one of those green chairs and sit around the Grand Bassin Rond fountain with your legs stretched out in front of your tired body. Go on, take your shoes off, let the sun penetrate every exposed part of you. A few deep breaths, a few moments to ponder on how you’ve found yourself sitting here, wandering between the book shops of Paris. Then a long moment to start the book you’ve just bought. You’ll sit there for the best part of an hour, and as you get up, you’ll realise you haven’t a clue who was sitting around you because you were in your own world, going about your day oblivious to time, oblivious to anything beyond the book in your hand, the flow of the fountain in front of you, the feeling of the sun on your skin.

From the gardens you’ll turn left onto Rue de Rivoli and perhaps after a five minute stroll, on your right will appear the shopfront of Librairie Galignani — the oldest bookshop on the continent. Astonishing. Wander in, it’ll put a smile on your face and likely another book on your bookshelf. You’ll pick up a book with a chapter titled You are the love of your own life. Perhaps trite, perhaps a little cringe, but captivating nonetheless as you read on, ‘One of the most radical acts under capitalism is to simply love yourself. Especially if the love you have cultivated for yourself is enough to fill you, without the need for romantic love to feel validated.’ The author links buying into the beauty industry and consumption to insecurities and a lack of self worth. Interesting thought.

From Galignani, walk 20 minutes and you’ll be walking through the door of Librairie Gourmande, a bookshop dedicated to cooking, gastronomy and wine making. You’ll need an hour at least in here to flick through a few of the 20,000 books from a wooden chair in the corner of the room. There’ll be books that are one month old, there’ll be books that are 100 years old. Incredible.

You’ll be ready for a seat, some people watching and a glass of vermouth, but on your way to such pleasures, you’ll wander through Ofr. Paris, a space full to the brim with mostly independent publications, many of them published by the bookshop through their own publishing house. Ofr. is also a gallery, studio, publisher and filmmaker — you can feel their urge to create as you walk through the door. If you’re lucky, in the somewhat hidden room out the back, there’ll be an exhibition from a visiting or local artist. I almost always buy a notebook and a few postcards from Ofr. when in Paris.

And the last stop on your day of wandering, a special place. Yvon Lambert — a bookshop, gallery and publisher established in 1967. After closing his gallery in 2000, Yvon Lambert opened this space in Le Marais with a focus on books and publishing, the space now serving as a space for connection between visitors and artists. Potter around the tables and shelves holding all kinds of art books, rare publications and independently published magazines. You’ll feel the commitment to artists, emerging and established, and you’ll feel your time in here nourishing you in ways you didn’t know you needed. I come here every time I’m in Paris, without fail.

Now you can sit, you can order your vermouth, you can break open the pages of that new book, you can let the energy of the city and all that you’ve soaked up sink in. Perhaps also order a bowl of frites. I often do this at Le Progrès — I love a perch here. You’ll get home and have an éclair in bed for dinner, and you’ll spend the next morning sitting on the parquet floor surrounded by books, a breakfast of coffee, croissant, cheese and apricot confiture. Romance.

It’s odd that we keep the notion of romance for sexually-fuelled relationships — I’ve come to realise this year that some of the most romantic moments we’ll live are with friends and with ourselves, and that’s so beautiful, and so beautifully comforting.

I recently read the words of French photographer, François Halard on objects and spaces. He says, “For me, collecting and living with art is like a romance. In a way if you surround yourself with beautiful objects you love, you have no deception. Because they are the things you choose, they belong to you. They never lie. It’s a romance without risk.” Though no relationship comes without risk, I suppose, as after all, any meaningful relationship requires vulnerability in some form, romance in friendship seems to come with very little risk, and I think it’s quite possible that you could build a romance with yourself to have absolutely no risk — perhaps, some would say, a romance that no one could ever reprise.

Well, here’s to romance

the romance you have with yourself, and the romance you have with your friends
two of the greatest romances of life

and of course, there’s the romance you have with your books, and with Paris

more of it all, I say

X.

BOOK SHOPS TO SPEND TIME IN WHEN IN PARIS

San Francisco Book Co

The Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore

The Abbey Bookshop

Shakespeare & Company

Librairie Galignani

Librairie Gourmande

Ofr. Paris

Yvon Lambert

plus the many, many others