Lockdown in Paris : Day Fifty-Two
9h : Woke up exhausted because of a night full of long dreams that were basically quite boring but with the occasional highlight to keep me from losing all interest in my own subconscious. At one point I was looking out from a small cove at the back of “my sister’s house” over a dramatic, craggy night-time seascape (brightly lit by a full moon, obviously). There were about five pirate ships locked in a battle and one of them was in flames and all I could think to say to my sister was, “Imagine having your friends round and a barbecue out here that’d be amazing!” Stand aside Freud. Fact is at this point you could present me with a pirate battle to the death and all I would care about is when I get to eat a burger with other humans.
9h30 : Best thing I’ve bought so far this week? Yop. I love Raspberry Yop so much I wish it came out of the tap instead of water. I buy it about once a year because I genuinely think it could become a problem for me.
12h12 : Well that was an adventure. If an ‘adventure’ is going on a tour of all the local post offices and failing to acquire anything, which I really don’t think it is. When I said yesterday that the delivery man had broken rank by telling me the post office at which I could find my parcel, I didn’t realise that the post office in question is the only one in a 1km radius that has been shuttered seven days a week since lockdown began. I tip my hat to you, delivery man - what ho, worthy opponent. Where have you hidden my parcel, Sir? The hunt is on. This is the Goonies, except Spielberg has been replaced by the most crushing bore and the pirate ship and all the treasure contained therein is a brown cardboard box. Hold onto your pants, this is going to be a rollicking ride.
I went to my local post office which - as you, me and the delivery man all know - is the last place a parcel meant for me would ever end up. The man outside the massive front doors (nobody goes inside anymore, the parcels come to you - or they would, if they were ever there) scans my faulty little treasure map / yellow delivery slip and shakes his head, as I knew he would. If he thinks this is enough to deter me he’s got another think coming.
I naively think he’s about to declare another case of “Bonne Nouvelle!” (Another post office we have adventured to before.) He doesn’t say Bonne Nouvelle though, he says Magenta. Curveball. I say - isn’t Magenta closed though? (It is, I’ve just walked past it, but I’m British and therefore can’t directly contradict another human without bursting into flames). No, he says, the Magenta post office isn’t actually the one on Boulevard Magenta, it’s the one next to Gare de l’Est. OF COURSE IT IS. Why would you name a post office on Magenta Boulevard “Magenta”, when you could name another post office on a completely different street Magenta and thus confound people until the end of time? Oh La Poste, you nutter. You wild card. You twit.
The man directs me to the Magenta Post office and I realise it’s one I never even knew existed - mostly because it’s so damn far from my flat. You might reasonably ask, why would anyone bypass three other post offices to drop off a parcel so far from its destination? I would be disappointed if, after all we’ve been through together, you anticipate a sensible answer to that question. It is not for us to second-guess La Poste - La Poste is the cunning villain of this piece, he has his own logic - can you reason with a madman? No, we must instead meet his dastardly plots with valour and a stout heart. We will not tire as we traipse from Poste to Poste, we shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France. We shall fight on the beaches, on the rues and and the boulevards. We shall never surrender. I hitched my rucksack, and off I marched to Magenta.
At Magenta I stormed into the post office, waving my yellow flag. Another nameless henchman took it, and scanned it with her phone. Then she gave it back to me, which is a very bad sign. “You have to come back at two o’clock,”’ she said. I have to admit, I just didn’t see that right hook coming. I should’ve. Fool! I couldn’t help but feel from her smug expression that she knew full well I live five floors up twelve kilometers away from this godforsaken post office not-on-Magenta. Then she went in for the kill. “And if not, it will be Saturday morning.” I watched in horror as my reserve strategy of returning tomorrow was blown out of the water. Kablam. Fire in the hold. Whatever that parcel is, she knew I wanted it. I wanted it enough to leave my flat at 11am and take on La Mighty Poste and walk further than I’ve walked in seven weeks. She knows it - I can see it in her eyes, she knows I’ll be back today after 2pm. Damn you La Poste. Damn you to hell. You’ve won this battle, but I will win the war. But only if the parcel is actually the dungarees. If it’s anything else so help me god heads will roll.
Bought a bottle of gin on the way back because Paris Pirates Drink Gin. In so doing, I snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, me hearties.
13h15 : One of the many new skills I have acquired during lockdown (though this is the only one I can bring to mind just now) is the ability to put precisely the right amount of water into a pan for a hot drink. Down to the drop. Regardless which of my two mugs I am using. Mad skills people, mad skills. I don’t have a kettle (where would I put such a frivolous appliance? Especially now I’ve got two fridges?) so I boil water in a pan for my tea, like I’m camping. God I hate camping. Anyway - I now have a frankly preternatural ability to gauge the volume of water needed for a brew every time. So lockdown hasn’t been a total waste has it.
14h23 : Right guys this is it - La Poste Counterattack is a go.
14h25 : I cannot believe it - I have a blister. My feet have turned to playdough. I’m falling apart. My body is no longer outdoor-proof.
16h13 : I have them!! I have them!! My life now has a pair of dungarees in it and everything looks better. The full moon has well and truly left the building. I bought a bottle of wine on the way back just to celebrate, because victorious Paris Pirates Drink Wine. I am in love with my dungarees. I am delirious with love for them, which is probably why I may have just bought another pair. THEY WERE 40% OFF WHAT COULD I DO. Let’s look at this rationally. How long will it be before I spill red wine all over this pair? Not long I reckon, at the rate I’m going. In order to relax into the perfection of my dungarees I just had to have a spare pair in the cupboard. This is perfectly logical. Before ordering however I did text my sister, because sisters yell things into their phones like the message I got back, which was: YOU WOULDN’T BE MAD TO, YOU’D BE MAD NOT TO, and that’s exactly what sisters are for. I hit “Place Order” and felt not a flicker of guilt. At some point this pair I’m in will need washing, and then what will I wear? I only want to wear dungarees for the rest of my days. So.
In other exciting news, due to the ridiculous appearance of a blister on my right foot, which has apparently become a bit precious about footwear, I rode a bike for the first time in 7 weeks. In keeping with tradition, I had not forgotten how. My body, however, has forgotten how to exert itself, and soon threatened revolt. I had had a hunch this was going to happen, which is why I opted for one of the electric bikes, but naturally I chose the one whose electric ability had packed up. After the 0% alcohol “wine” debacle of last week, it was inevitable that in a full bike rack of available options I would choose the one that did not work.
I didn’t mention before that La Poste Magenta, our “X Marks the Spot” if you will, is uphill. Now uphill is a relative term in Paris - the actual “hills” can be counted on one hand - and therefore any claim to be going “uphill” should be taken with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless, after weeks of taking no more than four steps together, any incline is a Himalayan foothill in my book. By the top of the first “uphill” section I was on the verge of a major cardiac event, and almost had to stop just to concentrate on not keeling over. I freewheeled down the next slight downhill section and focused on the final big effort (most people would not even be able to discern a change in altitude, but my thighs screamed blue murder at every hundredth of a degree). I also found myself concentrating very hard on not getting hit by cars or buses which I suddenly felt could come from anywhere at any time, so unfamiliar was I with the whole concept of traffic. I made it though. I made it, and when the man came out with a soft package I had to stop myself rugby tackling him for it and then waving it aloft yelling YES!! YESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!
19h11 : Spent the afternoon doing video calls and am about to pour a gin and tonic, which will be cold and have ice in it, which seems to me like a little miracle all its own. What a difference a week makes. After that I have an apéro call with The Bakers - Romain-the-Baker and Frances-the-Baker and if I’m lucky Mathilde-the-Chef, who all work together at their boulangerie up in the 18th, Boulangerie du Square. I cannot waiiittttttttttttt which is why I am getting a head start and having a ginto (if you want to refer to your gin and tonic like a Frenchie, you pronounce it gjintoe). Then I’ll probably make the remainder of the chicken satay later, half-cut, as I did last night. Nothing elevates a nice recipe to absolutely-bloody-delicious like a few drinks.
Bonne soirée tout le monde! Have a nice evening everyone! DUNGAREES FOR THE WIN!!!
