So here we are at the last of my Paris posts. There have been more than I expected to write from a 4 day trip but the juice of the moments – the ones when you breathe a sigh and say to yourself ‘I can’t believe I am here: life is good’ – were far too good (I thought) to squeeze into less.
So how do I sum up such a fantastic trip? A break from the ordinary? Or immersion therapy of sorts?
The word pastiche emerged in French language in the late 19th century as a derivation from the Italian ‘pasticchio’. The Oxford Dictionary defines a pastiche as an artistic work in a style that imitates that of another artist, work or period. Paris is certainly that. But rather than being the imitator, the modern city holds quite a candle to its revolutionary past, the blood of hundreds of generations and thousands of iterations of itself embedded in its cobbled lanes and wide boulevards. So this post is my candle to the City of Lights. My Paris pastiche…
Being new to the whole travelling lark, we were fascinated by the public loos in the streets of Paris. There was some consternation about what would happen if you got stuck in there. Mum was relieved in more ways than one when the door opened…
This was a rare moment of still and quiet contemplation for Mum near the Jardin des Tuileries…
…whilst last Sunday I found mine – with a good book in hand – on the way from Raspail to the Jardin du Luxembourg.
And finally there was Mum’s first espresso on a cafe terrace overlooking the Place de la Concorde (she succumbed my 
…whilst not too far away, on a grey afternoon more than 12 years later, I found heavenly, chocolate-y solace – and a coffee – at 
Such great, great memories!
Gidday from the UK 