What A Day
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod I just saw John Galliano, marching through the Jardin des Tuileries with his trainer, angry and bitchy on his mobile which he slammed down and then resumed his power walking and exercises. Salmon hoodie with grey tracksuit pants. Hair in dishevelled bun. Heavy English accent. (five minutes later) And they just walked past me! He's short.
Oh yes, I was very excited. John Galliano! I think it could only be surpassed in fashion terms if I saw Herr Karl. Id never been to the Tuileries before (I love the Jardin de Luxembourg) but decided to have a look this morning, and there you go. I had a walk around Rue Cambon for Chanel and the gorgeous surrounding shops, then had a chocolat chaud a l'ancienne at Angelina. Oh. My. It was more than as good as everyone says. A small pot of thick dark hot chocolate arrives with a small bowl of delicious whipped cream, and a cup. You add the cream as you wish, and youre left with about three cups of the most creamy, thick, heavenly hot chocolate you could ever imagine. Seriously, this is not just a gimmick to cross off the list. It was pure delight. The intense heat outside did not matter, I could not imagine trying anything else.
Then on to Collette, and I liked it much more than three years ago. The fashion upstairs was pretty spectacular and I bought a few items on the ground floor. I fleeted around town for the next couple of hours, finally coming back and having a wonderful menu du jour for a ridiculous 10.50E. Chicken liver with salad (you know I love my liver!), salmon roasted with olive oil, and a cheese plate. I could barely move afterwards, but dragged myself to the 18th where I wanted to go to the Musee Gustave Moreau but had no idea it was that late, and actually it wasnt there at all, so came back into the centre.
I felt it a good time to go to Rue de Verneuil, where Gainsbourg lived. I left singing Histoire de Melody Nelson, inspired by all the graffiti. The black doors were a humble link to his life, and it was quite potent.
And yesterday, my little pilgrimage was to Jim Morrison's last residence, since 2 July was the day he died (in 1971), and since our birthdays are the same, yesterday I was the same age as when he died (27). I can only imagine his last months in Paris were some of his best. Summer in Paris can be pretty nice...