It’s raining in Paris. Great umbrellasful of rain, refusing to soak through surfaces as though they were newly waxed, and pouring off the tarmac into the tramlines by the Cité Universitaire, thence down those metal channels as though they were the city’s storm drains. Porte d’Orléans is kept dry by its hill; it doesn’t look good for Porte d’Italie.
As it was warm in the UK when I left, I gambled on good weather by packing no rain clothes; when it was warmer still in Paris I felt justified in the gamble. Today I’ve admitted defeat: although my posho bamboo top has dried out, my jeans are still claggy and cold. At least I’ve still got my health. But for how long? My hotel room-mate’s a late-to-bed, early-to-rise, and if I weren’t coming home tomorrow I’d worry it would be the death of me.
Still, Paris has been beautiful, what I’ve seen of it. We’re cloistered—both hotel and venue—in the residential suburbs of the 14e arrondissement. They’re not so much sleepy as merely quiet, with few shops and restaurants. We did manage to find a rather nice vegetarian lasagne at the practically no catering for tourists as a separate breed. That suits me fine, but it does mean that I haven’t sent any postcards yet. If you’re reading this, consider it your postcard, OK?