I’ve told L that no races are allowed in Paris and that I’m forcing her to see the sights, like I ought to do next time we go to London because we never do the touristy things. If the weather’s good I’ve offered her a jog along the Seine but the weather isn’t looking good.
We walk along the Seine instead and along the Champs-Elysées. What a bloody long road that is. For what seemed the hours the Arc de Triomphe never seemed to get any nearer.
Then finally having got there we head off to the Eiffel Tower, where we go up one of the legs. Up in the lift then down the steps. L tells me I’m on my own going to the top.
It’s been howling a wet and windy gale all day and at the top it’s certainly interesting. I stand there swaying in time to the rocking of the famous monument wondering how it’s managed to stay standing for 125 odd years. The champagne bar at the top wasn't all it promised to be.
We continue our tour of Paris by taking in not one but two Frog Pubs, the Frog XVI and The Frog and Rosbif, with a trip to Notre Dame sandwiched in between. This was the original Frog pub with Frog of course being the ‘affectionate’ term we use to describe the French and a ‘Rosbif’ being their retort.
(Friday 20th February)