Read Online Better Than Easy by Nick Alexander - Free Book Online Page B

reactions. Poor Tom, bless him – the shadow that crosses his face, the twitch downwards of the mouth, the swallowing of the forty percent of his excitement that has turned out to be unnecessary, lasts mere milliseconds. He covers it all up with every ounce of willpower he can muster. But I see it all the same, and I kick myself for not thinking of bloody Amsterdam myself.
    Then, mind over body, he slides back into the broadest of grins and hikes his bag onto his shoulder. “Paris!” he exclaims. “Paris is great! Brilliant!”
    *
    After an uneventful orange-themed low-cost flight, and two rubber-themed high-cost sandwiches, acouple of efficient French trains and a five minute walk, we find ourselves outside the grotty Hotel des Trois Fréres, freed of our bags – left in the lobby.
    And we spend a perfect Paris day. It’s
the
perfect Paris day. It’s the same day that millions of other couples have done before us. It’s the same day
Emilie Poulain
did onscreen, seemingly over and over again.
    Paris is eternal, the adverts say, and of course they’re right – Paris is a stunningly preserved, beautifully maintained jewel of a city. But as we wander along the Seine, our breath rising before us on this icy but thankfully sunny day; as we peer up at the Eiffel tower or drink cups of coffee served by overbearing white-shirted waiters and wander past the boating pond in the Tuileries, it does strike me that the eternal nature of Paris is a double-edged sword. The city may be better preserved than any other European city, the architecture may be a historical diamond in Europe’s crown; but if you have ever been to Paris before – no matter when in the last sixty years – then the sense of déjà vu in every visual, culinary or cultural experience is simply overpowering. And as we wander along, enjoying it immensely, I can’t help but think that, like any permanent exhibition, Paris is a city you only ever need to visit once. I’m hoping Tom doesn’t feel the same way.
    We have fun of course, in the understated gay district – le Marais – eyeing up the cute French boys. And boy
are
they cute. We peer in at the outrageously priced clothes shops, and wander, wide-eyed around Rob Leatherstore – more S&M museum than clothing shop – before treating ourselves, giggling like adolescents, to a set of rubber balls on a string. They’re red, washable and hygienic and range from gob-stopper size to terrifying-tennis-ball. By the time we spill onto the street, good humouredly arguing about who gets to inflict the balls on whom, we both have half-baked stiffies.
    The cheap room, when we finally get to check-in, is architecturally gorgeous with big bay windows and three-meter ceilings. But of course this is Paris, a city where you truly get what you pay for – or a little less – and so in every other way it is abysmal: we haven’t paid enough for anything else.
    The carpet is threadbare, the paint is peeling, the shower is down the hall, and the bed sags in the middle. But neither of us cares in the slightest; in fact, if anything, it all just adds to the fun of the trip.
“Thank God Tom isn’t a chic-queen,”
I think, as we dump our stuff and run, laughing, back down the stairs ready for our night on the town.
    The rap is that it’s impossible to get a good, reasonably priced meal in Paris, so we’re thoroughly chuffed when Tom’s touristy first pick turns out to be a good one. The Café Beaubourg with its soaring columns and trendy décor, with its windows overlooking the steel plumbing of the Pompidou Centre, looks, to my eye, far too chic to be promising; but the second we step inside and are greeted by a grinning waitress (yes,
grinning
, in
Paris
), I think we might have struck lucky after all.
    The food – we both choose grilled jumbo prawns – is speedy and excellent, and the Croatian waitress