The Salopian no. 160 - Summer 2017

16
SCHOOL NEWS
Paris: the city of romance, historic
architecture and designer chic.
Once I step out of the boutique hotel
onto the streets of Montmartre, I pass
(as I do every morning) Le Consulat,
the café where the locals gather every
morning to debate and gesticulate
as only the Parisians can. I see the
garrulous, elderly man with his leathery
skin, glasses perched on the end of his
aquiline nose. His speech is so fast and
so impassioned that I can barely catch
a word. At his feet, waiting patiently
with imploring eyes, is his faithful
canine friend, greedily anticipating
every flake of buttery croissant. The
gathering is completely oblivious
to the bustling tourists, frantically
looking at their maps, trying to find
PARIS
This piece of descriptive writing, by Artemis Cooper (MSH IV),
forms part of her IGCSE coursework portfolio.
the quickest route to the Sacre Coeur.
The animated but conservative figures
communing at the table are in contrast
to the brash behaviour of the babbling
and twittering foreigners, flocking to
the cathedral in an excited gaggle. If
I listen carefully enough, I can hear
the various foreign languages being
spoken, trying to be heard over the
busyness of the city.
From the top of the Eiffel Tower,
these colourful individuals are no
longer distinct. Instead, beneath the
cerulean sky, I see the grandeur of
the Arc de Triomphe and the majesty
of the Champs Elysees. The verdant
Trocadero catches my eye with its
dancing fountains. There is no doubt
that Paris is like a vibrant theatre and I
am sitting in the gods, having viewed
the tragicomedy of life below, with
its clowns and lovers. Soon the black
velvet curtains of the night sky will be
drawn, embroidered with glistening
jewels; the players will return to
their solitary garrets, to remove their
greasepaint with heavy hearts. I gaze
upon the city below me and although I
am an outsider and have no part in this
play, I feel at peace with the apparent
tranquillity of the city.
One of the most appealing elements of
the city is its parochial nature, where
people commune and one feels a sense
of intimacy. It is so far removed from
London or New York where there
are vertiginous office towers and one
feels dislodged in the urban jungle.
No, in Paris there are streets crammed
with bijou boutiques, boulangeries
and patissieres. As I wander down the
cobbled streets there is a captivating
aroma of croissants that has lingered
in the air since brunch. The smell that
has the power to lure you back into
the café to buy just one more, before
they close up for the night. I try and
visualise the soft, rich taste of croissant
as it melts in my mouth. Drawn by
the bewitching chiaroscuro of the Left
Bank, I cradle my small, bitter coffee
like a precious gift in my chilled palms.
On returning to Montmartre and its
lambent café fronts, I see that the
sapphire sky has now turned to a
deep gold and fuchsia. The hectic
street full of tourists has been replaced
by bohemian figures packing up
their easels and paints. One of them,
the one with the beret slanting on
top of his head, is making his last
fastidious touches to his masterpiece,
his eyebrows knitted together in
concentration. The dusky light
coalesces with the neon frontage of
Le Consulat, where the same elderly
man now sits, gazing disconsolately
at his little dog, who languishes in
sleep beside him, his belly full of
indulgent morsels. He no longer talks
in a loquacious manner but has a cigar
drooping from his once active mouth.
He glances up towards me and gives
me a wrinkled, ancient smile, as if
he has recognised me, before easing
himself stiffly to his feet, like a rusty tin
soldier. He shambles off into the Paris
twilight, his part now played and his
last lines uttered.