On a crisp winter evening, about 23 years ago, my husband and I crashed a wedding proposal. We spotted the couple as we were strolling across a bridge over a beautiful, fairy-lit river. The bridge was the Pont au Change, the river was the Seine and, of course, we were in Paris.
There’s a reason Paris is known as the City of Love. Credit: ISTOCK As the young man presented a ring and the young woman wept on cue, I hovered about a metre away. And when she said yes we cheered with joy as though we were old friends.
From memory, I think I hugged her. Then they called their parents in Dublin to give them the news and we suddenly realised we were strangers standing in the middle of their special moment. Les idiots! What can I say? Romance – and Paris – got the better of me.
Fast-forward 23 years and it’s incredible to me that the start line for the 2024 Olympic marathon is only about 500 metres from that spot. What a powerful image it will be to see those extraordinary athletes running through the Paris streets. To catch glimpses of a city I too discovered on foot, only I was less marathon and more macaron.
They will be chasing gold; I was chasing cake. As evidenced by the three extra kilos I brought home with me, and I’m not talking excess baggage. I’d dreamed of going to Paris since I was 13.
Dreamed of the architecture, the laneways, the alfresco cafes. The fashion, the food, the theatre and the art. So much art.
Too much art, according to the tantrum I threw in the L.