Canal St-Martin

A relaxed Tuesday provided appropriate occasion for a canal visit. We all went our separate ways in the afternoon (in my case to meet with a French singer-songwriter who wanted an English lyricist – a gig I got and enjoyed) but agreed to meet by the Canal St-Martin in eastern Paris later. I even coaxed Kenny out and we met Jen and Val near a laid-back bar-cum-club at Jaurès. Meg and Jo Ann soon followed, and we happy few hung around on the terrace until we were done with watching Jo Ann toss her hair at the Pompiers going past – a worthwhile experiment that does not reassure about the attention on the job of the average Parisian fireman.

Having found some food, we all lounged on some benches by the canal and enjoyed the cool of the evening.

When we all split up, I was going home alone and made the decision to head east to the nearest metro station, Colonel Fabian. This soon transpired to be a silly idea. I had not realised that my route would take me through a residential area of pedestrianised walkways and tower blocks, which felt half deserted and kind of unsafe to begin with (always listen to your instincts, I say – to other people). When I came across a mixed group of people playing table tennis in a courtyard, including several old ladies, I decided it must be all right, and probably was under most circumstances, but I soon left the courtyard far behind and, in the late evening, the shadows of the tower blocks closed in. I found myself in fairly dark, narrow walkways further shaded by trees and peppered with scary-looking youths in hostile standoff. Colonel Fabian itself, a great big traffic-clogged roundabout, seemed fine, but paranoia had set in and I was happy to get moving on the metro.

I don't enjoy my own paranoia, but it really made me notice that, despite some of the hassles, it was the first time I had actually felt at all unsafe in Paris.