Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 40

And so it was two full days in Paris, in a small hotel near Guy Moquet. This was real Paris, not a swanky hotel by the river or a tourist convenience seemingly built out of Lego, but a proper family-run place with character, quirks, inconveniences and incredibly thin towels.

Breakfast was a jug of coffee, some “toast”, a croissant, jam and butter, plus yoghurt, orange juice and fruit. The first morning we hopped on the metro at Guy Moquet to Les Champs Elysées Clémenceau, looking back up the long avenue to L’Arc de Triomphe and then walking down to the Concorde and its Egyptian needle. The weather was so different to that of the ride, the vicious front having blown through, leaving deep blue skies and delightful warmth. To take matters full circle, I was actually wearing the sundress I mentioned nearly a year ago, the one I had been too timid to go out in.

So, picture the scene, dear and patient reader. The camera slowly zooms in on a young(ish) couple strolling hand in hand through the Tuileries. He is wearing an open-necked pale blue shirt and a pair of well-worn and comfortable-looking jeans over a pair of tan deck shoes. He is lean and very fit-looking, with short dark-brown hair, a nose perhaps a little too big under warm brown eyes and a dancer’s grace to his walk.

She is an inch or so taller in her flat sandals, with dark-red-varnished toenails. Long legs lead up to a dark-blue mid-thigh sun dress that has spaghetti shoulder straps that show the pale blue of those of her bra. She has long auburn hair, held by a scrunchy fitted at the base of her neck so her head is in a cloud of russet. Small freckles dot her bare arms and the slope of her breasts, and a small, skewed nose. Eyes flash green among more freckles, as they flit regularly to the side to look at her companion.

They are both constantly beaming quick smiles at each other, and his hands are in a flow of motion as they walk, and pause, and peer at the sights. He holds her hand, or slips an arm around her waist, moves away to avoid an obstacle and then pauses, hand held ready for hers to take again. They stop, and his hand moves to her shoulder, or he trails a thumb gently down her spine, and she shivers, taking his wrist as he finishes by squeezing a buttock.

They laugh, quietly but constantly, and the distance between them is never more than a foot. It is hard to tell whether she is more fascinated by the tourist delights around them, or by her man’s face. When they stand still again, she slips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and leans her head against his. Everything says “Paris is for lovers”

That was us. I knew I was being a hypocrite by moving his hand off my bum while I was fondling his, but that’s just tough. I also know that all of the above is just one long cliché, but once more, I don’t care. That morning was pure delight for me, and I do believe Geoff felt exactly as I dd. I was in a beautiful place (apart from all the trinket sellers) with a beautiful man, and I was in love.

Love is a funny thing. I never thought it would pick on me, and as a “boy” I had no real idea what form it might take. I mean, I knew I was a girl, but there was neither face nor gender in any of the vague dreams of my teenage years, just a feeling of being held and comforted, warmed and made safe. I had no inkling of how I might find it, as especially in my early teens boys were mainly the source of beatings and girls were subjects of my deep, deep envy.

That was my surprise, initially. Whether it was a by product of the stress of really coming out for the first time that festival weekend, my soul seemed to know exactly what completed it. I looked at Bill, and I lusted. I looked at Geoff, and my knees failed me. More than that, I was left with no doubts at all as to who and what I was. Years of hiding will always sow doubt in the deepest conviction; was I deluded, an attention-seeker, mentally ill? Geoff wiped all that away with one smile and a dance.

We stopped for a while by the Louvre pyramid, but the thought of fighting hordes of foreign tourists (the French were all away on the South Coast) for a glimpse of some Italian woman’s picture didn’t appeal. Instead, we crossed the Pont Neuf past the miniature Statue of Liberty to the ÈŠle de la Cité and, of course, Notre Dame, where Geoff ran around shouting “Esmerelda!” and “Molten metal!”

Men. Train spotters for film quotes, like students and Monty Python.

We took a light lunch from a sandwicherie and started a stroll back along past the Hotel de Ville to the Chá¢telet metro for a ride up to Chá¢teau Rouge and the walk across to the onion domes of the Sacré Coeur. In one loop we had ticked off a lot of the more gorgeous sights of the city, but I still wanted to see one in particular.

“Later…..I want to catch it around sunset. Find a decent meal, arrive at a suitable time, watch the sun go down, have a snog…and a beer or two”

You old romantic you.

Dinner was nice, though, in one of those side-street bistros where the waiters have ankle-length aprons, and even the bottle of cheap cider ordered at the next table came in an ice bucket covered by a serviette. We pigged out, with a salade de gésiers and soupe á  la Sá¨toise followed by l’assiette de fruits de mer. By the time we had dismembered and devoured the heap of crustaceans and molluscs, I was ready for a light dessert. We skipped the cheese plate, and I asked for a tiramisu.

 « Mam’selle, le tiramisu n’est pas de la maison, c’est industriel. Peut-áªtre notre mousse au chocolat…  » *

And so it was, and it was very nice indeed. We finished our wine, had a couple of espressos, and headed out for our destination.

There is a series of lifts, at a variety of angles, and there is a bar with surprisingly reasonable prices, and eventually a railed platform around a towering antenna at 896 feet above the city. The sun was just setting, an orange glow to the West, and the various illuminations were coming out. I had a small cardigan with me against the chill, but Geoff was warm and I was happy. Of course, as he had suggested, there was more than a little snogging, but each time I came back to the world I could see several other couples doing just what we were. Holding each other, pointing out the best bits of the view, cuddling and kissing.

We were late back to the hotel, and very late getting to sleep.

That was the pattern for the following day as well. Strolling, grazing at food stands (“Six penn’orth of snails, mistah, an’ none of your slugs neither”) and just being together. Each morning I had a rose on my breakfast plate, and I have to ask, will you laugh if I admit I pressed them in a guide book and kept them as truly precious souvenirs?

There was a piquancy to the last morning, for while I knew our little break was over, I would still be waking up net to my man for the foreseeable future, and that similar trips awaited us. As we headed out to Charles de Gaulle airport for our return home, I was in a warm fuzz of happiness. The world was, for once, fluffy, and my nightmares were being steadily laid to rest. Geoff’s own horrors had abated, and I really felt that Tony’s spirit had found release. He had haunted Geoff, and his family, for so long that it seemed in some areas they had lost the power of rational thought. I mean, Geoff seemed to love me, and that was hardly a rational decision

The check-in queue was much shorter than I had dreaded, and we were soon free of our bags and ready to pass through the security process. Boarding cards presented, shuffle forward step by step, pick up the plastic tray and fill it with anything that might annoy the metal-detector, Geoff through the arch and collecting his stuff, I stepped through and the alarm went off. A woman security guard stepped forward.

 «Vous áªtes anglaise, non ?  »*

 « Galloise….  » I sighed

 « Il faut que je vous visite le corps. I ‘ave to search you  »

Shitshitshit.

She was thorough, pushing her fingers up under my breasts to feel the bra, and then running her hands up my thighs. I felt the back of one hand brush my penis where it was tucked back, and she immediately snatched at it.

 «Qu’est-ce que c’est ?  »

 « C’est ma bite.  »

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*Translations :
"Miss, the tramisu is not made here, it's commercial. Perhaps our chocolate mousse?"
“You’re an Englishwoman, no?”
“Welshwoman…”
“ I have to search you”
“What is that?”
“It’s my cock”