You think I’m referring to the fantasy boat trip in Disneyland, Paris? Listen to the music once and thereafter it constantly gnaws at your brain. Instead, I’m simply stunned that in a city of over 2 million people, somebody in Paris managed to track me down simply through my macaron madness. Le monde est petit.
When I was taking photos for the book earlier this year, it became an obsession to find an Eiffel Tower that didn’t have a candle or pencil sharpener in it found on countless tourist stalls. I wanted something classy that resembled those found in chic Parisian Pâtisserie windows, looking like chocolate and that could be adorned with macarons. Hm. It was a tall order.
Then one glorious day in May with the real Eiffel Tower urging me in the distance, I found it on the way to my dentist. Just out of the metro station at Passy (one of the few airy metro stops that are above ground) up rue de l’Alboni, this stunning chocolately-looking Eiffel Tower just beckoned me through the window of a magasin de décoration. Frustratingly the shop was shut for lunch. So one root canal treatment later I returned for the Tour Eiffel, bumping en route into a distinguished gentleman coming out of his apartment, clutching a Pierre Hermé bag as if it was from Hermès. Well, this is the 16th.
The Tower’s owner, Stéphane, was charmant since he was discretely trying to decipher my newly found overflowing French accent with a half-numbed mouth that was apparently having severe problems keeping up with appearances. Neither one of us noticed, however, that my credit card didn’t go through correctly. He was too busy trying to work out what I was saying.
Content with my newly found tower for the book, the dentist must have numbed part of my brain, too. I was totally oblivious that the tower wasn’t paid for – until recently.
A neighbour was taking a stroll in the 16th arrondissement, and of all places she stumbled on the same wee shop. She was drawn in by a doormat adorned with macarons. My friend would just love this, she told Stéphane, she’s writing a book on macarons in English, she’s Scottish….
Et voilà. Easy! Instantly pinned down like a macaronivore Corsican wife hiding out in les banlieues de Paris. One reconciled cheque, scores of Eiffel macaron photos for the book and a few dental appointments later, I have a new friend. Thankfully, he doesn’t see me as a Scot trying to avoid paying, but simply as a mad Scottish lass each time en route to the dentist who has obviously been testing a few macaron ganaches too many! Le monde est vraiment petit.
Oh, and here’s “that tune“, just in case you’ve forgotten it. 🙂