enormously.”
“Well, that’s the main thing. May I take you out to dinner on your first night in Paris?”
“ Oh, Simon, thank you. I’d love it.”
She looked down again through the small, square windows of the plane. “Oh, look, Simon, we’re over France now. How different the country looks.” She puzzled for a moment. “Why, of course, there are no hedges, just large squares of differently colored land—much bigger than our ‘patchwork.’”
Five minutes later they touched down in the airport at Calais and Angela had her first experience of French people and customs. The thing that seemed strangest of all was the large revolver carried by the French policeman who stood by talking to the customs officer. She found the sight quite alarming.
The formalities were soon over and Simon drove his rented car out of the airport and along the rackety, cobbled streets of Calais. The gaily painted shutters of the houses enchanted her and Simon smiled when every now and then she gave an exclamation of delight. She noticed the many small wayside shrines and wondered at the devoutness of the people. Then, to the delight and amusement of both of them they were forced to fall in behind a town band consisting of a small group of Frenchmen blowing frantically on an assortment of shrill whistles and beating solemnly on small drums, producing a sound that was reminiscent of Hulme Beaman ’ s toytown band.
After the soft contours of the English countryside Angela found most of northern France very stark and barren indeed and the roads mainly straight and uninteresting. Towns and villages were an odd mixture of modern buildings rubbing shoulders with the old.
After a while Simon grew silent, whether to concentrate on his driving, which he did at a fair speed along the straight, monotonous roads or whether it was to think, Angela could not guess. Whatever his thoughts, she did not interrupt them.
They stopped for lunch at a small cafe smelling of new wood, and here Angela had her first taste of French cooking. Tiny as the cafe was the female owner served a soup that would have put many an opulent hotel in England to shame and a mushroom omelette that was a perfect dream.
As the day wore on, the barren country gave way to the more fertile countryside of the Oise and Seine and shortly after that they entered the suburbs of Paris.
Angela found her excitement mounting. Even so, she was totally unprepared for her first glimpse of that wonderful city. The suburbs of Paris seemed so utterly unlike many of those in England, with their industries and tall, gloomy houses. They were traveling along a road bordered by trees and small shops and cafes with gay seats and striped umbrellas set out on the pavements. Suddenly, Angela saw a great stone arch looming ahead, impressive and magnificent.
“Simon,” she cried excitedly. “Surely that isn’t—”
Simon gave a slow smile . “Yes, Angela, that’s it. The Arc de Triomphe!” he said with unmistakable pride.
Angela gazed in front of her feeling almost as though they were making the triumphant entry of a conquer o r. The road seemed to lead straight through the great arch.
“Simon, it looks ... surely we don’t drive through it!”
He laughed. “That would be a novel idea. I’ll try it sometime. No, the road goes around it. You’ll see as we get nearer.”
She felt almost relieved. “Of course,” she laughed. “How silly of me. This is wonderful. I had no idea we were so near the city. It comes on you quite suddenly, almost with a shock, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. The entrance to Paris from this side is quite dramatic, especially to anyone coming for the first time.”
“Impressive too. But I should think it would always have that effect on anyone who loved it—the city, I mean.”
“Yes,” Simon said quietly. “It does.”
He steered the car around the arch and continued on the straight, wide road where the trees became more abundant. “What a lovely road,
“Well, that’s the main thing. May I take you out to dinner on your first night in Paris?”
“ Oh, Simon, thank you. I’d love it.”
She looked down again through the small, square windows of the plane. “Oh, look, Simon, we’re over France now. How different the country looks.” She puzzled for a moment. “Why, of course, there are no hedges, just large squares of differently colored land—much bigger than our ‘patchwork.’”
Five minutes later they touched down in the airport at Calais and Angela had her first experience of French people and customs. The thing that seemed strangest of all was the large revolver carried by the French policeman who stood by talking to the customs officer. She found the sight quite alarming.
The formalities were soon over and Simon drove his rented car out of the airport and along the rackety, cobbled streets of Calais. The gaily painted shutters of the houses enchanted her and Simon smiled when every now and then she gave an exclamation of delight. She noticed the many small wayside shrines and wondered at the devoutness of the people. Then, to the delight and amusement of both of them they were forced to fall in behind a town band consisting of a small group of Frenchmen blowing frantically on an assortment of shrill whistles and beating solemnly on small drums, producing a sound that was reminiscent of Hulme Beaman ’ s toytown band.
After the soft contours of the English countryside Angela found most of northern France very stark and barren indeed and the roads mainly straight and uninteresting. Towns and villages were an odd mixture of modern buildings rubbing shoulders with the old.
After a while Simon grew silent, whether to concentrate on his driving, which he did at a fair speed along the straight, monotonous roads or whether it was to think, Angela could not guess. Whatever his thoughts, she did not interrupt them.
They stopped for lunch at a small cafe smelling of new wood, and here Angela had her first taste of French cooking. Tiny as the cafe was the female owner served a soup that would have put many an opulent hotel in England to shame and a mushroom omelette that was a perfect dream.
As the day wore on, the barren country gave way to the more fertile countryside of the Oise and Seine and shortly after that they entered the suburbs of Paris.
Angela found her excitement mounting. Even so, she was totally unprepared for her first glimpse of that wonderful city. The suburbs of Paris seemed so utterly unlike many of those in England, with their industries and tall, gloomy houses. They were traveling along a road bordered by trees and small shops and cafes with gay seats and striped umbrellas set out on the pavements. Suddenly, Angela saw a great stone arch looming ahead, impressive and magnificent.
“Simon,” she cried excitedly. “Surely that isn’t—”
Simon gave a slow smile . “Yes, Angela, that’s it. The Arc de Triomphe!” he said with unmistakable pride.
Angela gazed in front of her feeling almost as though they were making the triumphant entry of a conquer o r. The road seemed to lead straight through the great arch.
“Simon, it looks ... surely we don’t drive through it!”
He laughed. “That would be a novel idea. I’ll try it sometime. No, the road goes around it. You’ll see as we get nearer.”
She felt almost relieved. “Of course,” she laughed. “How silly of me. This is wonderful. I had no idea we were so near the city. It comes on you quite suddenly, almost with a shock, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. The entrance to Paris from this side is quite dramatic, especially to anyone coming for the first time.”
“Impressive too. But I should think it would always have that effect on anyone who loved it—the city, I mean.”
“Yes,” Simon said quietly. “It does.”
He steered the car around the arch and continued on the straight, wide road where the trees became more abundant. “What a lovely road,
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