by Lucy Hopkins

The whole front wall of Galeries Lafayette has been glistening since November, and this year, the pink heart ‘underhanging’ garlands outside Le Printenps (both Metro: Havre-Caumartin lines 3 & 9) are pretty pretty.  The mayhem of Christmas shopping in the city is at an all-time high, and please do not even attempt to meander through them on a Saturday evening, or any evening for that matter, unless you require less oxygen in your lungs than the average human being to continue your respiration process.  Instead, potter down to Les Halles on line 4, emerge from the claustrophobic ‘Forums’ and through the large green iron arches to the gardens, where a seasonal ‘Christmas fair’ awaits.  Here you find un-cramped booths full of jewellery, gorgeous Japonese handbags, warm woollies, crafts and of course numerous crèpe stalls. 

Fully armed with my oozing, steaming Nutella crèpe (which I always ask the Monsieur to fold after the addition of the chocolate, as opposed to when it has been folded in half, having learned the hard way from walking home with one dripping all over me like a chocolate stain-making funnel), I was ready for a spot of festive, outdoor ‘patinage’.  For this, L’Hôtel de Ville is the place to go, more Christmassy than Christmas shopping, Christmas festivals and Father Christmases in cafés.  I had tried to skate there at the weekend but had been disappointingly turned away due to anything but Torville-conducive rain.  Today was a perfect, sunny weekday and queue-free, so my prospects looked good.  I even have my own ice-skates proudly clasped in my Nutella-free hand, which means unlimited free skating for me!   

The impressive façade of l’Hôtel de Ville looms ahead by the metro.  If the rink had been glass, I would have been able to see a clearer reflection of the statues and slate turrets.  What a position.  One just has to pretend that l’Hôtel de Ville is one’s permanent dwelling and that one’s garden lake has frozen over.  Only about twelve people skating too and yay, she just fell over – that should make me feel less self-conscious…  There was a bit of an audience, but then again, if they could skate, surely they would be on the ice…  The rink’s size was not bad; not quite Edinburgh’s Murrayfield and New Zealanders would have frowned, but large enough to get up some speed. 

I pictured myself gracefully skating backwards, an elegant pashmina-ed goddess on ice; well I could skate six years ago, and it is just like riding a bike, n’est-ce pas?  Waltzing into the temporary log cabin, waving my skates at the receptionist, I plonked down on one of the empty pine benches and began the boot fumbling procedure ignorant of the fact that no amount of eyelash fluttering would persuade the establishment to mind my trainers for me while I skated.  Help.  Everyone else was smugly slipping their shoes in ruc-sacs, a concept had not even occurred to me- someone really should have mentioned that.  Spot the under-researched journalist.  Nothing else for it, I left my shoes in a corner (I needed all the help I could get out there and trainers in one hand may ruin the look) and hobbled out to the ice where I was about to impress all on-lookers and dazzle them with my twists and pikes.  I could not have been more mistaken, and shuffled around looking more like a petrified penguin than stylish swan.  I tried to console myself with the fact that I was not yet used to my boots and that I was having to veer to the barriers on a decreasingly regular basis, but the hand-holding speed-skating couples (the ones that aggravatingly whiz through your legs) were embarrassingly showing me up.

I did not fall and the degree of conspicuousness I felt only made me more determined to return every day (well perhaps at night) to return to my former skill level.  Forty-five minutes later, pink-cheeked and Hôtel de Villed out, I hopped off the rink only to discover, to my horror, that the carrier containing my land shoes had vanished.  The odious skate hire Monsieur knew nothing about it and shrugged with a definite ‘told you so’ air that nearly made me boil over.  Visions of wobbling home and negotiating the line 11 on blades were ones I was not willing to entertain.  I gave the receptionist the tenth degree, then slumped miserably on a bench and scoured as much of Paris I could see in search of my stolen carrier…

My run of bad luck suddenly subsided.  It must have been part of the miracle of a Parisian festive season, but, an hour later found me sitting pretty in the nearest Prada store on the Rue du Rivoli, thanking dear Stephane and Franck profusely.  On my feet were the most heavenly new suede and leather Prada shoes I have ever seen and at my feet, my newfound gay friends were affectionately patting each other on the back and giggling over whether my new shoes were available in a male style.  To fill you in on my Christmas miracle, fellow ice-skaters Stephane and Franck (probably a couple of the hand-holding speedies I had so detested) had noticed the tears welling in my eyes in the skate hut and insisted they come to my rescue, at this season of good-will, as my charming homosexual knights with Prada connections.  What could a shoe-less girl say?!  I did not have a shoe to stand on. 

Despite my half-hearted “Oh I couldn’t possiblies”, the designer-clad darlings escorted me to a taxi and we bonded over shoes and colour-schemes during the short journey, Stephane whispering to me how ‘beau’ Franck was looking that day.  They could not bear the thought of a foreigner thinking badly of their fellow Frenchmen and promised that there really are very few shoe-thieves in the vicinity.  I could not believe what was happening; Stephane told me he would never forgive himself if he did not call upon his Prada contacts to help me in this hour of need, and was sure that he would like someone to kit him out suitably should he ever find himself stranded in London bereft of Gucci loafers.  I felt like Julia Roberts with shop assistants cooing and all of us having a ball.  The Prada boys refused to let me give them any money and simply made me promise to shop with them again one day.  L’Hôtel de Ville is a lucky place; my ice-skates are now snugly enjoying themselves in a Prada carrier bag…   Have I ever criticised the French in my life?