On Saturday morning, fortified with buttery croissants, rich coffee and a nights rest free of the distant rumble of the District tube line, we strolled from our hotel near the Arc de Triomphe to meet lovely friends from home, who now live near Bastille.

The November wind whipped around us as we negotiated the crazy assed road system. Along the length of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées we held hands kicking through the river of amber leaves from chestnut and oak trees above. Through the park and past the Lourve, and then down the cobbled path to the riverside, we sat on a park bench in the November sun. We talked about work and travel and the future. Across the bridge and a wander through Notre Dame, marvelling at the stained-glass windows and the flickering candlelight. Back across the river a small band of jazz buskers had commandeered Pont St Louis bridge, the wind filtered out their music almost as soon as we had passed. We avoided the blustery riverside and found ourselves on Rue St Louis en l’ile, packed with little shops: bakeries, fromageries and cafés and a marionette store.

As we peered into the window, my coulrophobia kicked in a little as their frozen smiles grinned back eerily. And then we saw the large silver afro of Geppetto moving around the shop. He looked like an eccentric sort of chap who believed his wooden puppets to be alive. And then along to Bastille where kia ora’ and bonjour’s, hugs and hot coffee were waiting…

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