Ali has a favourite restaurant in Paris. He has painted it in bright colours. In his accounts it is a golden glory of a place, full of ancient fixtures, serving fantastic food but never over priced. He’s shown me pictures. His aspect shifts when he speaks of it. This place gives him pleasure. He wants to share it with us.
Because this is Ali. He is in love with life. It makes him a joy to work alongside. He’s a force for good in the world.
We were going to go this evening. The dream was that we would finish early tonight, maybe freshen up, go into Paris, dine like kings, get back in time for an early bed.
Ali didn’t get the pick list for tomorrow until half five.
My day had been largely about DIY stores. The French are so totally not in a hurry that it’s a marvel they aren’t going backwards. I had a collection order from Brico and went to get it. “Come back in a bit,” they told me. “It isn’t ready.” I went in, and ended up with a load of messages regarding what was needed short notice. I did my best to find all the things and load them up. There was some fuckery with screws where I had just bought some that would be fine when they decided they wanted a different configuration and I had to go back round and get credit etc etc. Surely you needn’t be too picky. Then I went back to the collection boys and they were trying to load a huge pallet that was too tall into a transit van by splitting it with the forklift. They wouldn’t give me the stuff. I went away again to look for mesh. Some guy wanted 100 metres of 2 metre high black wire mesh, but then he didn’t. Only sand by the ton. I still think I should have just got a ton of it and a shovel, put it by the warehouse, anyone asks for sand we have got it. Ended up driving across town to find smaller bags.
Even the dodgy van guys at the brico don’t work on Sunday. We do.
Evening had just 4 Brits in a huge warehouse. Grace and Greg, Ali and Al. Late order. Had to be arranged. So we all mucked in and it all happened and it was half nine before we knew it and so much for Ali’s restaurant.
“This was the last chance we had, in theory,” he tells me. Perhaps. Perhaps we will make a chance.
Ali is a brilliant human. Lovely to work with. I am lucky to be working so closely with him. We both just get on with it. I really hope though that one day the stars align and we get to go to his favourite restaurant.
I am exhausted again. I somehow remembered lunch today and grabbed a takeaway chicken burger while I was carrying a box of stationery. It’s hard to find parking in Paris. In London I know how to run a van without getting smashed up for fines. In Paris I haven’t got the local knowledge so my phone is filling up with pins: “Sunday parking near stationery shop” etc. It takes time to find them though. I’ll make sense of it. Just a week and it feels clearer, and someone in a shop asked me if I was from the South of France, because I had an accent. Which is a win. Especially considering I’m usually “HiLo I wAnt thing YoU find on BEacHes yellOw sTuF MmaKe Casstles yes?” “Sand?” “Yaress I mAke purchase fOr bagginGs to do with SaaaNd.”
Anyway. I make sleep myself. Maid Night.
AlBarclay 