It is not often that one gets invited to a marriage ceremony in a city touted as the most romantic in the world.
So, when my friend Eric invited me to his sister-in-law’s wedding in Paris, France, over the weekend, I quickly exclaimed ‘oui!’.
When I casually mentioned it to my good friend Felix, he graciously offered to sponsor my travel. I had no excuse.
I had not been to this lovely city in almost two decades and looked forward to ‘un bon weekend’ (a great weekend).
Parisian delights, memories
In my hedonistic days, when I was in my mid-20s and far less wise than I am today, I would regularly pop over there from London with friends some weekends just to attend parties or go clubbing.
It was a lively city and cheap to travel to. We hardly slept all weekend whilst there, so we did not have much use for hotel rooms.
My very first visit to the city was somewhere in the early 1990s. I dutifully visited and took in the standard tourist sights ‒ Eiffel Tower, Trocadero, L’Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Élysées, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre and several others. Subsequent to this, I focused on other pleasures of the city whenever I visited.
My affection for the city was hugely influenced by the fact that by courtesy of my French undergraduate studies at the University of Ghana, I found it relatively easy to get around and also to practise my language skills.
It was particularly gratifying to be able to show off to my friends by rattling off French like a parrot on steroids, whilst serving as the group interpreter whenever we visited.
I would berate them endlessly for not having taken their French lessons seriously in school. I did, thanks to Mrs Gladys Kwapong, my lovely French tutor back at Opoku Ware School, who instilled in me a love for ‘la langue de l’amour’ (the language of love).
Come Friday afternoon, I was cruising smoothly on the Eurostar train at about 150 km per hour from central London direct to Paris’ Gare du Nord terminal, right in the heart of the French city.
A glass of French Sauvignon red wine lovingly caressed my palate and throat and put me in the right mood for ‘le weekend.’
Given that the coastlines of the UK and France are separated by sea, a long-held idea was to dig a tunnel beneath the seabed connecting the two countries to enable trains to travel to and fro uninterrupted.
The tunnel became known as the Chunnel Tunnel, about 50 kilometres beneath the sea.
This engineering marvel has revolutionised travel times between the two countries. As one approaches the English coast from London, the train gently disappears into the tunnel.
By the time it emerges on the other side, about 35 minutes later through the 37-kilometre underwater tunnel stretch, one is in the French countryside, hurtling towards the capital.
The total journey time is about two and a half hours.
Stepping off the train at the Gare du Nord terminal during the early evening rush hour brought back a wave of memories. Feeling rather French after breathing in some native French air, I ordered an almond croissant with a ‘café noir’ (black coffee) at a fancy eatery on the station concourse.
I was elated to realise that my French language skills were still intact, even if a little bit rusty at the edges.
I then took a seat and casually observed the bustling crowds crisscrossing the station to catch their trains, each lost in their own thoughts. I was in no hurry and simply wanted to savour the ambience.
Later that night, as my friend Eric, his wife, and I sat chatting in our hotel lobby, I ordered a baguette sandwich with a bottle of Kronenbourg beer, a French lager first brewed in 1664, to round up the night.
The crusty, stick-like French bread, which I learned to love during my nine-month stay in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, as part of my undergraduate French programme, completed my gastronomic adventure on my first night back in the arms of charming Paris.
Traditions upheld
The traditional marriage ceremony was both elaborate and glittering by all standards, drawing friends and family from across Europe, draped in a dazzling kaleidoscope of bright kente and other outfits. I was told there is quite a sizeable Ghanaian community in France.
It was a full-blown, elaborate Asante traditional marriage ceremony, with all the traditional protocols - complete with proverbs, linguists, advice to the new couple and an array of gifts for the bride’s family, from filled suitcases to kente cloths and cash.
In a blend of tradition and modern Christian beliefs, pastors came in to bless the couple, superintend over the exchange of rings and pray for them.
Perhaps the only concession to French culture was the ubiquitous exchange of airy cheek-to-cheek kisses by way of greetings between the ladies and between the ladies and gentlemen.
The couple looked resplendent and happy together, and I hope the love and romance that Paris is noted for rubs off on them.
Regret, affection
I would have loved to pound the streets of Paris on a ‘Samedi Soir’ (Saturday night) tour of my old hunting grounds to relive my youthful days.
Alas, by the time we were done with the wedding, I did not need a second invitation to crawl quietly into bed.
As I said ‘au revoir’ to Paris on Sunday afternoon, I felt a sense of what the French call ‘je ne sais quoi’ (literally, ‘I do not know what’) ‒ that somehow, I had impotently failed to properly ravage the city as I did decades ago.
Perhaps distracted by the wedding, I had not had enough time.
Or maybe the flaccidity is an age thing. Maybe it was both.
Of one thing, I am sure, though ‒ my warm affection for ‘la capitale française’ remains undiluted. Paris, ‘je t’adore’!
Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng.
E-mail: rodboat@yahoo.com
