Courir tôt le matin à… Paris

Dawn is breaking. We stand in the shadow of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. 

 

Early o'clock. We are in the arty bohemian 18th arrondissement of northern Paris. A modest hotel in Montmartre is our base.

 

Bohemian, you say. Hold my paintbrush… Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Monet, Dali…

 

Writers? Hold my quill… Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Porter, Reading, Proust, Joyce…

 

Inspired? I feel the urge to stroll with a baguette under one arm and an easel under the other. Then climb the 222 steps to the hilltop, don my old army beret, sip a small, strong coffee, ponder life until midday, and then paint an apple.

Where can I take you for inspiration to plan tomorrow’s run? Perhaps a well-known watering hole. I book an Uber to The Ritz. I stroll through the hotel’s splendour, and there it is - the famous bar. A queue. A civilised line. 

“Monsieur, qu’en penses-tu? Combien de temps?” The security fellow tells me it’ll be at least an hour.

 

When anyone tells me they’ve queued for a long time, I usually respond with, ‘I’ve spent longer in the NAAFI queue.’

 

The creatives and literati drank here in the 1920s. Before them, the painters and artists in the 1880s. Legend has it that Marcel Proust ordered a cold beer from here on his deathbed, and that Hemingway liberated the hotel from the Nazis by storming the bar and ordering 50 martinis. 

 

It’s one out, one in. There are only 25 seats. After 70 minutes, I find myself in this shrine to Ernest, the bar named after him, Hemingway’s. I’m not sure I’ve ever spent this long in the NAAFI queue. I‘m allocated a seat at the bar. I enjoy a few Havana rum cocktails in quick succession and munch on some fantastic nibbles. I breathe in the atmosphere. Is it worth it? Absolutely. 

 

They say that every French bar and every NAAFI have a resident philosopher. I’ve brushed up on my Nietzsche. I’m equally prepared to discuss philosophy or why everything is “merde.”

 

I can pretend to go heavy, “Libérez l’amour” (capitalism is a prison) or go light, which comes far more easily… or army, or civvie… all bases covered.

 

Light. There is a French cat named ‘un deux trios’, and an English cat called ‘one two three.’ They decide to have a race across the canal. Naturally, the English cat wins: one, two, three. The French cat, un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…

 

Army. Why are they shooting at us, Sarge? Because we are here. Why are we here, Sarge? Because they are shooting at us. 

 

Civvie. I’ve sailed in here and dropped my anchor, wearing a shirt that makes me look like a wa*nker.

 

All this philosophy is making me thirsty. I smile, “Quand le seagull suivre le trawler… “

 

“Pardon, Monsieur.”

 

I present my glass: “Ah, oui, merci, un autre… un plus pour la rue… santé… (channeling my inner Monsieur Cantona…)."

 

Oh, la la, these cocktails have a mighty kick.

 

“L’addition, s’il vous plaît.” 

 

La facture arrive. €108. Merde. I tap my card.

 

“Le reçu, monsieur?”

 

« Oui, personne ne me croirait. » 

 

I leave a €20 bill with my witty server. I’m bursting with ideas for tomorrow’s early morning run. Time for an Uber back to our base in Montmartre. 

 

Who knew? A few drinks, and my French fluency is off the charts when speaking with my West African Uber chauffeur. She has a smile that makes the City of Light shine even brighter. Try saying that in French, and I tried… 

 

Where were we…

 

Ah, yes, under the shadow…

 

Allons y…

 

Montmartre is dreamy, filled with photo opportunities and cobbled streets. There are steps everywhere. Our lungs and calves will suffer this morning. Buckle up. Let’s climb…

 

Voila, and that everyone is Sacré-Cœur Basilica. The climb to the summit, and the highest point in Paris. The breathing out of our rear ends has been worth it, non.

 

At the top of the stairs, let’s all do the Rocky dance. You know, from the film, when he reaches the top of the steps in Philly, he raises his arms like a champion and does his little jig. I do it all the time in those moments — a great training session, just feeling good or happy, England scoring a try at Twickers, that kind of thing…

Down there is Paris at dawn. A stunning view…

 

Let’s descend smoothly to Abbesses. Some of the cafes are starting to open. Time for coffee... and jot down some of this post while it’s fresh, pretend I’m a writer…

To quote Bogie, we will always have Paris; it’s time to say au revoir — literally until we meet again.

 

Le Fin

Early Morning Run in… Cairo

There’s nothing like that first breath of Cairo air after a month on the road in West Africa. The dust, the energy, the slightly chaotic charm—it feels good to be back.

People often ask, ‘What do parts of West Africa have in common?’ A friend once summed it up perfectly—two things. The tourism boards face uphill battles, and you’re just as likely to be robbed by the security forces as by anyone else.

I step out of a battered jalopy and gaze up at the grand old palace frontage. The Marriott. Zamalek. My R&R home for the next three nights.

In the early 2000s, I was a regular here during breaks from the harsh realities of Sharia law and Sudan’s earlier civil war. Back then, this was my sanctuary: Egyptian cotton sheets, a room service breakfast, a hot shower, working internet, a balcony view of the Nile, cold beer, the Phil Collins soundtrack, and the occasional roll of the dice in the casino. Who could ask for more…

It’s just past 10:00. The hotel kindly allows an early check-in. I unpack my month-old laundry— “dobie” as we used to call it—and head for a shave.

Abdullah is still at the hotel barbershop. His theatrical wet shave includes the removal of nose and ear hair. It’s 800 dib-dobs according to his calculator (plus baksheesh), but hey—it’s R&R.

Is the old shoeshine fellow downstairs? He is. Mustafa wears those billowy cream trousers gathered at the ankle, a white shirt, an open black waistcoat, and a fez. I sit on the old high-backed throne while he restores my boots. 200 dib-dobs, plus baksheesh… he’s an artist.

A late breakfast follows of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and decent coffee on the promenade. Three hundred dib-dobs well spent, plus baksheesh. Cairo, you’ve still got it.

Early O’clock: Running Zamalek

Sunday morning. Just after dawn, 22°C, light traffic, and I’m feeling good—perfect for a run. We head west along the Nile with the sun on our backs (you’re with me). 

Weaving through Zamalek, crossing three bridges, heading toward Tahrir Square—the epicentre of Egypt’s modern history. No headphones. You need all your senses in downtown Cairo. This city doesn’t have rules; instead, it has traffic suggestions. 

With any Egyptian security personnel or authorities, you must roll with it. First, there’s the uniformed black jumpers brigade and then the ever-present plainclothes brotherhood. The plainclothes fellows are easy to identify; they are short, bald, sporting proud moustaches, and all wear brown leather jackets with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from their bottom lip.

The museum doesn’t open until much later. There’s a change of shift at the perimeter involving the black jumpers. About ten of them are smoking, drinking chai, and giving instructions towards me in Arabic and English.

As my old drill sergeant used to say, we can go left [flanking], right [flanking], or, hey diddle diddle, right up the middle. So, walk confidently straight through, feigning ignorance. One man in a black jumper raises his hand and asks me where I’m going. Another joins him. At times like this, I say, “Salam, kaflik, cull sewag fee Khartoum madgenoon.” One laughs; one doesn’t. I gesture that I’m only taking a few photos of the area, and I’ll be back later when it opens. One says, “Tammam” and waves his arm. “Shukran.” I’m through…

A few hundred metres later, here we are, Tahrir Square.

The Egyptian revolution of 1919, the Egyptian revolution of 1952 (monarchy to a republic), the bread riots of 1977, the Iraq war protest of 2003, and the Arab Spring of 2011 (‘bread, freedom and dignity’) resulted in the rapid demise of Mubarak, as well as the fall of his successor, President Morsi, in 2013. If revolution had a postcode, this would be it.

Let’s jog back for breakfast. 

The following afternoon…

“I need some help. Can you please give me $100 for a wheelchair?” I’d seen this elderly gentleman, who had mobility issues, using two walking sticks and an oxygen mask, struggling along the promenade at the hotel. He has a splendid mane of grey hair. He claims he has $150. He needs another $100. He looks like he’s had quite the paper round. I’m thinking, Chernobyl.

I ordered us some chai. He tells me he’s from Jordan. I share a story about once having lunch with the then-Crown Prince Abdullah, now King. He laughs at the punchline involving sheep. We’ve bonded. He quickly returns to the wheelchair. In this part of the world, it’s customary to engage in the small talk before moving to the big talk. 

I tell him: if I win $100 at the casino tonight, it’s his. He puts a hand on his heart. We have a deal. A wheelchair isn’t a big ask—if the blackjack gods are kind.

You come across some characters in this hotel. Gary Kasparov once sat at the table next to mine, almost in the same spot, back in the day. I remember asking him to pass the salt. It took him 28 minutes…

That evening…

I’m quickly down to my final $10 chip. I go to the roulette table. Always bet on 22.

Round and round she goes… 37.

No wheelchair tonight. Sh*t happens.

Three days of R&R in Cairo—clean boots, good food, a sunrise run, and some unforgettable characters. There’s something timeless about this city. You never quite know what you’ll find or who you’ll meet.

Next stop, next blog: Paris.