ANKLE DEEP IN ORANGE PEEL

This a strange way to see Paris. I’m ankle deep in banana skins, orange peel and crushed plastic water bottles. My suede loafers are soaking up fruity run-off from the gutter. The air is filled with the pungent scent of citrus and sweat, and a rhythmic rubbery squelching sound fills my ears. Cameras are clicking and whirring around me, gigantic lenses swinging dangerously close to my head. I duck. Frequently.

I am on the Pont Marie in a crowd of raucous spectators. It’s kilometre 15 of the 2017 Paris Marathon. I am the lone cheering section for my nephew, who is running his first marathon. As I try to spot him in the sea of bobbing heads, I remember his tip – red tee shirt and blue baseball cap – he said. Yeah, and the other 57,000 runners?

The elegant Haussmann avenues are obscured by giant neon-yellow flags. Gaudy pink flags and green helium balloons announce sun screens and cell phones, bobbing and curtsying in the wake of the pack.

The runners are a blur of high-viz lycra, ab-clinging running vests, skin-tight shorts, Nike swooshes and bare skin. One runner has the words left and right tattooed on the back of his muscled calves. I hope he has them the right way around.

I wonder if the 19 tons of oranges, 7 tons of apples, 440,000 sugar cubes, 2 tons of dried fruit and nuts, and 100,000 water bottles on refreshment stations along the route will be enough to keep the marathoners energized and cool. It’s only April but it’s 25 degrees. I’m evaporating and I’m standing still.

Watching all the elite and not-so-elite athletes run, walk, stumble and wheel over Paris’s greasy cobbles is exhausting, so I set off to find the perfect place for a buttery croissant and café au lait. Much as I love my nephew there are far more compelling things calling to me in this city of food, art, fashion and history.