You'll Never Believe What Happened in Paris: Canal St. Martin
On a boat tour, someone witnesses a truly romantic moment where flowers were thrown to a woman on this boat from a bridge.
I wanted to take the boat that floats down Canal St. Martin because it tucks below the boulevard and continues through a cave with shafts of light under Bastille. Like magic, I imagined, the Seine opens from the Bastille, so as a Paris lover, I wanted to do something I had never done before. Something slow, considered, in this world of speed and need.
I got on at Quai de Valmy, a modern canal-front promenade with movie theaters, and if you’ve seen Amelie, the movie, you know which canal I’m talking about. Lush trees, garish green bridges. From one, she skipped stones whimsically. A painting. I saw one of these boats one day waiting under trees, as it had to stop along the way, as locks adjust the water levels, so it can keep going. People stood around watching the water rise and fall.
One afternoon, I had some hours to spare, to cruise, as it takes hours to complete a journey. It was the perfect Parisian spring day, one that unfolds as if every moment were full of love, possibility, slow and savored. Under the trees, green leaves, I bathed in the beauty of not being in a rush, even if the world today, leaves rustling in the breeze, stirs anxiety inside of me, the boat floats so slowly, it’s almost like a meditation.
As we drifted toward the Amelie section of the canal, we were going to pause for a few minutes. A young dark handsome man suddenly ran up the bridge to see, I think his girlfriend who was on the boat as she waved to him. She seemed to be with her father or an older family member though they looked nothing alike. But they, you know, waved from a boat, like isn’t this “different?” Water rushing, tipping the boat slightly to the left, the young man suddenly left, rushing like the water down the steps. She was confused. They were. I was.
Leaves swaying in the breeze in a Manet painting, he dashed with ease, this dashing French man, back up the steps and onto the bridge in a perfect snapshot. The seats on the boat were set up as if the ride were a show, so the man had an audience as nothing else was going on. He positioned himself, publicly, in the middle of this bridge, as the boat lowered to be able to cruise underneath. He waited, and as the boat took off once more on a painstakingly refreshing slow float through the Amelie movie, he tossed a bouquet to this young woman even un-romantically. Like here. Flowers burst onto the boat, from her hands, no one saw it coming, like magic. He told her he loved her, with petals, for the “putain closet that broke down.” The older gentleman with her knew what that meant, holding back his laughter. Shocked with blooms, he bubbled over like a bottle of champagne. He must have told the flower shop that he would “be right back,” quick quick. Of course of course, the florist must have said, picturing him tossing them his wallet, like who cares? I’ll be right back.
Laughter turned to tears, the tears made her laugh even more. She didn’t know what to do. With a slight tint of satisfaction, he watched the boat drift away. I had to watch him. I suppose they reached some milestone in their relationship like he must have just moved in, with the closet talk, not wanting to eavesdrop, but wow, that was unexpected. She sat there, learning how to receive this, I believe, now holding flowers for hours as we cruised at an impossibly slow speed. We all participated in this moment, witnessed it, but it wasn’t a marriage proposal, so no one knew how to react exactly. We just kept going. It surprised us all though. Nice moment. Nice move.
The faintest aroma, perfume in the air that day, here and there, Parisian apartments reflecting on the water, rippling, losing shape, I thought about young love, the moments to remember in one’s life as I was a little older now, myself, thinking that would be one to tuck away, though the flowers might fade, wilt, who knew where a relationship was going? I thought about my own, some of my most romantic moments, my wedding day, even, covered in flowers.
Did you know this area used to be where the plumbers and tile and sink stores were? An older French woman told me that, and also, that everyone had their brand of poetry. Now it's hip, littered with people — depending on the time of day — cool to rugged — the happening neighborhood with cool coffee shops attracting beards and heels and important sunglasses and people in green suits paid to clean the graffiti off the bridges where Amelie skipped stones. Friends gather in groups along the canal to drink and smoke and talk. We dipped into the tunnel, headed underneath the major boulevard, in a slower less thrilling version of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, the flowers in this woman’s hands accompanying the view now. It was such a Parisian moment, wasn’t it? At least in some corner of the imagination, only in Paris, right? Nice to know that something romantic and whimsical can really happen for no reason.