Paris

Our train to Paris was an overnight service. William and I had to share a bed because dogs don’t get their own sleeping space. It was a little cramped in our bunk because he has a way of stretching himself out completely with his head on his teddy. Through the night his paws kept pushing into my face. I lay curled up in a little ball, listening to his snoring and the sound of the train clattering over the tracks. Despite my lack of sleep, I felt happy. Travelling agreed with me: you never knew what was going to happen next.

“What did you say we have to do in Paris?” I asked William when he woke.

“I didn’t,” he said and pretended to go back to sleep.

Early the next day we pulled into the Gare de Lyon in central Paris. I had come to notice how very different
European train stations were to the ones back home. They all seemed far older and grander. This one had a roof as high as an opera house. There were a number of shops and a fancy restaurant. The building was covered in decorative carvings and there were statues everywhere.

I had decided to leave our basket on the train and I gave William his own backpack to carry.

As we walked along, some of the Parisian ladies smiled at William. He did look rather cute with his bright red fez and his backpack, though I would never have dared to tell him so. William preferred to be described as “handsome”, even “dashing”.

There were a lot of other dogs about and I was concerned that he might get into a fight, but luckily he appeared to be in excellent spirits.

“Bonjour, madame!” he called, greeting a frisky grey poodle on a lead. Her owner assumed it was I who greeted her, and she gave me a friendly nod in reply. “William, do you speak French?” I asked, astonished.

“But of course, Alex!” he replied and lifted his paws in a jaunty trot.

We rented ourselves a second-floor hotel room close to the Arc de Triomphe. The room wasn’t very large, but the bed was covered with a thick down duvet and the sausage-shaped pillows looked very comfortable. Two large French windows opened to the narrow street shouldered by colourful shops below: a baker, a fishmonger and a grocer with shelves of fresh vegetables and flowers that spilled out on the pavement.

A mouth-watering smell wafted up to our room: freshly baked bread! I decided to go down and shop for breakfast.

A few minutes later I was back with a brown paper bag from which the end of a baguette, a long French bread, protruded. I also had cheese, some ham and a carton of fresh milk. The perfect meal for boy and dog!

I don’t think I ever had a better breakfast. I was munching my third sandwich when I heard a familiar sound. William was lapping water from the toilet bowl. “Please don’t do that!” I scolded. “I have told you so many times that it’s a horrible habit!”

“Don’t be so fussy,” he said, licking his lips. “This is the same water that comes from the tap.”

It was no use arguing with him.

“Anyway,” I said, deciding to rather change the subject, “Let’s go see the Eiffel Tower.”

“I have a better plan,” he replied. “Why don’t you go while I visit my old friend, Gustav Pamplemousse? He may have some information we need.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Oh, I just need someone’s address.”

That sounded boring, so I agreed.

“See you later, William,” I said. I grabbed my backpack and headed out.

You should always pay attention when exploring a strange city. That is a lesson that I soon learnt.

Paris hummed with life. Traffic stood bumper to bumper and sirens were screaming continuously in the distance. The people on the sidewalks were a mix of all shapes and sizes. I noted a few elegant women parading dainty French poodles, just like I’d seen on postcards.

I headed towards the tip of the Eiffel Tower that I could see rising above the buildings on the other side of the river. Paris is a huge city! I hadn’t realised it would be such a long walk, but at last I reached it.