It came towards me as an apparition on the Boulevard Saint-Germain as dusk fell over a midwinter Paris and the sprinkling rain began to flutter as snow. Two men running – were they tourists? Their white shorts and white socks pulled taunt towards their knees suggested they were European, in that way that Europeans seem to be perennially dressed up. As they ran past, I heard them speaking French. I turned. Were they Parisian? When did Parisians start to jog?
When I lived in Paris 10 years ago, I jogged three times a week, as early as I could, and I would be alone. Down Rue du Turenne and through Places des Voges, along the Seine past the Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint-Louis, across the Ponts des Arts, into the Louvre and past Pei’s pyramid, down the steps into the Tuileries and then all the way back home to my apartment in the 3rd arrondissement. My jogging route was like a tourist bus taking in Paris’ greatest hits. Rarely did I ever see anyone else going for a run.
