La vie en rose – Colm Keena on bohemian days in Paris

In January 1983 I went to Paris to stay with my girlfriend, F, and our pal, B, in a two-roomed apartment on the Rue de Tolbiac, in the 13th. My French was poor, I couldn’t find a job, so I went into business on my own - selling flowers at rush hour in metro stations. It was illegal but it provided enough money to get by and left lots of time for pursuing what was then my primary interest in life, hanging out. Soon B and F gave up their jobs and joined me.

We would get a morning bus to the wholesale markets in Rungis, buy some flowers, and bring them back to the apartment.

There was a shower in the kitchen where we’d put them, in saucepans and buckets of water. Then we’d sit around reading, or thinking about, procuring, preparing, consuming, and then cleaning up after, lunch, all of which could take hours (we were young). At around four we would go separately to small metro stations like Jussieu or Place Monge, or together to a bigger one, like Bir-Hakeim, and sell our flowers. “Dix Francs la botte les fleurs!” Then we would put aside the money for our next day’s stock, a bit more for rent, etc, and spend what remained.

We got friendly with two lads who sold fruit and vegetables in the metros, Khaldun, from Syria, and Abdesamad (Sam), from Morocco. Sometimes plainclothes policemen would swoop and confiscate our wares. “Papiers!” they would growl, showing their police badges and holding out their hands.

Front Woman – Frank McNally on a pioneering war correspondent, Maggie Higgins

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‘The trial of the century’ – Frank McNally on a notorious child murder of 100 years ago

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Liberal outlook — Brian Maye on Sheelagh Murnaghan, an indomitable presence in NI politics

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Change of tune – Alison Healy on not being a songbird

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When we produced our green hardback passports, the invariable response was delight. Ah! Ireland! Fishing! Salmon! Rugby! And off we would go. Poor Khaldun and Sam, however, would be taken to the station and not let go until the next morning.

We got to know a few buskers who worked the metro, all of them classically trained. F, B, and I had science degrees, Sam was an engineering graduate, and I can’t recall Khaldun’s educational background. We were all doing the same thing though. Hanging out. One of the musicians, Jonathan, a saxophonist, was a tall, blond gentle giant in dungarees who came from the US but looked like he came from rural Norway.

Once, during a party, in a kindly spirit of full disclosure, he told me I was a nice guy “but I’m after your girlfriend’s bones”. As far as I am aware, he never succeeded.

I never got on first name terms with the pickpockets who worked the metro. There was one guy I couldn’t help but be impressed by, tall, dapper, proud, handsome. He draped his dark wool coat over his shoulders to provide cover for his hands.

Men going up the escalator would have their wallets removed from the back pockets of their trousers or the inside pockets of their jackets, women their purses from their handbags, all without feeling a thing.

The victims were often older people and watching it would break your heart.

Once, when I whispered a warning to a woman who had stopped to buy flowers, urging her not to react, she yelped loudly and ran up the metro corridor.

The pickpocket didn’t hit or stab me, but I took his frown as a warning.

That summer we hitchhiked to Greece, spent a few weeks in Crete, then hitchhiked back to Paris to resume our illegal retailing. But selling flowers in the autumn and winter is a whole different ballgame, and our turnover and profit margins withered.

We limped home, penniless, but richer nonetheless.

The treasures I took home are too many to mention but they include a first encounter with crudités en vinaigrette, with F at a bistro near Opéra, soon after I arrived; the sight of 25cl glass pichets of ruby red wine in lunchtime cafes; ripe cheese made with unpasteurised milk; the simple democratic beauty of the green metal chairs in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

I recall going for early morning bowls of onion soup in Aux Pied du Cochon in Les Halles, to finish off a night on the town; sitting with F and B on our small balcony above the plane trees that lined Rue de Tobiac; being surprised in early autumn by the sight of a whole wild boar hanging from its hind hoofs outside a butcher’s shop in a neighbourhood near Gare du Nord, and then watching as a small dog paused to sniff the carcass, cocked a leg, and passed happily on.