One of the few consolations left to Parisians since the lockdown (“le confinement”), which began on 17 March, is that for most of April the days have been sunny and bright. In the southern part of Paris where I live, the streets are empty, practically without traffic, and it’s rare to see a plane in the clear, blue skies. In the nearby park – one of the few to remain open – kids mess about, parents sunbathe, young women practise yoga and small bands of lads from the neighbouring council estate smoke weed and listen to music. Early each evening, in the nearby Place de la Garenne, there is an impromptu (and illegal) game of five-a-side football.
If you’re in the right frame of mind, you could easily mistake these scenes as a typical lazy afternoon in August, the time of the year when most Parisians go on holiday and the city is left to tourists. When the sun shines, the dark days of early March, when the threat of Covid-19 dominated our lives, now seem to belong to another, quite different era. This is all deeply deceptive.
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