Not quite a ghost town, but when I emerged from the metro at Saint-Germain-des-Prés at midday central Paris was eerily calm for a Saturday in the festive season. I once lived in this district and December was always a nightmare for shoppers and tourists.
Not today. Louis Vuitton was shut and boarded, so, too, Swarovski and a couple of banks and most cafes. I walked towards the Seine and on the Quai Voltaire I encountered my first riot police. They had a dozen Gilets Jaunes against the wall, frisking them in a courteous manner.
Crossing the Pont des Arts I spotted a Father Christmas in a Yellow Vest walking briskly along the river path. Under the bridge and out of sight of the police, Santa Claus stripped. I watched as he stuffed his outfit into his haversack and then strolled out wearing black jeans and a black hooded top. He was in his late twenties, clean cut, sporting a short back and sides; there was a touch of the military about his bearing as I tailed him towards the Louvre.
I lost him among the throng of Yellow Vests streaming west down the rue, towards Place de la Concorde.
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