愛(ài)在橋欄深鎖時(shí)

Picture the scene. Paris， in the spring： Easter Sunday morning in the square by Notre Dame， my wife， Heidi， and I are strolling handin-hand under the blossom trees by the side of the cathedral.

It’s our first weekend away together since the children were born five years ago.

The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day in the city of love.

Ahead， the Pont de l’Archevêché—a bridge linking the Ile de la Cité with the artistic Left Bank. And as we approach it， the most extraordinary， the most Parisian， sight either of us had ever seen.

The 1）railings of the bridge， from bank to bank across the Seine， are covered in 2）padlocks. All shapes and sizes， brass， steel， black and red. And each adorned with its own message—some scrawled with marker pen， others carefully engraved. There must have been thousands of them.

They are messages of love， written by lovers and locked onto the bridge. They glittered and sparkled in the sun—an oddly beautiful mosaic above the river.

Naturally， Heidi and I found a shop， bought a padlock of our own， wrote our names and the date on it， bagged a free spot on the bridge， and left our own symbol.

We threw the keys （all but one） into the Seine， took a photo of our lock， made a note of the location and chalked the whole thing up to the sort of experience you would only ever have in Paris.

That sort of thing—the grand romantic gesture， the transforming of the everyday into the extraordinary， the finding of poetry in something so 3）mundane as a padlock—it could only happen on the Continent. We British would never think of it. We’re simply too…well， British.

Fast-forward three months and I’m walking across the Millennium Bridge in London on a 4）dank and rainy Monday morning in July.

Commuters hurry over the Thames， heads down， collars up， struggling against the wind. Even tourists barely pause to snap St Paul’s or the Tate Modern. Tower Bridge is scarcely visible through the gloom. And then something catches my eye...

Swinging 5）gaily on one of the wire railings， there is a shiny brass padlock. And a few metres further on， there’s another. And another. And then a pair together. And then a cluster of five， another group of three. Each with messages， couples’ names， dates. One has a heart painted on it. Another simply reads“FOREVER”.

The love locks of Paris， have， it seems， come to London town.

Now， I am not an especially romantic person. I’ve had my moments—but more often than not， 6）pragmatism and traditional English reserve tend to temper most attempts at grand gestures.

And I remember it clearly： spring 2004， I was drinking and playing pool with my best mate， Pat. She was in her flat on the other side of London， nursing the flu.

Suddenly I realised that rather than drinking Guinness and having fun with my friend， I would actually rather be sober and helping my girlfriend recover.

So did I throw down my 7）cue， run out of the pub， fly across town and turn up at her door， breathless and clutching a dozen red roses and a packet of 8）Lemsip？ No. I sent her a text： “I bloody love you I do.”

When I proposed （on Heidi’s 34th birthday， in May 2005）， I didn’t dare buy a ring myself in case I got a style she didn’t like—so I did it with a 9）replica that came free with my Lord Of The Rings Director’s Cut box set （“One ring to rule them all，” it says， in ancient， ahem， Elvish script）.

I also spent an hour trying to tie it on a scarlet ribbon around her cat’s neck—before getting scratched so badly I had to abandon the idea.

I’ve kept that Lord Of The Rings ring， however. It’s stayed in my wallet ever since.

Even Heidi’s 40th passed without too much romance. We were moving house at the time， plus our car had just been written off and the magazine I was working on had folded， so money was tight. I did manage to get tickets to see her favourite band， Pulp， play Hyde Park， mind…

So， as I said， I don’t really do grand gestures—but there are occasions when even the most reserved （or hopeless） of us stumble across something and find our hearts lifted by la vie romantique. And when we saw the love locks on the Pont de l’Archeveche， there was no way I was going to let the opportunity pass to immortalise our own feelings for each other.

As it turns out， the tradition is far older than one might think： it originated in Serbia during World War II， when couples from the town of Vrnjacka Banja symbolically sealed their love before the men went off to fight.

They were mostly confined to that single bridge in Serbia， however， until around a decade ago when they started springing up in Paris， Rome， Florence， Cologne， Prague， even Dublin. But never over here； never in Britain.

The story was always the same. One padlock would appear overnight， a 10）testimony to a lovers’ 11）tryst， a 12）memento of a romantic moment. Within days， it would be joined by others， and then more still…until， as on the Pont de l’Archeveche， they become almost a raison d’être for the bridge itself. So why has it taken so long for the love locks to come to London？ And why are they appearing now？

On that rainy Monday， I counted 13 love locks on the Millennium Bridge. By the end of the week， when I checked again， there were 27.

Perhaps it’s the tourists. Or perhaps it’s British couples copying what they’ve seen while on a trip to Paris. Or perhaps it’s just one of those spontaneous things that happen every now and then in all the great cities of the world.

Perhaps—as in Paris， or Rome or even in Vrnjacka Banja during World War II—each tiny padlock is inspiring another.

Perhaps， even if we have arrived a little late to the party， we Brits are a romantic nation after all.

When Heidi and I took a photo of our own Parisian padlock this spring， when we noted down the location， and later found the exact co-ordinates on Google Earth， when we kept that single key， it was all done with one rather wonderful idea in mind—to leave something for the future. Something to show that we， too， were in love.

We’re going to leave that photo， that key， those map co-ordinates， in our will： sealed in an envelope with the day we were there written on it. We’re leaving it for our children， with instructions to pass it on to their children， and so on.

I’ve got a lovely mental image of our greatgrandchild， on her honeymoon in Paris in the year 2090 or so， stopping halfway across the Seine with a GPS locator， looking for a little brass padlock with the names of her ancestors written on it， still faintly 13）legible after all those years.

And if that’s not romantic， I don’t know what is.

想想這樣一幅景象。春天的巴黎：復(fù)活節(jié)周日的清晨，在巴黎圣母院旁的廣場(chǎng)上，我的妻子海蒂和我正手拉手在教堂旁邊的櫻花樹(shù)下漫步。

這是自孩子們五年前出生以來(lái)，我們第一次在外地過(guò)周末。

陽(yáng)光燦爛，這正是愛(ài)之城中美麗的一天。

在前方，是大主教橋——一座連接著西岱島與有著濃厚藝術(shù)氣息的左岸的小橋。而當(dāng)我們走近它時(shí)，一幅我倆都從未見(jiàn)過(guò)的最不同尋常、最巴黎風(fēng)的景象躍入了我們的眼簾。

小橋的欄桿，橫跨過(guò)塞納河的兩岸，上面布滿了掛鎖。形狀各異，大小不一，銅制的，鋼制的，黑色的，還有紅色的。每一把都裝點(diǎn)著獨(dú)有的信息——有些是用記號(hào)筆潦草寫(xiě)畫(huà)上去的，有些則是小心翼翼地刻上去的。橋欄上估計(jì)掛滿了成千上萬(wàn)把這樣的鎖。

那些都是愛(ài)的信息，由戀人們書(shū)寫(xiě)并鎖在小橋上，在陽(yáng)光下閃閃發(fā)光——就像河面上一幅奇特而美麗的馬賽克。

當(dāng)然了，海蒂和我找到了一間小店，也買(mǎi)了一把屬于我們自己的掛鎖，在上面寫(xiě)上了我們的名字和日期，然后將其懸掛在小橋上的一處空位上，留下了我們自己的標(biāo)記。

我們將鑰匙（留下一條外所有的）扔進(jìn)了塞納河里，為我們的掛鎖拍了張照片，記錄下位置，整件事被我們認(rèn)為是只能在巴黎體驗(yàn)到的經(jīng)歷。

那種事情——那種極度浪漫的舉動(dòng)，那種將日常生活化作非凡體驗(yàn)的轉(zhuǎn)變，那種在諸如掛鎖這樣的世俗之物中發(fā)現(xiàn)詩(shī)意的事情——只可能在歐洲大陸上發(fā)生。我們英國(guó)人永遠(yuǎn)都不會(huì)想出來(lái)的。……