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| a cliche, yet still pleasing image..... |
As I last described, we squeezed onto that Eurostar by the skin of our arseholes. Travelling between France and the UK is definitely preferable by train. The space to move, the slightly better food, the less chance of plummeting to your death in the English Channel are all bonuses. However, I suppose the under-sea tunnel could collapse and the channel could actually plummet on top of you. This is actually a more terrifying scenario, as it means no chance of escape. There's always a slim hope you can survive a plane crash into water - the blow up boats, the life jackets with those feeble little whistles that would have zip chance of attracting attention. Also there's the illuminated strips on the life vests that allow you to watch all the other passengers drown around you......It's when I have thoughts like this that I know I'm turning into my mother. It happens to all of us eventually. There's been signs for a while. For example, when I'm cross at the girls and I say "My word!!!" I realise I have plagiarised her favourite expression of disapproval. "Goodness gracious me!" also provides shameful realisation. She still hates the way I dress, so I rest assured that the transformation is not yet complete.
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| Poshest street in the world - Avenue des Champs-Élysées - not too posh for a gutter vomit outside Prada though |
Arriving in Paris always gives a thrill. The place is jam packed with old shit. The train station is suitably old looking and has pigeons flying around in it. Pigeons annoy me though. However, I would have never said that to my grandfather, as he raised them all him life....alongside the marijuana. Although the latter was a new hobby he took up in his late 70s. Not for personal use of course, purely to make some cash. Whenever I see a pigeon in the street I always fight the desire to get a kick in. My brother accidentally made contact once in London when a flock went apeshit on the sandwiches he was delivering to offices around the city. The flying offender, and subsequent victim of bird abuse, squawked in pain as the boot made contact. It's wing appeared to be all dangly. My brother said he felt instantly remorseful and went from "Fuck off you flying vermin" to "Oh little fella is your wing ok?", and unsuccessfully tried to craft it a splint out of an icy-pole stick. Their reflexes must be dulled. Since when can you succeed in kicking a bird? Or maybe they are too fat from eating people's sandwiches to get out of the way in a hurry. Anyway, learning from my brother - a.k.a The Pigeon Murderer - I have resisted my darker side when it comes to pigeons, no matter how much poo they do on my clean washing drying on the balcony.
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| I don't think this little fella is going to make a comeback any time soon |
How can anybody not love Paris. As far as cities go, it is probably the most beautiful in the world in my opinion. Of course, like all cities, it is dirty, crowded, and noisy into the bargain. But it has that certain something, that makes you feel like just being there has somehow rubbed off onto you, and has made you a more stylish and culturally intellectual version of yourself. These days we usually skip the cultural pretensions though, and give places like the Louvre a wide berth. Priceless art and destructive dwarves don't mix. We have ceased to travel with a stroller these days as well, so long days of wandering the picturesque streets are also interrupted by whining and all out howling. I'm putting a question out to all the parents of children over three years. For fucks sake, when do they stop crying more than a hundred times a day??? I'm actually interested - in a desperate sort of only-tell-me-if-it's-good-news kind of way. This time round, our activities were limited to shopping and eating macarons. That would be shopping for kids clothes, and them doing the macaron eating as well. Although I did break a couple of times. How can a mere human resist a coconut and white chocolate flavoured macaron?
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| sticky macaron hands (in an old shit Paris tunnel) |
Jetlag also played a large role in our daily Parisian activities. When the whole family is arising at 12pm and going to sleep at 3am consistently, and a certain parent (i.e moi) is making zero effort to change this, it can be a tricky habit to snap out of spontaneously. Our apartment was as cheap as chips, and because of this we were expecting it to be a bit on the grotty side. Plus, it was located on the far outskirts of the area we typically stay in. This actually turned out be be a bonus. It was quiet - a rarity - and the apartment itself wasn't the total shithole we were bracing hard for. All in all a good result. The entrance of the apartment block was a large wooden door. Unknown to us, it was also extremely similar to the one next door. One afternoon I was trapped outside for 25 annoying minutes, failing to understand why the entrance code no longer worked. This then led to a ring around each name on the door list, until some extremely attractive man buzzed me in. Actually he could have been a deformed monster - the sound of the accent immediately converts to an out and out sexy fucker in my French speaking loving mind. Of course it turned out I was outside, and then inside the wrong building after all that. Although it did take me some extra time to actually realise this. I just couldn't work out why the centre courtyard had been magically replaced by a large bike rack.
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| some old shit column in background |
Unfortunately my high school French does not get me through a brief Parisian interlude without suffering social embarrassment. My old French teacher, Madame Von Bibra would have been highly scornful. She always had a look of extreme distaste when I walked into the room anyway. Although this could have been her natural look - slightly sour, very snooty. However, she was the type of person that you still wanted to like you. Some people are like this. They are complete bastards, but you still want to be their best buddy. So desperate was I to join her elite group of pets, that I ground the Grade 7 Alliance Francaise poem into my head, hoping for a place on the school team. Of course I didn't make the cut, and the result of this unfulfilled effort is that a poem about a little donkey is the only chunk of French I can remember. I remember ever single last word, even 25 years later. And that chunk does not leave an inch of brain space for any further French-speaking abilities. Well, apart from a "Bonjour" and a "Merci, which although useful, definitely have their limitations when it comes to impressing on people your stunning grasp of their native tongue. It certainly fails to get you by in a busy Parisian cafe with a permanently pissed off waiter. Reciting the hay eating habits of a tired donkey poetically, and in poorly accented French, is found neither amusing or cute. Waiters are also rudely (yet somewhat understandably), unwilling to translate a couple of the sketchy meaning sentences into English on your behalf. Just remember that, if a similar urge ever overwhelms you while ordering a cafe au lait in the French capital. I learn my lessons the hard way......through humiliation and shame......(see above minor reference to street vomit outside Prada 4 years ago).
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| Le petit âne |
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| Sure, it looks good now |
We are thinking to spend a month here in November. This would be extremely pleasing. Maybe I can even ditch "L'âne Fatigué" and learn how to tell people to piss off, or something equally as important that you should always learn in the country you happen to find yourself in.....I'll have to go easy on the rich food next time though. I touched on this briefly last entry, and won't disgust you by going into details with accompanying actual photos. Mere representations should suffice in this instance. Anyway, after a surprise red-wine-mixed-with-Camembert chunder in the bathroom (a really shocking thing to regurgitate), I've been scarred, and now refuse to even look at these former desirable items. An inappropriate vomit seems to be consistent with my visits to Paris now I come to think of it. I vomit a lot. I think I may have some kind of issue. But I guess this is best discussed with my doctor rather than shouted out publicly in a ridiculous online web log which caters purely to my desire for attention. However, luckily for my stomach lining, it's au revoir and merci beaucoup Paris (I searched them on google translate) for now. It's been a fun and fleeting visit. But they are often the best kind.....
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| It looks much less good here |
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