Day 29: Paris

Highlights:

• Parc Monceau
• Almost making it to Pere Lachaise Cemetery
• Winetasting with Lewis

So that bed wasn't as uncomfortable as I remember. Not the straw, stable mattress I'd thought it was. I lay in until 11am. The relaxation of a four week holiday really takes it out of you, you know? I was terribly exhausted.

I got up at the thought of a fresh croissant. I had a shath (a shower/bath. It leaks if you just have a shower, and I couldn't stop half the water coming out of the shower nozzle. Shath) and then headed out into the city.

So I came to Paris for the first time in July this year. My friend Abbie and I had driven as the support car to a group of our friends cycling from Calais to Paris. After a night in Abbeville, we arrived the day before the Tour De France finale. Abbie and I were staying at an airbnb, whilst the guys stayed at Lewis' apartment (well, eventually. I locked the key in shortly after arriving, leaving the guys stuck in their cycling jerseys all evening). The group all drove back home after watching the final Tour De France laps on the Champs Elysees (Wiggo!) while I stayed in Paris for the week. I'd been learning French from some Michel Thomas audio tracks, so I went to the Boulangerie across from Lewis' apartment to try it out. I asked for un croissant, and was slightly perplexed when I ended up with two. The next time I went, I ordered un pain au raison, and again got and, to save fuss, paid for two. It got a bit ridiculous when I came away with two baguettes, but probably the most unuseful was the two loaves. Two whole loaves. For just me. I couldn't work out if I pronounced 'un' incorrectly, or if they were taking advantage of my lack of comprehension to make a few more sales.

So I decided to try again. I repeated 'urn' to myself as I crossed the road. It was lunchtime, so it was packed. People were queuing down the road to get in. No good; I can only use my French in spacious, slow-paced environments. I panic and revert to German when I'm rushed. I decided to go to Parc Monceau instead. It's a cute park with lots of runners and free Wi-Fi. 

I went back to Lewis' apartment for lunch (bread and cheese, obviously. It's illegal in Paris to eat anything else. C'est Vrai) and then caught the Metro back to Montmartre. On the way to the station, I saw a man cutting his nails in the street. That's weird, right?

My travel guide put the Pere Lachaise Cemetery immediately after the Sacre Coeur, so I presumed it was close to Pigalle and decided to go there. This is the cemetary where Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison and Sarah Bernhardt (remember her from the Mucha posters?) were buried. It wasn't close though. An error in the guide. Miles away. So after a quick check to see if the bartender from yesterday was working (he wasn't thankfully), I went back to La Fourmi. The Robin Williams/Einstein/That70sShow-Stoner-Guy was there again. Typing away on his laptop. Perhaps he's a writer? I did a little writing myself (Tankas, Haiku. That sort of thing, you know) and noticed this weird piece of artwork on the wall. Words really can't describe it, so I drew a picture for you instead:

I had a bit of time before Lewis arrived, so I walked back to the apartment, passing the Moulin Rouge (translation is Red Windmill), some electric cars plugged into their chargers, a lot of seedy sex shops and a Hippopotamus restaurant, which seems to be a chain in Paris. SIDE NOTE One of the Israeli Olympics massacre plotters was assassinated in Paris after eating in one of the Hippopotamus'. Just so you know.

I went back via Parc Monceau and did a few laps of the park, walking. It was almost like I was exercise. It was a pretty nice evening. Lewis arrived a little after 7, a bit out of breath from lugging his Pinarello up the stairs. It's an expensive bike, for the normal people reading this without a ridiculous cycling fetish. We stood admiring it for a few minutes; Lewis said the baggage guards on the Eurostar had all taken photos of it, it was so beautiful. Sure.

We had some food. Lewis has a ridiculously powerful hob (wait a minute, this is slightly more interesting than that opener suggests) which sparks occasionally. He has one dial called a MILATRON which GOES UP TO 11. It's a Spinal Tap hob. Lewis had an excessive level of embarrassment that his well-stocked kitchen had three cheese graters but no can opener. He didn't want me to write here that he had to hack into a tin of tuna with a knife. We listened to some Beirut and Michael Jackson, and then just got completely smashed on red wine (Burgundy and then Cote du Rhone - not so much winetasting, as winegulping), martini and vodka. 

End of day 29.