- Palais de Tokyo, and the Morrissey Latino fanbase documentary
- The Little Prince and Leonard Bernstein
- Marthe and Siemen at La Fourmi
I looked out of the window and noticed the Boulangerie was open, perfectly located in viewing distance for the lazy French croissant eater. It was a public holiday in France (All Saints Day) and so most places had advertised that they would be shut, but not this trusty deux croissant bakery. After quite a confident French conversation, I came away with two croissants and two pain au chocolate. But this time, I'd ordered two! Merci BEAUCOUP, bakery assistant. I think we've finally found our level. One thing I love about Paris (and Switzerland) is that the locals don't revert to English as soon as they hear your accent. I know a lot of people have trouble with the Parisian rudeness, but I've never really had any unpleasantness when I've made even the most embarrassing attempt at French. And speaking in the local language, no matter how difficult it is at first, is the only way to ever improve. I like it.
Lewis had work to do, so after breakfast I headed over to the Museum area, intending to go to the Pompidou centre. I put my Michel Thomas French guide on my iPod, checked the weather outside (sunny) and decided I was safe to put my leaky boots on. I'd been outside five minutes, when some sort of apocalyptic weather change happened, and it started hailing. Hailing brutally. You couldn't see across the road it was so strong, and the hail mushed into sheets of ice on the floor. I camped out for a bit under cover trying to stand on my left foot so water wouldn't seep into the hole in my right shoe.
You'll be glad to know this weather anecdote is coming to an end; after a rumble of thunder, the sky cleared and the sun came out - all this happening within the space of 5minutes. Trenchfoot aside, the benefit of all this was that I could take some brilliant reflective puddle photos in the sun as I walked past the Arch de Triumph. As I neared the area I thought contained the Pompidou, I got distracted by the Eiffel Tower and found myself instead at the Palais de Tokyo.
(I'll add the reflective photo when I can transfer photos from my digital camera - this is just a phone shot)
It was an €8 entrance fee, and the first room contained a selection of photos taken by a guy called Alexandre Kojeve, 'a philosopher turned diplomat'. What the museum described as Alexandre's ability to 'reflect his administrative view of the world combined with a certain post-historical melancholy' I would call his holiday snaps. We're talking cut off heads and badly angled landscapes. My reflective puddle Arch de Triumph was better than all of those combined. The next room contained what I'd call quality comic-value modern art. My favourite was the lamp that an artist had made for his wife, by cementing a broomstick in an old paint tin and then hanging a light bulb off the top. It had been donated to the gallery by his wife; presumably she thought it was the worst present ever and couldn't wait to be rid of it. The only piece I liked in this room was this:
I stumbled across a room full of photos of Latino Morrissey fans. That was odd. Maybe it was art. Maybe it was just the accompanying photos to an nme review from a Mexican Morrissey gig. They were taken by a guy called William E. Jones, and the blurb was titled 'Is it really so strange?'. The next room was showing the credits for a film by the same guy, and Panic was playing. I've got a limitless hatred for Morrissey, but I thought I'd give this Jonesy character a shot at winning me over, so I sat and waited for it to start again. So William starts the documentary describing how Morrissey has an overwhelmingly high number of young Latino fans based in LA, and how he is hoping to get to grips with the reasons behind this seemingly bizarre fanbase by interviewing a mix of the fans. LA Morrissey posters flash across the screen, including; the London Is Dead Club opening in LA, playing ONLY Smiths and Morrissey music; the 2003 Morrissey and Smiths Convention at Hollywood Palace; the tribute act 'Sweet and Tender Hooligans' and my absolute favourite 'Hispanics on the streets of London'. I think I could die happy if I'd come up with that. So William proceeds to interview a range of Hispanic Morrissey fans, a selection of whom you can see below (to be added shortly), gets a Mozza hairstyling from one fan, quotes Euripides and really gets to the heart of the matter by questioning each fan's sexuality. Undoubtedly the weirdest moment was seeing a chubby, camp guy stroking the front cover of the 'Hand In Glove' album (look it up). There was one comment that a the lead singer of the tribute band made that I liked; that people try to find themselves in music, and more truthfully, try to find the ideal version of themselves. I thought that rang true slightly.
(Juan: Has four pieces of Morrissey's shirts that he clawed his way to at the end of various gigs)
(Mario: 'The Mexican Morrissey', lead singer of the Sweet and Tender Hooligans)
(Robert: 'My hair is the most important part of me')
(William E. Jones: Hairstyling in progress)
(Mark: Glove in Hand album stroker)
(Anita and friend: Her brutal, your-documentary-is-a-waste-of-time comment - 'I think the reason so many latinos like Morrissey is that he lived in LA for a while, and there are a lot of Latinos in LA')
(Chris: 'I'm struggling with my sexuality')
(Ines: 'I wish I were British')
So 40minutes later I came out, with this strange craving to listen to the Smiths song 'Ask' and humming 'hispanics on the streets of London' to myself. I don't think I'll ever be a fan, but the video made a solid effort at brainwashing me.
I started walking back to the flat, and made my standard error of presuming I could take alternative routes to the ones I knew and NOT get lost. I got asked for directions by an Italian couple and then a French girl and did a sort of 'oui, peut-etre...that way...oui' accompanied with a hopeful shrug. I arrived home an hour after I intended and stopped off for a pain au raison. You can do your calculations; I had a croissant, a pain au chocolat and a pain au raison all in the same day. A few coffees and not much else. The French diet.
Lewis had dug out his copy of 'The Little Prince' by a French author called Antoine De Saint-Exupery, which he was astounded that I hadn't read. I'd never even heard of it. I settled in with my pain au raison, a tea, disc 1 of Leonard Bernstein's 60 disc New York Philharmonic Orchestra recordings* (Beethoven's 1st and 3rd Symphonies) and The Little Prince. It's written and illustrated like a kid's book, but it's for adults and is about a little prince from another planet who can't understand the absurdities of grown-ups who commit their lives to business and money, and not just finding a purpose, and having time to enjoy the beauty of the world. I read it in the hour, and sat contemplating the little prince and his confusion and finished listening to the 3rd Symphony.
Around 6pm, we went to the cinema to watch Skyfall only to find it sold out. Sacre bleu! I felt I had to see it (and the pope movie) given how much advertising I've been exposed to over the past month, and the three months prior to that knowing someone who worked on the score...all the French clearly felt the same about the movie though.
We went to this small, busy bar instead and had a few drinks. I'm not sure what it was called or where it was, but in Paris, I'm not sure bar recommendations are necessary; there are so many similar bars that any you pick will probably be alright. On my round, I was ambushed from either side by two Frenchies trying their luck. Nothing more complimentary than the drunken leer 'you have a sweet face', as they wobble on their stools and try to muster a winning smile. That Parisian charm!
We walked up to ACTUALLY meet Marthe and Siemen, and spent the evening back at La Fourmi, talking about Siemen's parents' attempt to cycle from Utrecht to Paris, resulting in an emergency call from Belgium asking for alternative travel arrangements to be made...After a fair few blanche beers and Syrah wines, Lewis and I walked home and had a late night Feta salad and half an omelette each as we watched another episode of Red Dwarf.
End of day 31.
*I'd only known Bernstein as the composer to the West Side Story score, but apparently he was more professionally known as a conductor.
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