Day 31: Paris

Highlights:

• 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.

Day 30: Paris

Highlights:

• Riding a Vespa through Paris
• Musee Rodin
• Bar Dix, the Sangria bar
• Red Dwarf and Roasted Chestnuts

Whoa. Talk about a hangover. I woke near midday and had a mini argument with Lewis over who would get up to go to the Boulangerie. Victory for Nicole, though I promised to make the coffee to do my bit. Only problem was that I over-estimated how long it would take Lewis to get the croissants (my usual experience in stumbling through some words I hope are French is probably double what his is). Lewis got back and made the coffee as well, and we feasted on pain au chocolat, croissants, pain au raison and some pomme thing.

It was SUNNY. I had a nice look out of the living room windows and chilled out while Lewis (hungover) went on a bike ride to Versailles. After he arrived home, we watched the replay of his route (we're not talking road footage, more Harry Potter Marauder's map dots. Yeah. Fascinating) listened to a little jazz, and then strolled out into the sun to pick up his Vespa. 
                                   

I've given Lewis a lot of grief about his scooter; I always though ray-ban and leather jacket wearing guys nipping through town on a scooter looked like proper tools. Nothing cool about it. But I am now completely and utterly sold on scooters. It was amazing. Barely scraping through tiny gaps in traffic, the cool whine of the engine accelerating away, racing across the Seine; I bloody loved it. It more than took away the regret of not getting on the bike of the Hungarian Led Zeppelin fan at midnight in Budapest. 

Lewis attempted some tour guide facts until we arrived at Musee Rodin. So, interesting to know; if you're an EU citizen and under 26 then you get in all museums in France for free. I wish I'd known that when I paid a bomb to get in the Louvre (which I'd never pay to go in again).

So Rodin - anyone know much about this guy? I didn't really have a clue, and so was just happily wandering around the Musee Jardin when I came across this bad boy:

                                                       

The Thinker. Well, I recognised him. I got out my Kindle which conveniently already had a copy of 'The Dummies Guide to Art' and had a little read. BRIEFLY Auguste Rodin was a French Sculptor (though dabbled in other art forms) who had a relationship with his assistant, and later also famous sculptor, Camille Claudel. He broke up with her (supposedly after stealing some of her ideas) and after a while, she descended into madness. Lewis says there's a film about them. So Rodin is most famous for The Thinker and The Kiss, which is a surprisingly sensual piece of stone. 

Rodin seemed pretty keen on Balzac (looked him up on my Kindle - a French author) and Victor Hugo (that one's easy), and so there were numerous sculptures of those guys. The best being the naked Balzac piece, where with his big belly and short stature are proudly thrusted out toward you, as Balzac has a triumphant smile on his face. It was a cool museum, and serene to walk around the gardens in the sun, with the Eiffel tower in the distance. 

We were going to head to a Mosque Lewis knew for some mint tea (this seemed like an unusual idea, but I was just keen to get back on the scooter so I jumped at the chance) but then as we rode, we found ourselves near the Sangria Bar Lewis had recommended on my last visit. Change of plans. We stopped off for a crepe, where I successfully ordered UN Crepe (I think I can speak French now) and then went to Bar Dix. 

The owner greeted Lewis like an old friend. Over the next hour he kept coming over and rested his hands on Lewis' shoulders like some sort of proud father. I told Lewis if he played his cards right, he could probably inherit the place. I'd run it for him. It's a small bar, with lots of small round tables and old posters on the wall. Behind the bar, the wall is covered with bank notes, a lot of which seemed to have Chairman Mao's face on. Lewis said the owner used to be a racing driver, a few leagues down from Formula One. He was a smiling older guy with a bit of a belly and cool John Lennon-style coloured glasses.

We had some delicious Sangria and then headed back to the bike. I'm not sure she has a name, but I think the Vespa would most likely be called Mavis. As standard, I'm sure Lewis would disagree. We were still south of the river, so I asked for a detour to go by the Eiffel Tower. The road runs so closely to the tower that you can ride right by it. It really shouldn't be that spectacular*, but at night with the entire thing lit up as you look up from directly below? It looks cool. Really cool. Apparently on the hour the lights all sparkle. I tried to impress Lewis with my knowledge that Gustave Eiffel had also designed the train station in Budapest and then that one of the Munich Olympics plotters was murdered in Paris after eating at a Hippopotamus as we passed the relevant buildings. I don't think he found those things as interesting as I did. Probably more interesting is the Eiffel assisted in constructing the Statue of Liberty, which I'll have to drop into conversation tomorrow. 

We stopped off briefly at Decathalon so I could buy some sportswear (as the saying goes, when in Paris, go the gym with your mate...?) and then for some food at the supermarket. Back at the apartment, on a high for winning me over on the scooter, Lewis tried for the 100th time to get me to watch Red Dwarf. I'd always thought I'd probably like it, but had held out purely because I knew it annoyed Lewis. Still, as he made us a salad for dinner, I felt the least I could do was watch it. And yeah, it's funny. 

I'd bought some chestnuts in Switzerland (grown in Italy though apparently) and we roasted them in the oven. Lewis had never had roasted chestnuts before either! I thought it was a standard english tradition to go chestnut picking and then roast them, but that must just have been my idyllic Billericay youth. Despite my insistence that they had to be eaten straight from the shell, Lewis still tried to get us to add them to the salad instead. I wouldn't let him have that victory and was quite satisfied when we ate so many chestnuts that the salad was ignored. 

I'd agreed to meet my Dutch friend Marthe and Siemen at 9pm as they got off the bus from Utrecht, but had underestimated how long it would take to get to the station so I text asking to change the location and headed to Pigalle. I arrived a little later than planned and became increasingly concerned that they hadn't picked up my message when 30minutes passed and there was no sign of them. It was Halloween and I was standing on my own at 10pm in the seedy part of town. I've probably never been approached by a weirder, larger number of people ever. Ghosts, dead pirates, perverts and a skeleton holding a broomstick as a gun.

So it turns out Marthe was arriving the following day. On the offchance I'd made a mistake (unlikely), I checked the facebook message stream. Yeah, they were arriving on 1st November. I slunk back home to Lewis' and decided it was probably time to call it a day. I whacked my knee getting into bed, and wondered if these two things were some sort of sign that something bad was going to happen. 

As I was falling asleep Lewis came into the room, took off his trousers and did some press-ups.

End of day 30.

*Last time I came, whilst waiting for them to wrap my bottle of wine, I mentioned to the shop assistants in Nicolas that the tower was really just a big ole pylon, and not at all as impressive as films make out (all this said in jumbled French) while my friend Joella looked on in horror at my rudeness. I think they would probably have asked us out if not for that comment.