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 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.

Day 28: Bern to Paris

Highlights:

• Blue skies and white snow in Bern
• La Fourmi cafe, and Leo
• Lewis' apartment in Paris

I had another mega breakfast at Landhaus. Albert was back, and he was on top form; making jokes and being extra helpful. I asked him if he was in fact Albert, and he said "as good as". I'm not sure what that means exactly.

I packed up and headed into town. It had stopped snowing, and the skies were clear blue. 

Occasionally the wind disturbed the snow on the trees, and so there were mini-snowfalls all along my route to the station. It was only a 4h train ride, but I stopped off at a Migros supermarket to stock up on supplies. It was huge! It sold all your standard groceries, but then had specialist counters selling clothing, flowers and even plaster of paris ornaments. I stocked up on water and supermarket swiss chocolate products to fulfill my gift quota. Sub-standard chocolate coming your way soon, friends and family. You lucky devils.

There was a panicked moment at the station when the lady told me you HAD to reserve a seat to Paris and then pulled a face when I asked if there were seats any left today. "I don't think so", she said, shaking her head. "We only allocate a few seats for interrailling". A minute later, she surprised herself by finding nine free seats. She seemed slightly annoyed to have made my trip so easy. I imagine she got some sort of sadistic pleasure out of sending heavily bag-laden travellers back to their hostels. But still, she reluctantly booked me on a train leaving in 5minutes, so I raced along Bern station to the Gleis (remember, that's platform in German), hitting numerous people with my heavy chocolate bag (I've had the German word "Entshuldigen" to hand from day 1 of this trip. I can't count how many times I've had to use it for pedestrians and, more commonly, cyclists, when they've had to skid to the side after I've plonked myself unexpectedly on their paths). I just made the train, and we pulled out of the station and headed to Basel SBB.

(Just a note for travellers, there's a Basel SBB and a Basel BBB. Very different, and about a 10minute train ride from each other. I almost got off at BBB on the way out before discovering last minute that it was the wrong station for international connections. Close call.)

I stopped off at Bretzelkonig (I'm presuming the translation is Pretzel King) at Basel station, and ordered a coffee. I clearly only speak Bavarian German, as when I asked for "only milk", the Swiss guy dumped some sugar in and then went on to the next customer. It wasn't good coffee, even with the sugar. Don't go there. Fortunately queuing at Bretzelkonig gave me a chance to see my Swiss hero for a second.

There was a delay to the Paris train, but I settled in to read some more of my wine tasting guide. I'm almost a pro, I think. I know all about tannins and acidity, and the whole wine making process. I can defining almost tell a Claret from a Beaujolais. The train filled up a little, with a ridiculous number of young babies. There must have been some sort of baby expo happening in Bern that weekend. Or some baby disciplinary event, as they were all crying.

We got moving after 30minutes, and were soon in France (according to my Orange advice texts, which have generally kept me informed on my whereabouts throughout). A French family of three sat down on the table opposite. There was a cute kid who the mum was making giggle by blowing raspberries in his hand. I glanced at the dad and he was looking annoyed. Odd. The kid went and stood near the door by his dad and was fiddling with something when the dad snapped and forcefully grabbed his arm to yank him away. Unsurprisingly, the kid started bawling it. Great. Me and another woman who'd been laughing at the cute kid, looked at each other in horror. The mum blew a few more raspberries and all was fine again, and the dad tried to join in too. I'm suspicious that he was just trying to save face after appearing so brutal to the kid.

We arrived at Paris Gare de Lyon at 4pm. I didn't have a map, but somehow figured we were in the South East. I needed to pick up the key from the apartment I was staying in and I'd also agreed to meet Leonor, my Parisian friend from university. She lived a few stops out into the suburbs from Place de Clichy, and we'd agreed to meet near Blanche for dinner. I was a little early so I grabbed a few Metros to the nearby Pigalle, and found a cool bar near the station called La Fourmi on Rue des Martyrs. This is in the Montmartre part of town, the area which includes the Sacre Coeur, the artist market, and then the seedy Pigalle section. It's where Amelie is set, so I love it.

La Fourmi was sort of a grungy hip bar, filled with a mix of young and old locals. Wine for €2.90. I had a Syrah, and sat trying to swirl the wine in this tiny glass to release the flavours. Limited success.

I was sending a innuendo-filled, flirty message to a friend of mine, when I accidentally glanced up and caught the eye of the bartender, who gave me a wink. I must have carried the flirtness in my gaze. Whoops. This carried on the whole evening, when I kept accidentally sending him cheeky looks. It made for an awkward moment at the bar when I think he assumed I'd come to follow-up, and I just wanted another drink. I kept myself occupied waiting for Leo, by texting my friend Lewis (whose apartment I was staying at)
to rub in the fact I was in a cool bar in Paris whilst he was still in London, attempting some French. He was arriving the next day, but instead of writing 'Je te vois demain' (or on se vois), meaning 'I see you tomorrow', I wrote 'Je te veux'. You guys can google that. Glad I used it on him and no one else.

Lewis recommended I use it on a local hottie (I'm not sure he used the word hottie). At that exact moment, I felt someone approach the table. 'Helloooo', I thought. Now might be the time. I looked up to find a cross between Einstein, Robin Williams and the stoned photo hut guy from That 70s Show. He wanted to charge his laptop in my socket (calm down, it was next to my table). Perhaps not the time.

Leo arrived, and it was refreshing to see a familiar face after a few weeks away. I was collecting her apartment key to pass on to our Dutch friend Marthe, and her new husband* who were coming to Paris that week. Leo now had an internship in London, so unfortunately wouldn't be there as well. She'd just finished studying Law (Europeans seem to study FOREVER) and would be in London for 2months working for Total (the energy company). We sat chatting for a while, before I headed off to the metro to go to Lewis' apartment.

I stayed here for 10 days in July, so it was cool to notice that I remembered a lot of the area. Rather than change lines, I got off two stops away from Lewis' local metro Wagram and found my way back to his apartment on Rue Ampere. His housemate Isabelle let me in, and I dumped my heavy bags in relief. In July, I'd accidentally locked Lewis' keys in his flat ten minutes after arriving (let's not talk about that) so Isabelle had let me in before, and must think I'm a little bit special. She was studying film editing and had a beginning of term party that night to go to. We sat in their cool living room (it feels like a New York Artist apartment to me. Everything is white, the walls are bare apart from dvds and paintings resting on the floor against them, and there are huge windows looking out onto the street. There are a line of glassed doors leading into the living room as well. One of the coolest apartments I've been to) and talked for a while about film, weather and the future, before I went to bed on the most uncomfortable mattress known to humanity.

End of day 28.

* So in late September, I flew to Holland to go to Marthe's wedding. After a night in Amsterdam with my friend Jonny, I'd headed to Utrecht and met up with Marthe and Leonor. After a great weekend (seriously great. We cycled to and from the church for the wedding. Crazy), I was sitting at Amsterdam airport reluctantly waiting to fly home when this whole trip suddenly occurred to me. So rather than think about it too much, whilst sitting there I just booked my one way ticket to Berlin for 8 days later, and my interrailing pass. Bosh. So meeting Leo and Marthe in Paris felt like a great rounding off of the whole experience.