Day 35: Paris

Highlights:

• Blitzstein's Airborne Symphony
• Running around Parc Monceau
• Monoprix to Chablis

I listened to Bernstein's own compositions next (Beethoven, Berlioz, Bernstein... you can guess the way these discs are ordered). I didn't like it. It was no heart breaking Puerto Rican passionate love story. I skipped it, and went on to the next composer. I've not got time for this rubbish. This next piece by Marc Blitzstein* was much more up my alley. It came with a sort of (what I imagine, as I've never seen) Pirates of Penzance chorus singing. Like 'A Girl Worth Fighting For' in Mulan. Much jollier. It also had some unusual narration, but I really liked that. Feeling slightly concerned about the disc per day ratio I'd left myself with (erm, 2.1 days and c. 51 discs), I went for a treble today and whacked on a bit of Brahms next, whilst getting ready to go for a run.

The sun had been shining, the wind direction was probably alright, and the streets were clear. Perfect nonchalant jogging conditions. I stepped onto the street, literally took three paces and it started raining cats and dogs. Chats et Chiens. So as to not look like a total idiot who'd got caught out by the rain, I ran once around the block and then put on a display of 'I've just run 20km' exhaustion as I neared my apartment block. I met a few eyes and had that sort of 'oh, isn't it good that I got back as the rain started?' funny relief shared look, and then ran up the five flights of stairs to at least get some form of workout.

I listened properly to Brahms for a bit and then decided to brave the rain. Screw it. A true runner would be out regardless. I was Paula bloody Radcliffe! As I went out again, completely in reverse the rain turned to sun after three paces. I jogged down to Parc Monceau and did a few laps, dipping in and out of the centre to see the monuments and to cross the bridges. The main entrance had cleared as I neared it the second time, and it took a blast of grit and dust to my face for me to realise people had got out of the way of the (what I can only call) dust movers. You know those guys who move the leaves in parks to one big pile using those big exhaling hoovers? These were like them, but as far as I can tell they just moved the excess path dust out of the park onto the surrounding roads. So that pleasantly put a layer of dirt on my face for the rest of the run. People started giving me strange looks, but that might also have been because of my out-of-training beetroot face and buzz lightyear sans-helmet gasps for air.

Felt on top form after the run so after a quick shower and some food**, I went out for an exploration. I was on the look out for some stereotypical parisian baby clothes for little Charge Gridley-Stickland back home (I was hoping for baby sized stripey shirts, baby sized berets and baby dummy strings that looked like garlic rings but no such luck). In the baby section of the Monoprix (I get the feeling this is the Wilkinsons/Primark Paris equivalent - the baby's not going to know the difference between slave labour goods and some high quality Yves St Laurent) I heard this really creepy female humming. Like a scene in a horror film, where it's silent except for the psycho nurse's singing, or Omar's whistling from The Wire. I looked round the corner, and she was just sort of eerily stroking some baby clothes, whilst humming some sort of rock-a-bye-baby tune. I legged it. Any longer and that voice would have seeped into my nightmares.

I headed to Le Dom cafe, which was on a corner I'd passed a billion times. It looked pretty cool from the outside, but only after I'd ordered my Chablis (wine tasting!) did I pick up on the shit pop playing in the background. Shit pop meets bad dance music. It was awful. I quickly Del Boy-accented 'L'addition Sil Vous Plait' and got outta there. Good Chablis though (AOC, Laroche) and it came with some free olives.

I stopped off for some dinner goods on the way home (olives, baby tomatoes and some french palmier biscuits. With the remaining red wine I had at the flat, that pretty much constitutes a balanced diet) and then settled in for the evening, listening to that Stereophonics track (which also coincidentally starts with some eerie whistling on repeat) as Lewis had cruelly unwired the speakers in his room and I could only play music on my phone. I did some housework (trying to remember what normal life is like, and get back into some sort of normality) and then listened to Adam and Joe's points of view music to send me to sleep. Bluh-biddy.

End of day 35.

*I've just wikipediad Blitzstein. Apparently he was a good friend of Bernstein (presumably bonding over their similar names) until he was murdered in 1964 by three Portuguese sailors
**I think I've forgotten how to cook. For lunch I made myself pasta, seasoned with salt, pepper and herbes des provence, and then scrambled some egg into the drained pasta and added some balsamic vinegar. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was hardly fine cuisine. Just thinking back on it makes me pull a funky face

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.