Day 34: Paris

Highlights:

• Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique
• Pere Lachaise Cimitiere and trying to think up goat puns
• Parc de Buttes Chaumont
• Wolfing down a WHOLE baguette

Lewis got up early to get the Eurostar so after he left, I took the opportunity to have a mega lie-in. When I got up I whacked on disc 6 of Bernstein's symphonies; Hector Berlioz. I only know Berlioz's name from his namesake in Disney's Aristocats (just discovered a disney wiki - http://disney.wikia.com/wiki/Berlioz), so went into the listening pretty deaf. Hands down, he's now my favourite composer. I listened to Symphonie Fantastique (aptly named) and then Bernstein give a little extra information about how modern this piece was.

Midway through the second listen (I know I don't really have time for repeat playings, but I viewed it as probably being a rare gem amongst a field of rocks, so it seems worth it. I'll fast forward through some of the rocks) I received an email in my inbox from the Stereophonics, offering their latest single for free. Jackpot. I paused Berlioz and downloaded 'In A Moment'. I happily throw away all my musical credibility when I say I LIKE IT. I wouldn't even call myself a Phonics fan anymore (t-shirt that I take travelling aside) but Kelly's voice just gets better and better. I recommend you ALL download it, but if you don't have anything nice to say about it, don't say anything at all.

It wasn't raining so I headed to Pere Lachaise to see some celeb resting places. It was just before midday, but on the Metro I found myself sitting opposite an older guy who was absolutely smashed. I got off a stop early, concerned he was about to vomit all over me. I never thought I'd say this, but I sort of miss English binge drinking culture. Sure it's dangerous and ridiculously problematic, but at least it's generally restricted to the evenings. You can avoid it if need be by just hanging out at somewhere that isn't an Essex Wetherspoons. I've seen a ridiculous number of daytime drunks on mainland Europe in comparison, which somehow seems more offensive. And in this case it meant that I risked getting lost yet again by plonking myself in an unfamiliar part of town and hoping for the best.

I picked a direction, and committed, passing by a few posters for the awfully titled film 'Nous York', where the 'O' is actually replaced by a heart. Jeesh.

I remembered from my guide book that some of the big names were buried in division 6th; it was slightly disconcerting when I entered the cemetery in the 63rd division - it was going to be a long afternoon. I started taking a wander round, vaguely looking at my guide for inspiration. I found Balzac (remember him from the Rodin sculptures? The proud naked man?), someone called Georges Bizet and then tried to make my way to Edith Piaf.

Using the sort of selective synchronisity that I live by, I decided against going to the Jim Morrison grave, as I don't know anyone who likes him more than they like vintage Doors T-Shirts, but I did go to Oscar Wilde, as my friend Becky always praised him as being her favourite author (I think she did her dissertation on him also. Right, Becky?). His was cordoned off to stop fans coming and accidentally trashing his grave with kisses (photo coming soon).

Perfect cemetery weather (as a hideous American girl said (presumably on her way to Jimbo's grave), 'haven't we, like, had the best weathurrr'). A bit cold but sunny, and the shadows fell from the graves across all the fallen autumn leaves, giving it a beautiful but still gritty graveyard feel.

It was pretty cool to crunch your way across the leaves around all these different graves, trying to find Victor Noir (who?) and Sarah Bernhardt (remember her from the Mucha posters?), if a little disrespectful in the first place to view the graves as a tourist site. Still, they gave out maps and the entrances and it was surrounded by cemetery souvenir shops, so I didn't let that bother me too much and did a bit of celeb grave happy snapping. It was actually the only place I've really heard English being spoken recently, so clearly full of proper tourists (I presume I'm allowed to refer to myself as a non-tourist as I've spent 20 days here this year?). However, the cemetery is still being added to now (at a ridiculously high cost), and despite the tourists it definitely became more mourningful as you passed recent graves. There was a section for Holocaust victims, containing a few pieces of symbolic sculpture, and a section for fallen soldiers which was maintained with beautiful flowers.

Some graves were difficult to identify. I presume this one was a famous goat author, or goat academic who somehow in my 25 years I've not been told about. (3 euro on offer for the best goat author pun):

I decided to resume my standard city exploration by foot, and walked north from the cemetery up to Parc Buttes Chaumont. It reminded me of the steep park in Prague I visited on the last day (with the Javelin throwers), as people were lined up on the benches facing the sun and looking at the view of Paris. Very nice. I was in 20th and 19th Arrondissements, and these were honestly the first neighbourhoods that I actually saw non-white faces. Paris, more than anywhere else I've been, sadly seems to have an exclusive correlation between race and wealth. The area reminded me of Whitechapel, with the remnants of a street market being cleaned up by an army of binmen, and the streets dotted with bit-shops and kebaberies. I saw my second Parisian carcrash on Rue de Menilemont, and decided to race past in case they asked me to be a witness. It got busier and the shops became nicer as I walked up Rue de Secretan (like Guy from Green Wing!) until I reached the Canal St Martin. It was packed, so I decided to grab a Metro at Jaures back to Montmartre and visit the canal on a weekday.

I hadn't eaten since breakfast and had been walking for hours, so I stopped off at a Boulangerie. I was going to just have a nibble, but as I sat taking a break on the Abbesses square, I ended up eating an entire Traditional Baguette. It was warm and it was delicious. I don't feel even an iota of guilt or gluttony. I was on a bench, when I heard some posh, rah English girls having a conversation behind me. I think the lines that summed up the sort of people they are, were "Oh god, isn't it suuuuch a nightmare to get from Putney to Baron's Cross?" and "Me, Annie and Teddy were absolutely waaaasted and when we got in, the boys had a fight with our thongs. What a mentaaal night". I imagine they had friends called Biffy and Hugh also.

I'd had enough of English people for the day, so went to La Fourmi for a small red wine (Robin Williams/Einstein/That70sShow Dude was there again!) and then walked home.

I had a full on bath and then went to bed. Standard Sunday night.

End of day 34.

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.