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 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.