Day 37: Paris to London

Highlights:

• Familiarity with the Boulangerie Assistant
• Tony Shaw's Tour of London
• Ligretto and Game of Knowledge, a 80s children's trivial pursuit

After checking the election results, I packed quickly in the morning (did I mention that I'd washed and folded all my clothes already?) and then went for a quick farewell to the Boulangerie. Turns out she knew my order already; two croissants and a baguette tradition. I've only been here ten days. I 100% believe I haven't eaten 20 croissants and 10 baguettes. That's insane. I also stopped off for some journey supplies, and accidentally became involved in one customer's annoyance with the staff. I made some French sounding 'ooh la la, non, merh' sounds in response which seemed to satisfy her though I had NO idea what she was talking about. I went to take a quick photo of Mavis (below) and then went back to tidy up and listen to another Bernstein. 

Like all international high-flyers, I was getting the Megabus home. On Wednesdays, if you're under 26, the maximum you pay on any journey is £5. If you have £2.50 of T*sco club card points, this doubles in megabus vouchers and pays for the entire journey. So for this bus ride, I only had to pay a 50p reservation fee. Seriously. 50p to get home from Paris.  The bus station was at Porte Maillot just slightly north west of where I was, so I grabbed my final Metro and then an RER line (which I think is their overground?). It wasn't exactly clear where you had to go as you came out of the RER station, but I asked and found you had to just walk past the Palais des Congres, and then turn right and you can see a few buses parked up. Not an obvious, huge bus park, but a little common sense will get you there. I don't know why I thought the driver of the Mega Bus would be French, but I started trying to say "J'ai un billet pour Londres" when in his best southern accent said 'You're going to London? I'm going to London too!'. What a joker. He greeted all the passengers like they were long lost friends. Calvin, his name was. He made a few more jokes and then we were on our way.

So after trying to defend English humour to Isabelle, I was somewhat struggling as Calvin told an anecdote about how he saw a man give a homeless guy some food. The guy's face lit up then fell as he realised it was some Pedigree Chum for his dog. The driver thought it was classic. He laughed for ages. I felt like crying for that poor man. The only thing that cheered me up was discovering the free WiFi on the bus. 50p for a half-full bus with toilet (I didn't try it, but the whole bus looked pretty clean/modern), a Ferry crossing and free WiFi. Brilliant. We raced through France, which was looking pretty grey and miserable, and at some point along the way when I must have been napping, Calvin got off and someone else started driving us. An easy bit of passport control at Calais, and we made the earlier ferry crossing than planned. 

Not really much to say about ferries, is there? We were on the Spirit of Britain if that's of any interest? You can read more about it on this informed website (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1345529/Spirit-Britain-Biggest-cross-Channel-vessel-steams-Dover-port.html). Look at those pictures and just imagine me and some strangers sitting there, charging our phones. I bought some Fireman Sam tissues (he's Welsh, you know) and then had to defend myself to the shop assistant for my choice. He obviously thought we were kindred spirits and broke into an anecdote about Andy Pandy or something. He was trying out Movember but definitely fell into the looks-like-a-sex-offender-who-lurks-in-park-playgrounds category.

We pulled into Dover. I took a deep breath to prepare myself for miserable England (Facebook updates from my UK friends over the past few weeks have been mainly about the weather) and looked out above the White Cliffs with a sense of foreboding only to see a nice blue/purple sky, with the sun just setting. Beautiful! It didn't take long for that feeling to fade though, and I felt myself descending into post-holiday blues. I sulked as it got dark quickly, and I put on some Bon Iver to match my mood. But as we neared London, I decided to fix up. I spotted Canary Wharf in the distance and I put some big songs on that would bring the city to life. Elbow, Arcade Fire, Alabama Shakes, Beck and then as we drove properly into the centre, I put on some solid music*. 

So despite having been all over Europe and seen so many cool cities, London is still an impressive city to come into. Landmarks aside, other features had all of a sudden developed a nostalgic warmth. Never before have New Cross Gate station and Elephant and Castle roundabout looked so beautiful. The big Tesco near Old Kent Road looked like some sort of architectural masterpiece. The kebaberies and insert-any-word-here-FCs (Fried Chicken) houses looked mouth-watering. The bus crossed the Thames (probably the best European river?) and I could see Big Ben (Is it Elizabeth Tower now?) all lit up and the London Eye in all its Ferris Wheel glory. What a sight. 

We pulled into Victoria Station around 6pm, and my brilliant housemate Tony was waiting in his car ("Barbara, call me Barbs") to pick me up. It was peak rush hour (yeah, so London is the worst city in Europe that I've seen for traffic. Paris second worst), so we ended up taking a slow tour through central London. It was just as good as, if not better than, arriving in the European cities. We drove past Buckingham Palace (Tour Guide Tony 'That's Parliament), down the Mall (Tony - "That's Marble Arch"), across Trafalgar Square, seeing the National Gallery and Nelson's Column (Tony - "That's Cleopatra's Needle"), along Embankment seeing Somerset House, the National Theatre and the new Blackfriars Solar-powered Bridge (which is actually really cool if you haven't seen it - http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/picture/2012/jul/05/blackfriars-solar-bridge). Up past the Crossrail works near Farringdon (apparently even with this super-fast new train, it's still going to take 46minutes from Shenfield to Farringdon. That doesn't seem much more of a timesaver than the current train service....), seeing St Paul's (Tony - "That's the Shard) and the Shard lit up with red lights (Tony - "That's St Paul's").

So an interesting development; we passed a bus which advertised the PQA (Pauline Quirke Academy of Performing Arts). Seems somewhat niche. Also, seems people have mastered the Boris Bike Wheelie since I've been gone? That was pretty impressive. I also listened to my first ever Zane Lowe (WHO'S ON BOARD?) as we drove up through Angel. He announced that they're playing Arcade Fire's 'Neon Bible' in full next week as part of their 'Masterpieces' segment. Apparently mixed in with interviews with the band. We headed to Becka's house just off Essex Road. Wednesday night is normally Dodgeball night (we're in a league, and our team seem to have suspiciously only started winning since I've been away...), but there was a week off (following the Fancy Dress special the previous week) so the team had congregated at Becka's for a games night. There was a beautiful reunion with my friend/editor/landlord Abbie, and then after dinner we got on with the serious business of Ligretto (http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=ligretto). This is actually a really fun game, if a tad aggressive with certain players, so I'd recommend it. Then we played some 1980s kid's board game that we found in the corner of the room called GAME OF KNOWLEDGE. It was a bit like Trivial Pursuit but instead of cheeses you got planet rings. The questions might have been easy in the 80s, so even by answering the kids questions, it was a bit tricky ("Who is the current pope?" etc). I've found a link for it but bear in mind, this version is MUCH more modern than ours. Our cards were all crusty and dusty. The game asking about English 1980s general knowledge was perhaps slightly more difficult for the Canadian players amongst us (http://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3514/game-of-knowledge).

After a few serious hours of gaming, we up and left, passing this creepy mofo on the way out:

Back home, I found my new Kindle Fire waiting for me, but even better, a new hob. A hob that can heat up in under 20minutes. What a treat. Tony is probably the only 20something guy I know who could fit a new hob by himself; he's a total DIY marvel. 

I went to bed on my MEMORY FOAM (which I'm pretty sure remembered me. It seemed to sigh with relief at my return), wearing new pyjamas and fell asleep watching an episode of Red Dwarf on my Kindle Fire.

End of Day 37.

* A selection of my Driving-into-London playlist: Talking Heads (Naive Melody), Blur (End of a Century), Django Django (Default), Arcade Fire (Rebellion), Alabama Shakes (Hold On), Elbow (One Day Like This), Jamie T (Sticks and Stones), Supergrass (Moving), Beck (Think I'm in Love), De La Soul Presents Plug One and Plug Two (Must Be the Music) and Bloc Party (One More Chance)

Day 36: Paris

Highlights:

• St Germain de Pres/Latin Quarter, past Notre Dam into Place de Viviani
• L'Ambassade de Bourgogne - a friendly Burgundian wine tasting shop
• Il pleut comme un vache qui pisse - Abbie's helpful knowledge of the French equivalent of 'raining cats and dogs' - translation 'it rains like a cow that pisses'

I had a few more Brahms discs to listen to, but I really had to plough on. I had a coffee and some juice and listened to Anton Bruckner. My review; bit dull. Don't look him up when there are gems like Berlioz out there. I went to the Lavarie to do some laundry, since the machine in Lewis' apartment was broken. Let me just get the smugness out of the way early; I did my month's load of washing BEFORE going home. None of that awful unpacking/washing misery for me. Done. Dusted. I imagine you're all, at best, pretty indifferent to this but I think you should all happy that I'M happy.

Whilst I was waiting for the laundry, I went on a search for some lipbalm for my friend Fern. There are heaps and heaps of pharmacies in Paris, all seemingly independent and pretty poorly stocked. You're also not really allowed to browse. They pounce on you as soon as you enter; no opportunity to surreptitiously pick up herpes cream or wart plasters in France. They need a good Boots. I didn't find the 'Topicrem' I was looking for but the more stores I went to, the more confident I became saying 'Avez-vous Topicrem? Ici (showed picture). C'est pour les Levres'. Of all the language I've accumulated over the trip, I won't forget les Levres (lips) or Gleis (platform in German). Those two words are cemented in the old noodle forever.

I had a coffee and pain au raison in the boulangerie. After an expensive €4 euro coffee I'd had yesterday, the €2.85 for both coffee and pastry here was a treat. More tasty too. It's definitely useful to know price differences like this, and also the difference in one bar between drinking at your table or at the bar (a Comptoir). Isabelle (Lewis' housemate) advised that if you do sit at the bar though, you're generally subjecting yourselves to the advances of the old, male builders that have been going there every day for 30 years.

I came back to the apartment, did some cleaning (note how good a house guest I am. Feel free to invite me to any of your exotic, worldwide pads), and finished my camembert. I'm probably going to need a six month break from that cheese given how much I've eaten here. Then, because I'd done bugger all the previous day (which I imagine I didn't successfully disguise under pointless anecdotes in yesterday's blog) and because it was really sunny, I headed out to do a self-guided walking tour in Paris.

Of all the travel and city guides available, I really think the best ones are probably the AA (like the car insurers) Guides. They're easy to read through, have a good level of information, and also provide a few walking tours for you to follow, giving a bit of history/context to the points on the way. In July I did the Montmartre walk with Joella, and it took you down all these back streets which were completely empty but so much more interesting than the main routes. We'd been led through a park dedicated to a decapitated monk (complete with morbid statue of the monk holding his head in his hands - literally), past a vineyard and an old dance hall, and then up to the back of the Sacre Coeur where there's a quaint trellised park with a fountain. Locals were having lunch in the park, but other than that the area was completely empty. Despite being a really good angle for photos, there were no people on the north side of the Sacre Coeur. You walk 30metres round to the south side and it's PACKED. Tourists, illegal street vendors (who comically all pegged it when they got word that a policeman was coming) and commercial artists. From this beautiful, calm side to utter tourist hell in the space of 10seconds. So yeah, you can get cool walking tours like that in the AA Guide. Lonely Planet don't give enough info, and Time Out is often too expensive and exclusive.

So with this guide in hand (there was no subtle way of holding it; you had to embrace looking like a mega tourist. I put my camera around my neck to complete the look, and if I'd had a backpack, I'd have worn it on my front) I got off the Metro at St Michel and started the tour. Without realising it, I'd gone to the same place Lewis had brought us for the Lebanese Kebab post-gym. It's difficult to judge where you're going when you're yelping with excitement on the back of a Vespa (photo of Mavis coming soon), so I hadn't known that we were so close to the Notre Dame (I'm not a complete 'tard, Lewis. It was dark and I'd been shakey from the gym...). I walked down Rue de la Huchette, which was full of little kebaberies and restaurants and then onto a small street by the river full of book shops, new, second hand and antique. Paris still has a sort of separation of retail, by store and by area. Things are grouped together by area, but most shops are specialist. The convenience culture of department stores/T*sco superstores hasn't picked up here, and it's brilliant. I went through a little park by the river called Place de Viveni (I think) and took some artistic photos of the Notre Dame through flowery archways and stuff. This garden was famous for having the oldest Acacia trees in Paris or something. I'm not sure anyone would even bother to contest such a insignificant fact.

As I left the park, I saw a group of homeless men. Nothing quite defines Parisian culture like a homeless man snacking, not on fried chicken and chips, but on cheese and red wine. I'll add the photo when I get home. 

Passed a few nice churches and then had to cross a busy street in the Latin Quarter (which the guide called 'the main artery of the quarter'). It was full of junk shops and stalls selling berets (not kidding). Seriously, at 3 berets for €10, the French are laughing all the way to stereotype fulfilment!

I found myself on the street we'd got a crepe before going to the Sangria bar. I also hadn't realised how close these locations were. It makes me suspect that Lewis deliberately tried to make me believe he knew Paris like the back of his hand by purposely taking me to different entrances to the one part of town he knows. Not complaining though; it's a cool area. I bought another crepe and wandered up Rue De L'Odeon. I figured I should probably get a Sangria to finish my trip off, but Bar Dix was shut! 4pm on a Tuesday and it was shut! Sacre bloody bleu. 



I walked down the road a little disheartened before discovering a place called L'Ambassade de Bourgogne (I mean, it really was only a little down the street, being at number 6 compared to Bar Dix's 10). It was a wine shop/bar for wines purely from Burgundy (which is the English translation of Bourgogne). I figured this way I could at least do a little wine tasting for the road.

I ordered a Fleurie (a wine we used to sell at Stockbrook Manor in Billericay, which was a few wines more expensive than house) in my best French accent, though he only understood me when I resorted to an English accent. They didn't have it so he suggested a Chirouble (Vincent Geoffroy, 2011) which was the cheapest on the menu at €4. It wasn't bad, but the flavour was pretty uncommentable. Great legs though (which we all now know means the dribbles that stays down the side of the glass after you've tipped and rightened it again). Pour seule €4, je ne peux pas etre miserable!* After this, I asked the younger assistant in French to see the menu. He laughed a little, but seemed tounderstand. I wondered if I'd accidentally said something wrong. After a bit of guidance from my wine tasting kindle guide, I called the older assistant over and ordered a glass of the Hautes Cotes de Nuits (high coasts of nights?) and some fromage pour vin rouge (I had an English menu, so I translated this back into French to be polite). This guy chuckled at me also, but understood my order. I generally take the laughter and smiles in response to my French as affectionate encouragement, but I asked him why he was laughing; was my French so bad? He smiled and said 'No, I like the way it sounds!'

I don't mean to toot my own accordion, but I have gone down a storm in Paris. With my shit french and vague ineptitude, the French seem to be lapping it up. In the UK, at best I'm amusingly clumsy and at worst annoyingly 'special', but over here I seem to be completely endearing. J'etais habiter dans le wrong country! The crepe guy had laughed and smiled at me kindly, the boulangerie ladies all laughed cheerfully with me and the lady at the chocolate shop I went to later gave me a free petit Fiorentine also after I asked for just one to eat now. I was going to pay! This guy in the Burgundy shop came out with my wine and told me I'd have to drink a bit of it quickly as he'd given me a large glass for free, and the boss would be angry if he saw when he came back. The younger guy chipped in that the boss was grumpy, and we all joked around for a bit. I really love the Parisians I've met; they've not at all been like the rude people I was expecting. My advice is to stay away from the main touristy cafes if possible, smile, flirt and laugh a little with everyone (both sexes), and try out some French. You'll have a better experience because of it.

I bought a bottle of the Hautes Cotes de Nuits (Dames Huguettes Bertagna 2008) for my housemates, and then went to buy some of the cheeses I'd eaten. I stopped off at a 'Market' and a cute, poorly-sighted, small old French lady asked me to help her get some Beurre. I did my best, getting help from another French lady who saw I was struggling, and the old lady smiled and enthusiastically thanked me for my help. I picked up some Saint Nectaire and Chaource cheese and then went on a search for a small bottle of champagne. I figured as it was the last night of my trip I should do something memorable like sit watching the Eiffel Tower's lights sparkle in the dark, drinking champagne from a plastic cup, thinking about life and all its meanings. I stopped off to buy some macaroons (those haven't made it home as gifts as intended. They made it into my belly later that evening) and then had a big experience in Monoprix, in a last ditch attempt to find Fern's lipbalm and some baby clothes. Annoyingly, still no sign of stripey baby shirts or mini berets. Most of the clothes had English slogans on the front also. How's baby Charge going to become a successful language-speaking tour de france winner and/or architect if grows up wearing tops saying 'Cool Baby' on them? (Also, I'm pretty sure if you have to TELL people your baby is cool, it probably isn't...). I found something satisfactory, bought two mini champagnes (a quality one and a cheap one to see if I could tell the difference. Champagne tasting) and headed back to the apartment to freshen up. SIDE NOTE So I figured I'd probably at least mastered French pronunciation, if nothing else. The stop next to my local Metro, Wagram, is called Malesherbes. How do you think that would be pronounced? Giving my best French I'd haze a guess at Mal-e-sherb-e. Nope. It's mal-zerb. This language is so difficult.

I was slumped in the chair listening to Aaron Copland when Isabelle walked in. We started chatting, and I decided to sack off the Eiffel Tower idea and offered to share my champagne with her. After a promising start, old Aaza Copland had plummeted so I switched it off and spent the evening getting tipsy with Isabelle, starting with a conversation on the Franco-Anglo differences and then proceeding through a range of subjects including Kevin Bacon, Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, Peep Show, Hungarian Ballet, Middle-Child Syndrome, WW2 causes and long-term effects, ways to overcome fear of flying, Kevin Bacon a bit more (I think my friend Hayley and I might be the only people in the world to love Kevin Bacon), French resistance, Judaism, books being the highest form of art, Carey Mulligan, Brad Pitt's World War Z (zombie film coming out in 2013, some of which was filmed in the Billericay area at Hanningfield reservoir) and Americans.

I went to bed worrying about a future without Obama.

End of day 36.

*I think being alone for a month, it's been acceptable to say various phrases in foreign languages in my head. I realise in person this will make me look like a right dick, so DON'T WORRY, I WON'T DO IT (cough >Je ne vais le faire< cough)

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 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 33: Paris

Highlights:

• Argument in the local Monoprix
• Film conversation with Isabelle
• Bar Dix with Marthe and Siemen
• Wayne Shorter at the Salle Pleyel

So I think I've made a good attempt at paying my way here. I mean, Lewis has provided the apartment, the scooter, he cooked most of the food and provided the Leonard Bernstein Symphony 60 disc boxset, but I went out to get the croissants again this morning whilst Lewis went to buy an iPhone. The normal Boulangerie was shut (it's a Saturday after all !) so I walked down Rue de Levis (Rue de Lewis) and stopped off at the Monoprix and then an alternative bakery. A young cashier was coming out of the storeroom in a huff. She was hobbling, and had obviously been asked to do something she didn't want to, like stacking shelves presumably. She stormed in front of me saying 'Je ne comprend pas!' a few times. I queued quite patiently for a while, with only one cashier in service. The lady was buzzing for help but no one came for 10minutes. Eventually her younger supervisor came out, and reluctantly helped out, then immaturely called the trolley man over and started whispering in his ear and then laughing whilst looking pointedly at the older lady. I wanted to deck him on her behalf. Dick.

I came back to the apartment and made Lewis a coffee (PAYING MY WAY) and sat speaking to his housemate Isabelle. She's originally from outside of Paris and had spent four years in Boston when she was younger, so her English is particularly good. Her dad was a Mathematician, and her mum was CEO for Sodexo's International business. In a slightly different style, Isabelle was studying film editing, though she admitted she had a natural ability for maths like her dad but it bored her. I told her about my attempt to plough through Bernstein's 60 discs over the next few days, and she said she'd been put off classical music after 7h car journeys being forced to listen to it by her dad as a kid. I reciprocated with my story about how my Dad had Johnny Cash's greatest hits stuck in his car cd player for 2 years. Similar.

Isabelle had spent a few days in the country with her parents for the holiday, but had come home a little early when she'd reached her family-time limit. We had a good conversation about Hitchcock (my new favourite Director, after seeing three films in a week at the BFI Festival this summer. 'The Lady Vanishes' was both of our favourite of his films. So much funnier and clever than I could have imagined) and then a good chat about the Alien trilogy; apparently the reason the Jean Pierre Jeunet (Amelie and Alien: Resurrection director) instalment was so awful was that no one respected him as a director. He was a mild, unassuming French guy without a great level of English, so the actors just didn't listen to him and did what ever they wanted. Hence Alien: Resurrection, which I haven't seen because I've heard it's the pits.

Lewis had work to do (though I suspected he spent a good few hours spending Angry Birds on his new iPhone), and I was meeting Marthe and Siemen later, so I kicked back with some good Camembert and read my Idiot's Guide to German. I've got a fair few of this series, clearly. Perfect for travelling and picking up nifty facts. Interestingly (you may all know this already but I'd call it my find of the day), I learned that the German for Thunder and Lightning is Donner und Blitz. Like the Reindeer. C'est tres interessant, oui?

I went to meet Marthe at my favourite Bar Dix Sangria Bar. They'd spent the day at the Sacre Coeur on Montmartre enjoying the view over Paris, probably the best place for it. We had some Sangria and reminisced about Essex University (our American friend Amanda falling down a muddy slope whilst wearing flipflops, then falling again when she tried to turn over and stand up, and Marthe crying with laughter for the next hour. As we talked about it, Marthe burst into peels of laughter again). Siemen told me about a series of airport security checks he'd been subjected to. A blonde, blue eyed dutch guy who somehow gets picked on around the world, then makes it worse by cracking up with laughter during questioning. The Chinese thought he didn't look like his passport picture (because all Westerners look the same) so he got taken to the side and had to sign his name five times to verify it was him. He was laughing the whole time of course.

I had to get back, so we left at 6.30pm and caught the Metro from L'Odeon, passing another mega queue in front of the cinema. They bloody love it here. On the Metro Marthe and I were trying to remember how to say 'The Laughing Cow' in French (yeah, the red laughing cow with cheese earrings. That's the one). Marthe commented that it must have sounded ridiculous to the French passengers to just hear an English and Dutch accent repeating (Le Vache Qui Rit!) again and again, and then cracking up with laughter, and repeating it again. Bloody tourists.

I was running late, so I actually ran back to the apartment from the Metro, sensing from Lewis' terse one word replies that he was annoyed at my timekeeping. I inhaled a plate of pasta (trop vit!), used the opportunity to put on my nice dress for the second time this trip, and then walked with Lewis to La Salle Pleyel on Rue du Faubourg (I recognise the word Faubourg from the Edith Piaf song 'L'Accordeoniste', but will have to research it later to give you and interesting fact about it). We were going to see Jazz Legend Wayne Shorter in concert with his quartet. I don't know much about Jazz. Lewis played some in the summer when I was getting ready for a temp job interview. It was hot, late on a Friday afternoon and I was trying not to drown in misery at being back in a suit. It was awful. The music was so unfamiliar, complex and hard to follow, that in my stressed state of mind I couldn't even begin to WANT to understand it. That was apparently Wayne Shorter (Lewis told me this after we'd bought the tickets for this show) but I figured a month of holiday had put me in a better frame of mind to understand it. This whole trip has been about trying new things, and taking advantage of whatever the cities and countries had to offer. It's led me to Kafka in Prague, photography in Krakow and Ballet in Budapest. And so Jazz at a famous venue in Paris seemed perfect. Lewis had played me some Wayne Shorter over the week and whilst I didn't completely get it, it made a bit more sense to me than before and I'd begun to enjoy it.

So Wayne Shorter is now almost 80, and had a famous period playing with Miles Davis in the 60s, and then (I've just learnt) playing on 10 studio albums for Joni Mitchell, as well as an expansive career with various other musicians and as a composer. He's primarily a Saxophonist in performance, though is by all accounts one of the greatest Jazz musicians alive, if not ever. Read more about him here if you're interested - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wayne_Shorter.

We arrived just in time, and the hall darkened, with just some sportlights on the four instruments on stage. The quartet (pianist, saxophonist, double bass and then drummer) came out to a huge applause and began to tune up and play. I couldn't follow the first piece. It was about 20minutes long, and I couldn't work out what was happening. It was like four threads of separate music were playing, and I wasn't sure where they joined to make music. The dim light made it hard to focus, and the warm room started putting me to sleep. But then the next piece began, and I focussed and thought about it - what was happening visually and musically, and what it might mean - and (whilst I'm not sure this is the interpretation Lewis or any other Jazz fan would ever have about this music) I put my own reading to it, and it became exciting and crazy and so powerful, it was almost overwhelming. The way I saw it was that unlike a standard rock album or pop concert or film score, the Jazz seemed a much more realistic soundtrack to life. I mean, you don't walk down the street to the building sounds of a violin crescendo, or to nifty little songs about emotion; you walk down the street to sounds of birds, mixed with traffic, and shouting and rainfall. Each sound is very independent of the other, and don't quite appear beautiful or even musical! But then sometimes the threads of sound cross over and you can suddenly hear them work together in complete harmony. Like those two snorers in Ljubljana who at one point sounded like a dubstep beat. Or the beginning of Little April Shower from Bambi (bear with me on these weird, unsophisticated reference points). So I began to listen to this Quartet like I was listening to these sounds in someone's life. But what would normally be the sound of traffic was instead a phenomenal piece by this incredibly talented drummer, and what would be rainfall was this cool, complex and unusual build up by this amazing pianist. And you could focus in on one instrument at once, or sometimes two that worked together, or then even three if you were paying attention. And then at these perfect moments, all four came together and it was absolutely incredible. Without looking at each other, they all completely lost themselves in their own and each other's sounds, with complete trust and respect, and began to play something amazing. And I found myself grinning, and laughing and sitting on the edge of my seat and completely lapping it up. The drummer was bouncing about on his stool and when he sledge-hammered on one drum, the double bassist seemed to be physically forced back from him for a nanosecond, before diving back onto his instrument with a battering that felt like he was joining the drummer in battle.

This may be the ponciest thing you've ever read, but I'm not really sorry as this is what I felt and thought whilst I was watching, and what made it a powerful and exciting experience for me. I'm so, so glad I went, and had someone to introduce me to a genre I never thought I'd get. The quartet played for 1hr 45 solid (this guy is 79!), and then came on for an encore. This older guy next to me (not Lewis) was buzzing with excitement. He let out a 'Wow' at some point as he grinned away, and literally leapt out of his chair to applause at the end. It was really endearing, and it felt an honest reaction rather than a show he was putting on for other people, which is sometimes what I sense at a gig.

We poured out with the rest of the audience, a bit stunned and walked home, having a quick glass of some poor supermarket Bordeaux I'd bought, and then hitting the hay. I eventually fell asleep after one of Lewis' neighbours ended their heavy bass-filled party and my body stopped rattling.

End of day 33.

Day 32: Paris

Highlights:

• Bateaux Mouches
• Les Deux Moulins and Creme Brulee
• Scooter to a Friday night French Gym session

With a coffee and croissant, I listened to Beethoven's 2nd, 7th, 4th and 5th (duh duh duh, duuuuuh, da da da daaaaa) Symphonies before skipping to disc 56 to listen to some Sibelius. I reckon I can make a significant dent on this stuff before leaving. Master wine tasting, tanka writing and classical symphonies. I then listened to Lewis give me a healthy dose of grief about how sarcastic I am. I think I probably responded with the finest sarcasm I could muster. Highest form of wit.

I got the train to Assemblee Nationale via Saint Lazare (said in my finest English accent to annoy Lewis). You can buy 10 tickets at once on the Metro - costing €12.70 instead of €17 - to be used at any time, so really worth the money. There was an Accordion busker on the metro, so I sneakily listened in without him knowing, and vaguely paid attention to Michel Thomas teaching me how to ask someone to come to dinner, because I have something very important to tell them. Can't see me using that line over the next few days.

Marthe, Siemen and I had planned to go to the Musee d'Orsey, but there was the most ridiculously long queue outside. The only way I can quantify it is saying it's the largest queue I've ever seen. You can question me on previous queue sightings when I get back. Surprising really to discover any sort of orderly queueing in Europe. It's normally an imploite free-for-all. Anyway, we really couldn't see the point of queuing two hours for probably a one hour viewing. Because of the 1st November Thursday public holiday, most people also take the Friday off to make a long weekend, so that could explain all the visitors. Can't imagine the Brits spending two hours queuing outside the latest
V&A exhibit on a bank holiday.

The weather was pretty shocking, so we decided to get the Bateaux Mouches
(Fly Boats I think might be the translation?) from Pont de l'Alma. I figure you can't do the boat tours in every city because they'd become really dull (Europe all looks relatively similar, and a river is a river), but Paris has probably got to be a good choice. €11.50 a ticket for an hour's ride, and then a fairly priced small bottle of Evian for €2.50...They had an option called the 'Night ride 'yes'' tour, which involved a greeting by the Captain followed by a romantic dinner for two on a boat, being serenaded by a violin and piano, drinking champagne and eating chocolates...presumably all as a set up for a cringingly unoriginal proposal, where the lady is presumably too bombarded by the sickening display around her to say no.

It was raining from time to time, but Marthe and I went out to the front and took some photos of the Notre Dame (translation 'Our Dome') and the Eiffel Tower, whilst Siemen took a nap. I was going to drop in my knowledge of Gustave Eiffel, but Marthe beat me to it. Going to have to save those facts for someone else.

After the boat ride, we headed up to Montmartre (translation is 'martyr mountain' I think) by Metro. It felt like rush hour London; we were proper sardines. Marthe joked that she was going to use the opportunity to pinch my bum, and I eyed a few dodgy men who probably were actually doing that to unsuspecting women. We got off at Place de Clichy and headed to Les Deux Moulins on Rue Lepic.

(Photo taken in July 2012)

Presumably everyone knows why this is famous? It's the cafe that Amelie Poulain works at in the film 'Amelie', and whilst it's now the sort of tourist spot that I'd usually avoid, I've yet to meet an Amelie fan I dislike and figured at least the guests would be at worst decent and at best, lifelong friends I'd yet to make. We were sat at a table and had a look at the basic menu; seemingly it only served a few types of brunch and then Creme Brulee (one of Amelie's favourite experiences is obviously cracking the top of a creme brulee with the side of a spoon), so we all ordered a portion, and then later some pommes frites. A nice dinner course reversal of dessert first, mains second. The cafe is only slightly adapted from the film, with a few film posters up on the walls, a few extra tables added and the tabac store removed. I guided myself to the loo based on the scene where two customers have sex in the bathroom (success!) and whilst being pretty grubby like most French toilets*, the wall was covered with photos of Amelie's dad's garden gnome in front of famous sites around the world.

When I first watched Amelie, I assumed it was set in a town just outside of Paris, as the images didn't at all match my visions of Paris. It mentioned the Notre Dame, but I figured she'd gone on a day trip. Only on visiting Paris did I realise the film is actually just set entirely in the Montmartre area. Amelie's love interest works in a sex shop called 'Palace Video' on Boulevard de Clichy, and she lived in a flat up the hill from the cafe.

After our food, I took Marthe and Siemen on a mini-guide of Montmartre. I was aiming for the Abbesses Metro but of course got us lost. To M&S, I described it as an intentional 'early evening meandering stroll around a nice part of town'. The roads all rise up to the base of the Sacre Coeur, so at least we worked off half a teaspoon of creme brulee going up the steep roads. I eventually found what I was looking for. The wall of love, with 'I Love You' written in a gazillion other languages. Unfortunately, the park was shut so you couldn't actually see it, making my tour somewhat pointless (though see the photo below that I took in the summer). Redeemed it slightly by going into the St Jean de Montmartre L'Eglise. It was a large church just off the main Abbesses courtyard and with it's wide open doors, it felt welcoming where many other churches feel exclusive or intimidating. The style seemed more rustic than a traditional church, with wooden domed ceilings and dim lighting, and it had a real warmth despite being so wide and sparse.

I knew my way from here, and left M&S at the cinema looking up times for Skyfall whilst I walked back to the apartment. Lewis had spent the day writing a jazz hit (I'm optimistic) so we listened to that a few times, examined what looked like a minor bike scrape to me but seemed the equivalent horror of losing a limb to Lewis and watched another episode of Red Dwarf. I love Cat. Tomorrow I think I'll practise his walk.

Around 8.30pm we headed to the gym. Friday night in a budget gym in the Latin Quarter. Living the dream. As well as working off the 6,000 croissants I've eaten recently, it did have the added benefit of a late night scooter ride across the Seine. Seriously can't get enough of Mavis (it's sticking, Lewis). So Lewis had described the gym as being the grimiest I could imagine, which probably was an accurate representation of the 6 x 4metre gym. I liked it though. Having only three of every machine meant you were forced to spend longer on each one to make it worth the wait, or because you were waiting for something better to come free. Even longer spent trying to work out French fitness terms on the machine. Vitesse is speed, apparently and 'Razel' got me somewhere on the rowing machine). We spent 2hours or something there, then I went to brave the French changing rooms. Hello nudity. After a moment's hesitation, I decided against the nude sauna (do you really need to be nude?) and embraced the row of non-private showers. Liberating, it was.

I was shaky from those extra rowing kilometres, so Lewis drove us to pick up a Lebanese Kebab. It had tomato in, how unhealthy could it be? We then went back to Lewis' part of town and went to a cool bar he knew for some wine. It was ALLOWED; it was 11.30pm on a Friday and we'd just worked our socks off at the gym. The bar was cool, like the scene from a painting of a local Parisian bar, jammed with people all laughing and cramped around tables, with labelless green bottles of wine. There was an older man in an adidas jacket with long scraggly gray hair dancing to some sort of electro beat in his head.

We went back to the apartment, listened to some Wayne Shorter and then watched Ian Hislop rip into Conrad Black on HIGNFY.

End of day 32.

*No restaurant or bar toilets ever seem to have seats and during my last visit, at the Cimetiere du Montparnasse, I had to use some of those crouching hole-in-the-ground sorts. Lovely.

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.