Day 41-43: London

SUNDAY/MONDAY

Six weeks travelling, eating barely any fruit and vegetables and living off mainly beer and bread but remaining completely healthy, and then three days back in London and I pick up a vicious cold. It happened on Saturday, in the space of about 30 minutes. You know when you can literally feel the sickness developing inside, but not being able to stop it? A slight discomfort in the throat, a sneeze and then BAM, death's door. Consequently, after a night out drinking on Saturday, and with this cold to beat all colds (well...not quite...but I was a little poorly) I did absolutely nothing on Sunday. I slummed around, completely guilt-free. I got out of bed around 3pm, and then eventually out of my pyjamas in the evening (rediscovering my onesie and then actual clothes). Tony cooked us a roast dinner and heated up a nutroast for me. Common misconceptions about vegetarian food aside, it was actually really tasty. I mean, it's just nuts and beans joined together with some cheese. You can't really get that wrong.

I still had the cold on Monday, so I moped around in the morning, feeling sorry for myself. I made it out of the house a few times to do errands, played on my Kindle a bit and then waited for Abbie to get home, at which point I stood around annoyingly as she made a tartlette and couscous for dinner. Ian and Ellen came over with baby Charge. It was all going swimmingly, until he threw a bit of a tantrum and started crying. You could confuse him for a few seconds and he’d stop crying, but then a second after he’d remember what he was supposed to be doing and belt out a few more tears. Film and TV baby cries are slightly misleading, or perhaps Charge has just developed his own unique style of crying. He sort of makes sounds like a pterodactyl when he’s in the throes of his unhappiness. Eeeeerch, eeeerch, eaaarrrrck. Those sort of sounds. Ian and Ellen seem to take it in their strides though, and adultly try to reason with him to stop, though there's varying success with that method. The old bounce and bop generally seems the best way to silence him.  

TUESDAY

Things got interesting on Tuesday. Well, in comparison to the past four days, things got interesting. After promising Abbie by text every day that I was going to go to the gym, and then afterwards head to the Design Museum, I finally found my membership card and made it there (no gym, though. I was in recovery from that brutal cold, wasn’t I?). 

The Design Museum is in the Shad Thames wharf and was set up by Terence Conran back in Thatcher's day. He tricked her into agreeing to part-fund the museum be saying that it would be a place to display British design and ingenuity. Terence, father of Jasper and founder of Habitat (R.I.P.), had his own exhibition at the museum a few months back called 'The Way We Live Now', which showed all the cool things he'd done in his life. He takes credit for revolutionising the sex lives of Brits by bringing the duvet to the country. Pre-duvet, we just hard horrible rigid blankets. Not conducive to sexy-times. Aside from the duvet, Jasper and Habitat, he's also designed the chairs and crockery for a lot of top London restaurants. 

As I’ve got a membership, I really need to go to every exhibition to get my money’s worth and the last time I went was a few months before to see the ‘Designed To Win’ exhibition (which I think is closing soon, given that all Olympic feeling is nearly depleted). On the walls as you head up into the exhibition, there are lifesize outlines of lots of famous athletes and a few stats about them. You feel slightly torn looking at these, as whilst you may be only one month younger than Lionel Messi and nowhere near as famous, talented or successful, you’re also the same height. Shorty. The exhibition itself displays all the top developments in sports technology, so from this lethal-looking time-trial bike (here) to the Speedo LZR (here) BSA: START I wrote a joke article about the LZR a few years ago with some friends (here) and then felt pretty pleased with myself when it came up as a question on University Challenge, and I could answer it correctly END

That was a cool exhibition, and at the time they also had the Designs of the Year 2012 displaying on the top floor which was INCREDIBLY cool. Covering all areas (entertainment, transport, public services, architecture, landmine-detonation devices, fashion etc.) it was so impressive and really inspiring to see design being used for things beyond the asthetic of various products. My favourite items were the landmine-clearing device (below), the earthquake table (here) and the Tesco virtual shop in South Korea (here). I bought the book showing all the designs if anyone ever wants to see it. 

At the moment they’re showing ‘Digital Crystal’, which is sponsored by Swarovski (I will consider it a major life achievement when I’m certain of the pronunciation of that word). I don’t know much about crystal or how it’s formed, but if it’s anything like the cool video you see on entry, then it is ridiculously cool. There were two long screens either side of a darkened corridor showing these enhanced, sped up videos of crystal growing as they played these eerie noises littered with crunching sounds as the crystal broke free of the ground:

The exhibition itself was cool (see photos below) and used a variety of devices to display the ideas, including a cool 3D projection thing you could only see as you got close up, like some sort of Star Trek technology. There was this cool ring of crystal, which looked relatively nondescript from the outside, but as you cut down through it, you created polar bear shapes (I've included the white one, as the crystal is too difficult to make out here). 

As a side note, Swarovski was founded by Daniel Swarovski in a place called Wattens in Austria, after he patented a specific sort of crystal cutting machine. Just so you know.

I didn't bother going in Designed to Win again, but headed to the top floor which is now displaying an exhibition called 'Thrift' by the Designers in Residence 2012. I think the museum funds a few young designers each year to get them started. Supposedly after being given access to as many materials and equipment as possible at university, when designers leave they've not got the funds to buy any of those things, so generally have to start out using either cheap goods or changing their styles completely. This is only a small display, but there was a cool PCB (Printed Circuit Board...) that looked like a tube map:

And another woman had created a new product from wool cast-offs from carpet factories, by mixing it with starch. She showed how firm the material could come by putting it in a toastie maker. Yummy, gluey wool toasties. 

After the exhibition I had a walk along the Thames, and took some photos of the nice sky and the seagulls flying over the river in front of Canary Wharf. Beauty in what would otherwise be a pretty grotty area. 

I then headed to the Woolpack pub on Bermondsey Street. This was my first day living as a London Tourist, so I had to resume my European lifestyle of a glass of wine at 3pm each day. Their house wine was a Hungarian wine called 'Moonriver Pinot Noir' (from Aszar-Neszemly, Hungary). Compared to cheap European prices for decent wine, I felt a bit hard done by for the £5.60 medium glass cost for something that was pretty minting. Probably not going to take Gabo up on his offer to show me round the Hungarian vineyards. 

I had to bring my costs up to a £10 card-payment minimum, so I ordered the next one up, which was 'Tilia Malbec' (Mendoza, Argentina) for £6.10. Steep cost, but it tasted much better. I probably can't afford this on a daily basis though. I mean, I've got no job. Can't really justify expensive wine purchases over paying my bills. Before going for the second glass, I went to the loo (don't worry, this is going somewhere) only to find the toilet didn't flush. I told the barmaid, but said it was fine and didn't look bad; it just had a bit of tissue down it but it wasn't gruesome. She went silent for a moment and I presumed the conversation was over when she suddenly said "Have you seen Dogma?". I have seen Dogma. I imagine it must be considered an appalling film by the reviewing community, but I loved it. Alan Rickman with no penis? Matt Damon and Ben Affleck as fallen angels? Alanis Morrisette as God? Amazing. I immediately knew the barmaid was thinking about the Shit Monster scene, where Jay and Silent-Bob have to fight a monster made of shit that comes out of the toilet. That barmaid is a legend. What a brilliant response to a non-flushing toilet warning! 

Went back to the flat to meet Abbie, Tony, Lewis and Abbie's Mum for a group cinema outing to finally see Skyfall. There's a big Odeon near us in Surrey Quays, and on Tuesdays with Abbie's premium card (which I think is a free loyalty card), tickets are only £5.50. Cheap for London. Abbie's mum bought us ice-cream to thanks us for taking her out to the cinema (it was originally supposed to be a date between her and Tony, until Abbie, Lewis and I crashed) and we settled in.

So, given that our housemate has been working on the score to Skyfall, and has had the film lying around on his computer since June, we've all done pretty well to not know any of the plot. Cue a phone conversation with my brother on Friday telling me he'd seen the film, and before I could even draw a breath, revealing what happens in the last scene. Thanks, bro. I presume it's payback for me convincing him to let me tell him what happens in HP and the Half Blood Prince (about a certain wizard dying...). In my defence, I at least gave him the option of not knowing. He just blurted it out before I could stop him. Also, when Abbie was booking our tickets online, in the customer reviews below the ticket options the  douchebag reviewer had revealed the same plot development in the first line of the review. So we went into it knowing at least part of what was about to happen.

Pre-film, there was the benefit of the Kevin Bacon advert being shown in the trailers, and then the Les Mis trailer. That's a family-induced guilty pleasure. Can't wait for it. All those celebs singing? Brilliant. They also showed the Life of Pi trailer which looks insane; it's been given a sort of mystical realism style and whilst I'm not sure I'll actually see it or if it's any good, I reckon it'll be visually impressive if nothing else. Another version of Great Expectations is coming out soon as well, though given that there's only just been another BBC version, not sure there was any point to a film? I wonder why they never check what's coming out before releasing two versions of the same thing in a short period. They did the same with Robin Hood.

Back to Bond; I haven't seen Quantam of Solace and I fell asleep during Casino Royale, so I wasn't really expecting to be blown away. But boy, was I blown away! I'm not going to reveal anything (because that's cruel, isn't it Tom?) but the opening credits are amazing (they go on for about 5 minutes and it's the most visually amazing thing I've seen in a while) and the film is generally great. Action, but without having unnecessary explosions/car chases serving no purpose to the plot, a good story, beautiful/bleak/hectic locations, a great villain (whose first scene might be my favourite Bond/Villain scene in the film series' entire history. It's hilarious. Watch it if only for that) and just brilliant cinematography. Not like your traditional Bond lady-killer stories, but for the first time I felt that it didn't matter. Daniel Craig's Bond is so much more engaging than any of the former ones. If you haven't seen it, I seriously recommend it. Also, there are loads of London scenes, and a nice Ben Whishaw in the National Gallery moment. BLOWN AWAY. We stayed to watch our housemate's name in the credits and then went home to have a beer.

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.

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.