- 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)
