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 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.