I've always said, if you're going to order the champagne, then make it French!
I haven't always said that but if I was a person who could afford to, then I would. So because I'm in another country and I can be whoever I want to be, last night I pretended that I was that person and booked myself into the 'diamond section' at The Crazy Horse strip show!
Before I went though, I had to solve my lack of warm clothing issue. I went to every second hand store I could find in search of a warm, cheap, smart coat. Not possible it seems. However I did get a fabulous long black sheepskin number with big big fur around the sleeves and the collar for just forty euros! All synthetic of course but weighs about as much as my doona and just as warm. Also, because it's way too big, it does have a hobo feel going on, but I think that's all the rage at the moment.
One thing that's never the rage is the second hand clothes shop smell and unfortunately my new coat is a stinker. To take it into the diamond seating league, I hosed it down with my Chanel Mademoiselle perfume. Now teamed with my new Paris shoes and a fancy dress, I was ready to step out into the night!
It took a while to not be self conscious about looking like a homeless person with great shoes, but I took comfort in the fact that I was not going to cry tonight from cold-ness. I pictured myself in a scene from a French film as a walked across the Seine and focused on the glamorous night ahead.
And it was glamorous! And I felt glamorous, from the moment I was greeted at the door of The Crazy Horse and personally escorted to my own private booth, with my own bottle of champagne on ice, with the best view in the house!
It did fall apart a little bit at the cloak room, where a few bits of the coat broke off, but it was quickly forgotten I think. Also, the Chanel perfume was not the solution to the musty smell. As I handed the lady the coat, I cringed at the now very very very sweet musty aroma evaporating off all my clothes.
But once I was settled into my little nook and had time to take in the buzz of anticipation in this 'oh so French!' cabaret lounge (and a few glasses of the bad champagne), all was forgotten.
It doesn't take long for me to get a bit chatty on the cheap stuff, so before the show started I had hauled in a local French girl, her visiting girlfriend from Melbourne and an Estonian cruise ship entertainment producer, who I insisted share my booth with me because her seat was small and measly and obviously not of the diamond variety.
The show was incredible! Classy and exciting and extravagant. Minimal sets and costumes (obviously) but with such spectacular lighting that it felt like a million dollar show... and the ladies were beautiful. They were svelte and porcelain and raunchy.
The sexy vignettes were broken up by a juggling act where two men stripped down to their jocks while hurling enormous bowling pins at each other. Then they dressed again in each other's clothes, still hurling, without ever dropping a pin. The crowd went wild! ...or maybe just me. Regardless, brilliant!
It was cruel to have to leave. My new friends all went home at the end of the show so I felt a little deflated. As I headed towards the cloak room I wondered how I might take some of the night's excitement home with me. I visited the gift shop on the way out and bought two lighters, a pen with a naked girl on it and two sets of 'nippies' (glittery patches that you stick on your nipples)... not really what I was after though.
I snuggled into my stinky coat and walked through the busy Paris night in my new shoes. When I stopped concentrating on manoeuvring around the cobblestones, I looked up and saw the Eiffel Tower, all lit up, just like the stage at The Crazy Horse.
Right next to me on the sidewalk was a little table and chair sitting under a heater. I sat in it, ordered a glass of very nice champagne, a huge slab of terrine with baguette and watched the tower.
I felt very glamorous.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
PARIS - FLANEURING THE CITY
It's amazing what you run into just by walking around.
The Eiffel Tower was a big one. I wandered around the streets for two hours though before I came across it, all the way from Il de St Louis. Distances are a lot greater than they look on a map.
Along the way I tried to breathe in all the romantic and grand architecture, the river, the smell of bread and pastries, people people people, some green and ancient looking canons, a big gold dome roof, an open air photographic exhibition, car fumes, the sound of French people, the sound of American people, Vespers honking, tiny paved streets off big trafficy streets, more streets...
Where is that tower? It's been hours now. Have I missed it? Is it possible? I consult my 2m x 2m map. I'm standing right behind it.
It becomes enormous as I approach the legs. It is said that there are 2.5 million rivets holding this structure together. That makes me happy. What worries me a little is the hydraulic system used to get those lifts jammed with people up to the top. Two huge pumps at the bottom push that Willy Wonker glass elevator up to the summit on a serrated track so that would be quite suitable for slicing up a regular baguette.
Heights freak me out a little bit and I'm thinking it's pretty cold up there too. Bit of a queue. But more people = less expectation of danger. But then more people = more weight = strain on the serrated track. They've been sending people up there for years = lots of practice bringing the people back down. But older equipment = serrated track could be a bit worn. Everyone looks excited. Happy people = a place I'd like to be. But happy people can also = clueless people and I don't want to come crashing to the ground with a bunch of smiling idiots...
It was incredible. You can see the history of the city evaporating off the buildings, the big gold dome roof, the palaces, the monuments, the museums and the mazes of romantic apartment blocks packed in for warmth all the way to the cloudy horizon.
'I think we're moving.'
Who said that!?
'Yes. The tower is definitely swaying.'
I concentrate on feeling the sway, I think she's right! I look down at the queue of ants on the ground, spin out, punch the lady in the face and walk back towards the lift. All of a sudden I feel the cold.
Have I mentioned how cold it is? The plan was for 16 degree days but I think most of the time it's pushing twelve and that's if the sun comes out. This has actually become a debilitating problem for me as none of my jackets are made from any fibre that stops a person from freezing. They all look fabulous but I have to keep applying makeup to cover up the blue tinge around my mouth. I kick my stupid self at every cold and windy corner for not bringing my big wool jacket.
After spending this afternoon in the apartment near the heater, drinking coffee, eating chocolates and planning a night out completely dependent on how close venues are to warm metro stations, I came to the conclusion that I must buy a new jacket. I finished close to the whole box of chocolates (70% cocoa with mystery centres and gift wrapped with a big bow) and stopped feeling so bad about it all. C'est la vie!
Since the tower, I have flaneured through many streets, eaten at many cafes and stood underneath the works of artisans and legends dating back to the 14th century. There hasn't been a day that this city hasn't blown my mind. However, I'm not going to recite a shopping list of the people I've seen and the places I've been because that's not how I'm traveling. Instead, I will continue to come home at night, pour a glass of wine, sit near my little balcony and write about wherever me and my head have been wandering.
The Eiffel Tower was a big one. I wandered around the streets for two hours though before I came across it, all the way from Il de St Louis. Distances are a lot greater than they look on a map.
Along the way I tried to breathe in all the romantic and grand architecture, the river, the smell of bread and pastries, people people people, some green and ancient looking canons, a big gold dome roof, an open air photographic exhibition, car fumes, the sound of French people, the sound of American people, Vespers honking, tiny paved streets off big trafficy streets, more streets...
Where is that tower? It's been hours now. Have I missed it? Is it possible? I consult my 2m x 2m map. I'm standing right behind it.
It becomes enormous as I approach the legs. It is said that there are 2.5 million rivets holding this structure together. That makes me happy. What worries me a little is the hydraulic system used to get those lifts jammed with people up to the top. Two huge pumps at the bottom push that Willy Wonker glass elevator up to the summit on a serrated track so that would be quite suitable for slicing up a regular baguette.
Heights freak me out a little bit and I'm thinking it's pretty cold up there too. Bit of a queue. But more people = less expectation of danger. But then more people = more weight = strain on the serrated track. They've been sending people up there for years = lots of practice bringing the people back down. But older equipment = serrated track could be a bit worn. Everyone looks excited. Happy people = a place I'd like to be. But happy people can also = clueless people and I don't want to come crashing to the ground with a bunch of smiling idiots...
It was incredible. You can see the history of the city evaporating off the buildings, the big gold dome roof, the palaces, the monuments, the museums and the mazes of romantic apartment blocks packed in for warmth all the way to the cloudy horizon.
'I think we're moving.'
Who said that!?
'Yes. The tower is definitely swaying.'
I concentrate on feeling the sway, I think she's right! I look down at the queue of ants on the ground, spin out, punch the lady in the face and walk back towards the lift. All of a sudden I feel the cold.
Have I mentioned how cold it is? The plan was for 16 degree days but I think most of the time it's pushing twelve and that's if the sun comes out. This has actually become a debilitating problem for me as none of my jackets are made from any fibre that stops a person from freezing. They all look fabulous but I have to keep applying makeup to cover up the blue tinge around my mouth. I kick my stupid self at every cold and windy corner for not bringing my big wool jacket.
After spending this afternoon in the apartment near the heater, drinking coffee, eating chocolates and planning a night out completely dependent on how close venues are to warm metro stations, I came to the conclusion that I must buy a new jacket. I finished close to the whole box of chocolates (70% cocoa with mystery centres and gift wrapped with a big bow) and stopped feeling so bad about it all. C'est la vie!
Since the tower, I have flaneured through many streets, eaten at many cafes and stood underneath the works of artisans and legends dating back to the 14th century. There hasn't been a day that this city hasn't blown my mind. However, I'm not going to recite a shopping list of the people I've seen and the places I've been because that's not how I'm traveling. Instead, I will continue to come home at night, pour a glass of wine, sit near my little balcony and write about wherever me and my head have been wandering.
Friday, October 21, 2011
THE RING, GOLLUM
Sacre Coeur and Notre Dame. So much workmanship! So much wealth!
Just quietly though (because the signs on the front of the churches say you should be quiet and respect that these are places of worship), what is it with the slot machines up the back?
As you wander around, you can hear the ka-ching! ka-ching! echoing through the churches. These are donation machines. For the small amount of two euros these brightly lit card machines will spit out a shiny new commemorative coin for you to take home and put in a draw.
If you happen to miss these, there are many information points scattered around the worshippers where you can leave your cash. The signs will tell you how the bell tower needs replacing or how the organ's out of tune or light a candle for whatever reason and thank you for help in completing this very important work. Leave your money in the box.
People are throwing their money at the buildings! Coins flying everywhere! If you're not careful, you could walk out with little round circle bruises all over you.
After everyone's handed over all their cash to the church and feel like they've made a difference, they walk out into the street and are confronted by beggars everywhere. In fact, you can't walk down a street or sit at a cafe without at least a couple of people asking for money. No chance of getting hit by flying euros here though. Everyone ignores them at best and at worst, yells at them.
For the most part, I have followed the crowd in my response to beggars (not the yelling bit). I do understand that if you start handing out coins, word will get around pretty quickly and before you know it, you'll be the pied piper of Paris.
I am always terribly uncomfortable saying no and I have given out a baguette or two, however I do think there are a few scams going on around town.
The saddest one is using cute dogs to attract donations. People can't help themselves if they see a cute dog. There is a man who sits on the bridge, going towards Notre Dame, who has really got this one sorted. He's been begging solo since I got here, with little interest from the public, but yesterday I walked past and he's managed to get hold of a whole litter of new born puppies. Business is good. A bit of competition for the nearby church.
The other scam involved me. I have baptised this scam, 'the Smeegle'.
All dressed up I am, walking over the Seine towards the Champs Élysées. A girl walking towards me notices something shiny on the ground, she stops to pick it up. She catches my eye and I look in her hand. It's a gold ring! What a find! She looks excited.
'Do you think those numbers on the ring mean that it's real gold?'
'I wouldn't know. Go find out though. It's worth a try.'
We both look at it for a bit and talk about how you might be able to tell if it's gold or not. Stupid conversation. I turn to walk away and she stretches her hand out to me.
'What? I don't want it! You take it! You found it.'
'No. I want you to have it.'
A bit of to and fro. She places it in my hand and closes it around the ring.
'It means good luck for you while you are in Paris.'
Wow! This is truly a special morning! Despite what the ring is made of, and I doubt it's anything but scrap, the gesture made me feel all glowing on the inside.
As I am walking away...
'Miss! Excuse me Miss!'
Did I drop three hundred euros on the ground and she's bringing it back to me? Every cent of it?
'Can I have some money for some food?'
'OK, and why don't you take the ring back? I don't need it.'
'Just some money for some food.'
'OK.'
She looks at me disappointed.
'Some more Miss? I want to buy a sandwich.'
'Of course! What was I thinking? Paris is so expensive. I paid over eight euros the other day for one beer! Can you believe that! One beer! And then yesterday I paid almost six euros for one coffee! Do you know how much that is in Australian dollars? Of course a couple of euros isn't going to buy a sandwich.'
I laugh at my own stupidity and give her some more coins.
'Miss...'
'What?'
'A sandwich is six euros.'
'OK...'
She looks at the coins and then at me. Is that outrage?
'What? Did you want some caviar with that sandwich?'
'An orange juice'
'What?!'
'I want also an orange juice. That's three euros.'
'Look. Why don't you just take the ring back?'
'Miss!...'
'Ahhhh.... now I get it. You make me feel all warm and cosy and terribly obliged and then you think you can show me your litter of the cutest starving puppies ever and I'll just keep throwing money at you until I don't feel guilty anymore.'
I ended up relieving myself of eight euros worth of guilt before I worked out what was going on.
Between the churches and the scams, you could make quite an expensive holiday of it. Thank God I lost the Catholic guilt years ago.
Just quietly though (because the signs on the front of the churches say you should be quiet and respect that these are places of worship), what is it with the slot machines up the back?
As you wander around, you can hear the ka-ching! ka-ching! echoing through the churches. These are donation machines. For the small amount of two euros these brightly lit card machines will spit out a shiny new commemorative coin for you to take home and put in a draw.
If you happen to miss these, there are many information points scattered around the worshippers where you can leave your cash. The signs will tell you how the bell tower needs replacing or how the organ's out of tune or light a candle for whatever reason and thank you for help in completing this very important work. Leave your money in the box.
People are throwing their money at the buildings! Coins flying everywhere! If you're not careful, you could walk out with little round circle bruises all over you.
After everyone's handed over all their cash to the church and feel like they've made a difference, they walk out into the street and are confronted by beggars everywhere. In fact, you can't walk down a street or sit at a cafe without at least a couple of people asking for money. No chance of getting hit by flying euros here though. Everyone ignores them at best and at worst, yells at them.
For the most part, I have followed the crowd in my response to beggars (not the yelling bit). I do understand that if you start handing out coins, word will get around pretty quickly and before you know it, you'll be the pied piper of Paris.
I am always terribly uncomfortable saying no and I have given out a baguette or two, however I do think there are a few scams going on around town.
The saddest one is using cute dogs to attract donations. People can't help themselves if they see a cute dog. There is a man who sits on the bridge, going towards Notre Dame, who has really got this one sorted. He's been begging solo since I got here, with little interest from the public, but yesterday I walked past and he's managed to get hold of a whole litter of new born puppies. Business is good. A bit of competition for the nearby church.
The other scam involved me. I have baptised this scam, 'the Smeegle'.
All dressed up I am, walking over the Seine towards the Champs Élysées. A girl walking towards me notices something shiny on the ground, she stops to pick it up. She catches my eye and I look in her hand. It's a gold ring! What a find! She looks excited.
'Do you think those numbers on the ring mean that it's real gold?'
'I wouldn't know. Go find out though. It's worth a try.'
We both look at it for a bit and talk about how you might be able to tell if it's gold or not. Stupid conversation. I turn to walk away and she stretches her hand out to me.
'What? I don't want it! You take it! You found it.'
'No. I want you to have it.'
A bit of to and fro. She places it in my hand and closes it around the ring.
'It means good luck for you while you are in Paris.'
Wow! This is truly a special morning! Despite what the ring is made of, and I doubt it's anything but scrap, the gesture made me feel all glowing on the inside.
As I am walking away...
'Miss! Excuse me Miss!'
Did I drop three hundred euros on the ground and she's bringing it back to me? Every cent of it?
'Can I have some money for some food?'
'OK, and why don't you take the ring back? I don't need it.'
'Just some money for some food.'
'OK.'
She looks at me disappointed.
'Some more Miss? I want to buy a sandwich.'
'Of course! What was I thinking? Paris is so expensive. I paid over eight euros the other day for one beer! Can you believe that! One beer! And then yesterday I paid almost six euros for one coffee! Do you know how much that is in Australian dollars? Of course a couple of euros isn't going to buy a sandwich.'
I laugh at my own stupidity and give her some more coins.
'Miss...'
'What?'
'A sandwich is six euros.'
'OK...'
She looks at the coins and then at me. Is that outrage?
'What? Did you want some caviar with that sandwich?'
'An orange juice'
'What?!'
'I want also an orange juice. That's three euros.'
'Look. Why don't you just take the ring back?'
'Miss!...'
'Ahhhh.... now I get it. You make me feel all warm and cosy and terribly obliged and then you think you can show me your litter of the cutest starving puppies ever and I'll just keep throwing money at you until I don't feel guilty anymore.'
I ended up relieving myself of eight euros worth of guilt before I worked out what was going on.
Between the churches and the scams, you could make quite an expensive holiday of it. Thank God I lost the Catholic guilt years ago.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
PARIS - L'APPARTEMENT
The Paris apartment is on the Il de Saint Louis. It is right in the middle of Paris and I have it all to myself. I don't dream about anything this good.
I'm very slow to get out of the apartment in the mornings.
Its around five degrees outside, dark and the doona weighs about five kilos, so its not only hard, but cruel to ask my delicate toes to touch the terra-cotta floor. I push through but then can't get out of the shower because I've set the temperature to 38 degrees and it's toasty toasty! Also, I have about two items of clothing, so it takes me an age to put together an ensemble that's a little different from what I wore the day before.
I did buy a fabulous orange mini skirt in San Sebastian but I have no top to wear with it. I have this constantly on my mind.
Meanwhile, its 11am and I'm still in the apartment, just having a toasted baguette with rhubarb jam and a little cafe next to the little balcony with little potted plants.
Map, camera, euros, key, lip balm, key, sunglasses, key, key, key... et voila!
First time out into the streets of Paris!
So the plan is just to walk about without a plan because I'm too excited to make one. I will not look at the map. I will not hunt down the gothic, ancient, roman, romantic or otherwise. I will just walk.
Huge church. Very big. Map. Notre Dame. Patisserie, Seine, brasserie, beret, huge building, map. The Louvre. Seine, cheap street art, bar, brasserie, bike, bike, beret, chocolates, I heart Paris, cafe, cafe... (do people mind sitting that close together? And when you're done, how do you get out? Do you order at the table, or do you go in and ask? If you don't pronounce consonants at the ends of words, why does it matter what consonant goes there? I didn't think it would be this cold here and these shoes are completely wrong. These are the shoes that gave me the sore back in Barcelona! What was I thinking?)
Eiffel Tower.
It's a bit late in the day to start queuing up now for a peek, so I go to sus out the ticket thing with the lady at information.
'The queue at the North lift has 500 people in it. The queues at the West, East and South tower have eight people in them. Is the North lift the only one that goes to the summit?'
'Non. Sey all go to se top.'
I look at the 500 people at the North lift and then the eight people at all the other lifts.
'So what's the difference? Why are all the people queued up at that one for hours when they could just walk straight up the other one?'
'I don't know.'
'Do you think that's a bit weird that they would do that then? If there's no difference between the lifts? Why are they doing that?'
'Because sey are like sheep.'
I agreed with her and made a plan to come back the next morning before the sheep arrived.
The sun dropped and it immediately became freezing. It smelt cold. It smelt like snow. All I could think about were my ice cube toes and the apartment.. sitting on the comfy couch, in front of the toasty heater, eating fresh baguette with stinky cheese and a glass of Bordeaux vino and watching a movie and then rolling under the 5kg doona for the deepest of sleeps.
So I did that.
It was the best of plans because the next day the city swallowed me up.
I'm very slow to get out of the apartment in the mornings.
Its around five degrees outside, dark and the doona weighs about five kilos, so its not only hard, but cruel to ask my delicate toes to touch the terra-cotta floor. I push through but then can't get out of the shower because I've set the temperature to 38 degrees and it's toasty toasty! Also, I have about two items of clothing, so it takes me an age to put together an ensemble that's a little different from what I wore the day before.
I did buy a fabulous orange mini skirt in San Sebastian but I have no top to wear with it. I have this constantly on my mind.
Meanwhile, its 11am and I'm still in the apartment, just having a toasted baguette with rhubarb jam and a little cafe next to the little balcony with little potted plants.
Map, camera, euros, key, lip balm, key, sunglasses, key, key, key... et voila!
First time out into the streets of Paris!
So the plan is just to walk about without a plan because I'm too excited to make one. I will not look at the map. I will not hunt down the gothic, ancient, roman, romantic or otherwise. I will just walk.
Huge church. Very big. Map. Notre Dame. Patisserie, Seine, brasserie, beret, huge building, map. The Louvre. Seine, cheap street art, bar, brasserie, bike, bike, beret, chocolates, I heart Paris, cafe, cafe... (do people mind sitting that close together? And when you're done, how do you get out? Do you order at the table, or do you go in and ask? If you don't pronounce consonants at the ends of words, why does it matter what consonant goes there? I didn't think it would be this cold here and these shoes are completely wrong. These are the shoes that gave me the sore back in Barcelona! What was I thinking?)
Eiffel Tower.
It's a bit late in the day to start queuing up now for a peek, so I go to sus out the ticket thing with the lady at information.
'The queue at the North lift has 500 people in it. The queues at the West, East and South tower have eight people in them. Is the North lift the only one that goes to the summit?'
'Non. Sey all go to se top.'
I look at the 500 people at the North lift and then the eight people at all the other lifts.
'So what's the difference? Why are all the people queued up at that one for hours when they could just walk straight up the other one?'
'I don't know.'
'Do you think that's a bit weird that they would do that then? If there's no difference between the lifts? Why are they doing that?'
'Because sey are like sheep.'
I agreed with her and made a plan to come back the next morning before the sheep arrived.
The sun dropped and it immediately became freezing. It smelt cold. It smelt like snow. All I could think about were my ice cube toes and the apartment.. sitting on the comfy couch, in front of the toasty heater, eating fresh baguette with stinky cheese and a glass of Bordeaux vino and watching a movie and then rolling under the 5kg doona for the deepest of sleeps.
So I did that.
It was the best of plans because the next day the city swallowed me up.
Monday, October 17, 2011
PARIS - A BUMPY START
Dear Paris,
I love you. I have always loved you.
I realise we've only ever met on the internet and in movies and books and I understand it's a very big thing, me coming here in person, but I need you to take a deep breath and run with it. I promise to try really really hard to be as unobtrusive as possible, if you try not to act like an arsehole.
Arrive at Orly airport, Paris. Tres excited! (Yes. I am going to drop in little French phrases every now and then so you know that my au fait-ness is coming along).
...tres excited. Instructions on how to get to the middle of Paris in hand. Looks easy, but then it always does on paper.
Information desk at airport arrivals:
'I need to get the bus 285 to the Louis Aragon metro. Where do I get that bus from?'
'Ahhh... not from here. You have to get the car park bus to P10 and get off at the Ibis Hotel and the bus stop is there.'
'ok'...?
Luggage hauled onto car park bus and to the Ibis. No 285 bus stop.
'where is the 285 bus stop?'
'Ahhh... I think you need to go back to the airport arrivals and ask at information'
Tears welling up in eyes. Tears stop because the 'you are travelling alone so no one else is going to get you out of here' survival instinct kicks in.
'ok'
'...or it may be that one across the road?'
Yes it may well be! I will go there.
Yes. It is. Punch the sky!
Spend enough time here for my face to get burnt, but me and my big fluorescent pink bag are eventually safe in a vehicle that is going in the right direction.
Arrive at Louis Aragon metro. Lots of stairs.
Can't make the ticket machine do what I want it to do. Breathe and try again.
Can't make the ticket machine do what I want it to do.
'Please please please Mrs ticket lady! Please help me buy a ticket to Pont Marie!'
'To what?'
People who pretend they don't know what you're saying so you're forced to repeat what you said badly the first time: this is she.
'Really? You're going to pull me up on the very first thing I try and say in French?
I've just left a country where only three people spoke to me in English for the entire two weeks. I have been verbally isolated for this entire time, in which I lost kilos because the effort to ask for the food became greater than my hunger. Do you understand? I am a very thin woman with a bit of cabin fever and I need a ticket to that place I can't say very well. That's all I need and I'll be on my way.'
On my way.
Gosh, the metro trains are very crowded aren't they? My big fluorescent pink bag is in everyone's way and everyone is angry about it but there's nothing I can do... or say. I ride it out, proud that I have luggage.
'I've been somewhere! Somewhere reeeeally nice! Spain actually... that's why I have big luggage. Big holiday, big luggage. That's what they say. Been anywhere lately? My stop. Have to fly!'
Not a graceful exit and then as I trolley along the platform, I see that there are no lifts. Lots of stairs though. And then, the world shifts...
Through the tide of commuters pushing me along, I see a man, a really really handsome man, pushing his way through all the people towards me.
Enter! My Knight In Shining Armour!
In French, 'Can I elp you up se stair wis your big fluorescent pink bag?'
Melting like froi gras on a hot chorizo... 'Oui, merci!'
My KISA struggles with the luggage up the first flight of stairs but while I'm thinking about how to tell him how grateful I am when we get to the top, he vanishes! ...well, runs actually.
Was it my accent? The bag was very heavy but you don't save the maiden from the tower and then leave her to be raped and pillaged by the villagers!
I emerge from the metro, pulling a muscle in my groin as I heave the heavy bag onto the street.
Ahhh...
I can't speak. There's the Seine, right in front of me. It's Sunday afternoon and people are sitting on the riverside eating baguettes and drinking wine and stealing the last of a warm sun from the cold day.
A few cobblestones later and I am here. In this so very lovely and Parisian apartment.
I am in Paris.
I love you. I have always loved you.
I realise we've only ever met on the internet and in movies and books and I understand it's a very big thing, me coming here in person, but I need you to take a deep breath and run with it. I promise to try really really hard to be as unobtrusive as possible, if you try not to act like an arsehole.
Arrive at Orly airport, Paris. Tres excited! (Yes. I am going to drop in little French phrases every now and then so you know that my au fait-ness is coming along).
...tres excited. Instructions on how to get to the middle of Paris in hand. Looks easy, but then it always does on paper.
Information desk at airport arrivals:
'I need to get the bus 285 to the Louis Aragon metro. Where do I get that bus from?'
'Ahhh... not from here. You have to get the car park bus to P10 and get off at the Ibis Hotel and the bus stop is there.'
'ok'...?
Luggage hauled onto car park bus and to the Ibis. No 285 bus stop.
'where is the 285 bus stop?'
'Ahhh... I think you need to go back to the airport arrivals and ask at information'
Tears welling up in eyes. Tears stop because the 'you are travelling alone so no one else is going to get you out of here' survival instinct kicks in.
'ok'
'...or it may be that one across the road?'
Yes it may well be! I will go there.
Yes. It is. Punch the sky!
Spend enough time here for my face to get burnt, but me and my big fluorescent pink bag are eventually safe in a vehicle that is going in the right direction.
Arrive at Louis Aragon metro. Lots of stairs.
Can't make the ticket machine do what I want it to do. Breathe and try again.
Can't make the ticket machine do what I want it to do.
'Please please please Mrs ticket lady! Please help me buy a ticket to Pont Marie!'
'To what?'
People who pretend they don't know what you're saying so you're forced to repeat what you said badly the first time: this is she.
'Really? You're going to pull me up on the very first thing I try and say in French?
I've just left a country where only three people spoke to me in English for the entire two weeks. I have been verbally isolated for this entire time, in which I lost kilos because the effort to ask for the food became greater than my hunger. Do you understand? I am a very thin woman with a bit of cabin fever and I need a ticket to that place I can't say very well. That's all I need and I'll be on my way.'
On my way.
Gosh, the metro trains are very crowded aren't they? My big fluorescent pink bag is in everyone's way and everyone is angry about it but there's nothing I can do... or say. I ride it out, proud that I have luggage.
'I've been somewhere! Somewhere reeeeally nice! Spain actually... that's why I have big luggage. Big holiday, big luggage. That's what they say. Been anywhere lately? My stop. Have to fly!'
Not a graceful exit and then as I trolley along the platform, I see that there are no lifts. Lots of stairs though. And then, the world shifts...
Through the tide of commuters pushing me along, I see a man, a really really handsome man, pushing his way through all the people towards me.
Enter! My Knight In Shining Armour!
In French, 'Can I elp you up se stair wis your big fluorescent pink bag?'
Melting like froi gras on a hot chorizo... 'Oui, merci!'
My KISA struggles with the luggage up the first flight of stairs but while I'm thinking about how to tell him how grateful I am when we get to the top, he vanishes! ...well, runs actually.
Was it my accent? The bag was very heavy but you don't save the maiden from the tower and then leave her to be raped and pillaged by the villagers!
I emerge from the metro, pulling a muscle in my groin as I heave the heavy bag onto the street.
Ahhh...
I can't speak. There's the Seine, right in front of me. It's Sunday afternoon and people are sitting on the riverside eating baguettes and drinking wine and stealing the last of a warm sun from the cold day.
A few cobblestones later and I am here. In this so very lovely and Parisian apartment.
I am in Paris.
Friday, October 14, 2011
DAY 13 - GUGGENHEIM: IT'S ART DARLING!
Yes indeed. What an incredible building this one is! A big slap on the back to Frank and the team for pulling this one together! It's enough to put the artwork within it's walls to shame and thats a big call... maybe too big.
Let's just say, whether you're looking at a Jackson Pollack that could wallpaper an entire 80s themed house or walking through Richard Serra's overwhelming metal sculptures (how did they get them in here? and I've never gone into a panic over steel before), you never forget where you are.
My eyes kept drifting off the artwork and up to the glass ceilings or along the curved walls and down to... woops! a big shoe print right at the base of that sculpture on the pristine white part!
I wandered around in there for most of the day, wondering, are architects mathematicians or artists? It's beyond me how anyone can create something so beautiful and complicated and at the same time be absolutely sure that it's not going to fall down on everyone.
Every place that you visit has an audio tour. No exception here.
I am standing in front of a sculpture that is a plain bronze ball on a marble stand, my headphones say to me
'This is a sculpture of startling simplicity'.
It didn't startle me but I did have a little giggle. Oh ohh... The seed of misbehaviour!
I am standing in front of a huge canvas. It is completely black. The headphones are talking about the complexity of 'the white line'. The white line... the white line... aha! I see it now! Right at the top of the canvas. It's very small.
The headphones tell me that all the canvases in this room have complex white lines and are all exploring the same theme. I turn around and see that there is one of these huge black square canvases on every wall. I also see that there has been a man standing next to me the whole time. He has been listening to the commentary about the line too. We both look at each other for a moment and then explode with laughter.
We walk away from the painting, laughing out loud. People are looking now. He's going off about something in Italian and I'm talking back in English and we keep saying 'comprende!' to each other and then have to leave the room because it's too funny to be in there anymore.
The headphones also made mention of an artist who went off and worked in a factory so he could get in touch with the common man. I wished the Italian guy was around for that one.
I've always said, there's a fine line between great street theatre and being a wanker.
I'm not shitting on the art. I loved it. All three hours of it. However, there's always potential for wobbly receptions when it comes to creative productions, because they're so subjective. Its like other people's dress sense, you can find what another person's wearing completely laughable while they proudly walk around confident in their own imagined style... and we all know this works the other way around.
How often have you heard about the artists who never got to experience their own popularity because, while they were alive, everyone thought their work was crap? Well a lot of them are hanging in this incredible building and I've been thinking about them all day.
A big slab of my admiration to the artists out there who believe so strongly in what they create, that they devote their entire lives to creating it, despite what people say. That sort of focus and passion can evolve into some incredibly beautiful pieces of art, even if it does take half a century before someone appreciates it.
I think it does the Guggenheim justice to have the work of such people hanging on it's walls.
Let's just say, whether you're looking at a Jackson Pollack that could wallpaper an entire 80s themed house or walking through Richard Serra's overwhelming metal sculptures (how did they get them in here? and I've never gone into a panic over steel before), you never forget where you are.
My eyes kept drifting off the artwork and up to the glass ceilings or along the curved walls and down to... woops! a big shoe print right at the base of that sculpture on the pristine white part!
I wandered around in there for most of the day, wondering, are architects mathematicians or artists? It's beyond me how anyone can create something so beautiful and complicated and at the same time be absolutely sure that it's not going to fall down on everyone.
Every place that you visit has an audio tour. No exception here.
I am standing in front of a sculpture that is a plain bronze ball on a marble stand, my headphones say to me
'This is a sculpture of startling simplicity'.
It didn't startle me but I did have a little giggle. Oh ohh... The seed of misbehaviour!
I am standing in front of a huge canvas. It is completely black. The headphones are talking about the complexity of 'the white line'. The white line... the white line... aha! I see it now! Right at the top of the canvas. It's very small.
The headphones tell me that all the canvases in this room have complex white lines and are all exploring the same theme. I turn around and see that there is one of these huge black square canvases on every wall. I also see that there has been a man standing next to me the whole time. He has been listening to the commentary about the line too. We both look at each other for a moment and then explode with laughter.
We walk away from the painting, laughing out loud. People are looking now. He's going off about something in Italian and I'm talking back in English and we keep saying 'comprende!' to each other and then have to leave the room because it's too funny to be in there anymore.
The headphones also made mention of an artist who went off and worked in a factory so he could get in touch with the common man. I wished the Italian guy was around for that one.
I've always said, there's a fine line between great street theatre and being a wanker.
I'm not shitting on the art. I loved it. All three hours of it. However, there's always potential for wobbly receptions when it comes to creative productions, because they're so subjective. Its like other people's dress sense, you can find what another person's wearing completely laughable while they proudly walk around confident in their own imagined style... and we all know this works the other way around.
How often have you heard about the artists who never got to experience their own popularity because, while they were alive, everyone thought their work was crap? Well a lot of them are hanging in this incredible building and I've been thinking about them all day.
A big slab of my admiration to the artists out there who believe so strongly in what they create, that they devote their entire lives to creating it, despite what people say. That sort of focus and passion can evolve into some incredibly beautiful pieces of art, even if it does take half a century before someone appreciates it.
I think it does the Guggenheim justice to have the work of such people hanging on it's walls.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
DAY 10 - CLUELESS IN SAN SEB
'NO HABLO INGLES'
Whether it's true or not, when someone says this, it means you have to start gesticulating a lot and trying to remember words from the phrase book that will eventually get you some lunch.
It's amazing what you can accomplish by pointing and throwing your arms around. The process gets me by, but I suspect there is a little amusement at my expense? Actually, considering the stuff I've accidentally said to people, I'm positive.
When you're hurdling the language and protocol solo, there is no time for shame. You lay yourself out on the slab and let them chop you up. I don't mind so much, having a laugh at yourself is good for the soul. It would be nice however to share the vulnerability with a good friend sometimes.
So here, I share.
'Cafe solo' does not mean 'No cake with the coffee thanks, just the coffee'. It means you want it black. When it comes out black and you ask for some milk, be ready for a good slap around the ears.
When you go into a bar and ask for a 'vino' and the bar man looks blankly at you, don't yell 'vino!' at his face. He can hear you. 'v' is pronounced 'b'
So now you've got the 'b' thing sorted, you can walk into a bar and ask for a 'bino'. Still not very helpful to anyone. You might as well walk into a restaurant and ask for 'food'.
Dont tell the waiter that the 'servicios' was great. You're talking about the toilet.
You can be very prepared and learn lots and lots of questions in the local language. You can mince about with a puffy sleeved blouse and your guitar flung over your shoulder, asking for 'the bill', 'the toilet', in what shop you might buy some bandaids, 'have you seen that handsome man I was kissing passionately just over there last night?'... But unless you also learn the answers to the questions, you will inevitably slide back into the charades routine.
The energy that it takes to communicate the simplest things can be exhausting, however apart from being a laugh most of the time, your efforts can take you to some nice places too.
I felt inclined to read my book all afternoon, it was going to be the closest thing I would get this week to a conversation with anyone. (Have you any idea what it's like to talk to yourself for five days solid? The conversations are starting to make it into the audible world).
Me and the book found a sidewalk bench overlooking an incoming tide at the mouth of the Maria Christina River. Very grey, very dramatic.
An old man sat down next to me and so we watched the huge swell break against the rocks together. I so badly wanted to have a chat but I suspected that wouldn't be likely. It must have been a good 15 minutes before he piped up and said something. He was so disappointed when I told him I couldn't understand what he was saying. Me too.
So we sat there for a little while longer and then we just started chatting.
Antonio lives at the end of the Maria Christina River, which travels inland for 10km. He comes to this place every day because it makes him feel calm. Antonio's whole body is shaking, so I think he has Parkinson's Disease. I ask him and he says yes.
He owns a taverna and pintxos bar in the old town but he can't work there anymore because of the shaking.
He has two children and three grandchildren, they are one, two and four.
Wednesday is a national festival but he's not so interested in celebrating this one because the roots of the celebration are South American. He!he!
We talked until it was dark, thanked each other for the chat and then we both left.
San Sebastian's a very beautiful city. It's stunning. I've loved walking around the narrow streets, watching how the Spanish spend their holidays, eating the most incredible food, drinking top shelf wines and backyard wines, trying on beautiful clothes, timing how long it takes for a croissant to completely dissolve in my mouth, following the dogs and their city life adventures and trying to stay up really late so I don't miss anything.
So a big fat 'grassy arse' to all you chefs, bakers, barmen and bitches! ...and a special adios to my new amigo, Antonio. It was lovely to have met you!
Now looking forward to the Guggenheim in Bilbao and then... the 'pizza resistance'! Paris!
Whether it's true or not, when someone says this, it means you have to start gesticulating a lot and trying to remember words from the phrase book that will eventually get you some lunch.
It's amazing what you can accomplish by pointing and throwing your arms around. The process gets me by, but I suspect there is a little amusement at my expense? Actually, considering the stuff I've accidentally said to people, I'm positive.
When you're hurdling the language and protocol solo, there is no time for shame. You lay yourself out on the slab and let them chop you up. I don't mind so much, having a laugh at yourself is good for the soul. It would be nice however to share the vulnerability with a good friend sometimes.
So here, I share.
'Cafe solo' does not mean 'No cake with the coffee thanks, just the coffee'. It means you want it black. When it comes out black and you ask for some milk, be ready for a good slap around the ears.
When you go into a bar and ask for a 'vino' and the bar man looks blankly at you, don't yell 'vino!' at his face. He can hear you. 'v' is pronounced 'b'
So now you've got the 'b' thing sorted, you can walk into a bar and ask for a 'bino'. Still not very helpful to anyone. You might as well walk into a restaurant and ask for 'food'.
Dont tell the waiter that the 'servicios' was great. You're talking about the toilet.
You can be very prepared and learn lots and lots of questions in the local language. You can mince about with a puffy sleeved blouse and your guitar flung over your shoulder, asking for 'the bill', 'the toilet', in what shop you might buy some bandaids, 'have you seen that handsome man I was kissing passionately just over there last night?'... But unless you also learn the answers to the questions, you will inevitably slide back into the charades routine.
The energy that it takes to communicate the simplest things can be exhausting, however apart from being a laugh most of the time, your efforts can take you to some nice places too.
I felt inclined to read my book all afternoon, it was going to be the closest thing I would get this week to a conversation with anyone. (Have you any idea what it's like to talk to yourself for five days solid? The conversations are starting to make it into the audible world).
Me and the book found a sidewalk bench overlooking an incoming tide at the mouth of the Maria Christina River. Very grey, very dramatic.
An old man sat down next to me and so we watched the huge swell break against the rocks together. I so badly wanted to have a chat but I suspected that wouldn't be likely. It must have been a good 15 minutes before he piped up and said something. He was so disappointed when I told him I couldn't understand what he was saying. Me too.
So we sat there for a little while longer and then we just started chatting.
Antonio lives at the end of the Maria Christina River, which travels inland for 10km. He comes to this place every day because it makes him feel calm. Antonio's whole body is shaking, so I think he has Parkinson's Disease. I ask him and he says yes.
He owns a taverna and pintxos bar in the old town but he can't work there anymore because of the shaking.
He has two children and three grandchildren, they are one, two and four.
Wednesday is a national festival but he's not so interested in celebrating this one because the roots of the celebration are South American. He!he!
We talked until it was dark, thanked each other for the chat and then we both left.
San Sebastian's a very beautiful city. It's stunning. I've loved walking around the narrow streets, watching how the Spanish spend their holidays, eating the most incredible food, drinking top shelf wines and backyard wines, trying on beautiful clothes, timing how long it takes for a croissant to completely dissolve in my mouth, following the dogs and their city life adventures and trying to stay up really late so I don't miss anything.
So a big fat 'grassy arse' to all you chefs, bakers, barmen and bitches! ...and a special adios to my new amigo, Antonio. It was lovely to have met you!
Now looking forward to the Guggenheim in Bilbao and then... the 'pizza resistance'! Paris!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
