We'll Always Have Paris (or how David lost his Paris virginity)

Fiscally irresponsible? Yes.
Worth it? Definitely!
A last minute cheap flight coupled with the ability to be a kept woman in Paris saw me jetting off last Thursday to meet with Mr Dave. He came to Charles de Gaulle airport to meet me and, instead of a placard with my name, he waved a copy of Buffy - Contre Les Vampires at the arrivals gate.

Ah, a man after my own heart. Ah, Paris. We stayed in the Latin Quarter, right on St Michel boulevard. And, as it turned out, right in amongst some delightful and some shocking events. But more on that later.

As I arrived in the late afternoon (indeed an hour later than scheduled due to the plane), we headed straight for the hotel and then in search of dinner. Set menus are very popular and we found a french cuisine place where I had onion soup (yum!), some salmon and a chocolate mousse. All for the grand price of about 10 euros. After a wander around the area it was time for Bedfordshire.

The following day we made our way to the Louvre, walking through the pouring rain; a pilgrims trial to see the lady with the enigmatic smile, a trial which we bore with good humour. The buildings of the Louvre are a sight in themselves, so grand, majestic and, well, old.



Knowing that we would only be able to see a fraction of the treasures contained within, we made a slow beeline for the Mona Lisa, marvelling as much at the rooms as at the artworks themselves. After meandering through rooms of marble statues, 17th century paintings and Italian frescos it struck us that the only security guards we had seen were the ones guarding the Mona Lisa and preventing people taking photos of her. And one guarding the coronation crown of a Louis. Otherwise, the security was respectfully discreet and not noticed by us. Or they didn't have any.

It was in stark contrast to my experience at the National Gallery of Victoria when I saw the Impressionists exhibition. I realise the Gallery had borrowed the artworks so were extremely protective of them but it was faintly ridiculous when we were rudely shepherded out of the gallery at closing time into the bookshop. The bookshop of course had relevant items for sale and though I did manage to purchase a $50 book as I was being hustled out, security closed in around us. Then when we went to get our bags and coat from the coatcheck, security tried to push us out the door. When they did let me get to the counter, the staff had already tagged my bag as lost property. It was 4 minutes past closing time. At a number of tourist sites and exhibitions in Paris, they don't allow people in after a certain time so they have time to get through the exhibition. Civilised, no?



After a fulfilling Chinese very late lunch (and a nap) we set out in the evening for a long walk along the river to the beautifully lit Eiffel Tower. Nursing the thickest sweetest and creamiest hot chocolate, we settled on the lawns and watched the Tour sparkle as it does every hour.

The following day was our Day of the Dead. Okay, so, we started off at the Notre Dame and wandering about looking at all the amazing art. We noticed how all the images of Jesus appeared to have a Knights Templar cross on them (which I'm sure David will be looking into further). We sat for ages marvelling at an awesome marble statue consisting of an elderly man reclining in near death, death himself with creepy bones for hands, a woman pleading with death and a sad angel waiting for the inevitable. Ooh, hang on, I've got a pic!



And what is a visit to the Notre Dame sans feeding the dear sparrows? David learnt the trick from a regular guy:



Then it was off to the Pére Lachaise cemetery. Although I visited here last time I was Paris, Jason and I didn't have a map so many of the famous graves remained unvisited. My enduring memory from that first visit though was when we had just walked away from Jim Morrison's grave a minute before when I received a text message from Alex far away in the Louvre: Hi, Jim here. Glad you visited!
From the evidently still much loved grave of Edith Piaf (birthday cards, flowers, pictures placed all around) to the lipstick kisses of Oscar Wilde's resting place, this gothic and charming cemetery is a must see. Ooh, more pics:





From visiting the dead whilst remaining on the surface of Paris, we decided to visit the dead from below. Beneath the metro, beneath the water and sewerage levels, we descended to the catacombs. 1.6 kilometres of tunnels out at Denfert-Rochereau are filled with the bones of millions of past Parisians. In around the late 18th and early nineteenth century, the graveyards of Paris became overcrowded and a decision taken to exhume the cemeteries and place the bones down in three disused quarries under Paris. After consecrating the ground, the bones were at first piled in until the engineer decided to begin placing them more decoratively.

As it was decided to allow the citizens of Paris to visit the catacombs so that relatives could pay their respects, marble plaques and stones were set in front of the bones citing the year and graveyard from which they had been removed. There didn't appear to be any discrimination in terms of the occupants - princes and notable citizens along with paupers were removed to this place. Indeed around six million all told.

As you can imagine, walking into small dimly lit corridors with bones piled against the walls on either side of you can be confronting but honestly after five minutes or so it becomes like walking around a regular graveyard. Except when you hear a rat or feel the icy water slowly dripping from the roof to catch you on the back of the neck.







Later that night in our hotel room we heard a commotion outside and upon looking out from the balcony the streets of Paris had been overtaken by the Ramble: rollerbladers and skaters, at least two thousand of them sailed past at great speed at 1.30am. It was wonderful to watch, a critical mass taking over the streets. And on the shocking side, about an hour later we heard an awful scraping sound from the traffic - a motorcyclist had been knocked from his bike on one side of the intersection while the car dragged his bike across to the other. He stayed down till the ambulance came but the car that hit him did not stop. We hope he/she turned themselves in later.

On Sunday we visited the Luxembourg gardens; a beautiful palace with gorgeous grounds where people jogged, played chess on painted tables, read their books by the lake and watched their children play. Napoleon gave the park to the children of Paris and there is much to delight them; an awesome playground and toy boats for hire to send across the lake.





And thus ended my Paris journey and Dave stayed on for another day. Tune in for next time folks when I tell you of the anti-war protest in London and perhaps a little of the party we had last night for Steven's birthday.

Is it still raining there

Steven is a bit pleased with his new phone which plays MP3s, has a memory stick and talks to his computer. It makes coffee in the morning, cleans the bathroom and washes the sheets. It's also a phone. Which means I have more phone photos to share. In an episode of quid pro quo he waited for me while I had a haircut (at last!) and here you see the work in progress as well as a 'before' shot at breakfast at the local greasy spoon. Oh, and the hairdresser is from Adelaide!

Here also is a happy little snap of Jason and I cooling our heels in Chemille, France at the campsite I talked about earlier with the river and man made beach. Jason is looking very spunky and happy. Holidays suck, don't they? We did spend some time discussing how truly awful it all was.

And finally the railway bridge - Arna took this photo seated at the window of my flat. Brave (or stupid) souls risk life and limb to graffiti on the sides. We were attempting to catch the Eurostar as it went past but frankly we were too busy eating my delicious lamb roast and drinking too much wine to have the camera to hand at the right moments.

Well if things had gone according to plan I wouldn't be blogging right now - I've been expecting a phonecall from our Dave who flew in to Heathrow about 5 hours ago. He's going straight to Paris in about 3 hours and it's looking like he's breaking our brunch date. As his phone isn't on roaming and he may not be sure how to dial my numbers it looks like we'll be catching up when he gets back to London on the weekend.

I went to a dance party on a barge on Saturday - it was quite nice being down by the river (Thames) despite it being a wet night. Oddly enough it turned out to be a birthday party for one of the girls who DJed although tickets were sold to it - so I suggested to Steven that we sell tickets to our party next month at say £10 a pop and see if we can't pay for the booze that way! Cheeky, huh? Anyway, we were keen for dancing after a few drinks but we found that the flyer for the event which advertised funk and techno was perhaps forgotten by the DJs who pumped out drum and bass for a couple of hours. We just weren't up to that speed, if you understand me. At least upstairs was some improv jazz with a guitarist, two saxophonists and a trumpeter who jammed for most of the night. There were some VJs too which gave us something to look at in the pauses of conversation.

Speaking of cheeky, I rocked down to Electric Avenue yesterday to grab ingredients for my green chicken curry. There is a food market there every day and plenty of halal butchers and fish mongers. And whilst Alex managed to buy turkey rather than chicken in Germany (or was that France?) due to a translation problem, the 'chicken' breast I brought home yesterday looked far beyond a growth hormone anomaly. Oh yes, it was turkey. This wasn't me picking up a package and thinking it was chicken. Oh no, this is me asking the butcher for chicken thigh fillets and him saying they only had breast. No wonder it was only £2.

And if you weren't already convinced that everything is for sale and everything has a price, check this letter to Steven from BT. Okay so they're offering this service for free - but how did it become a service?

"Dear Mr xxx
Have you noticed that there are some people who view your telephone line as just another hot lead, and your front door as one more closed sale? We believe that interruptions to your daily life, caused by unsolicited sales calls and the pushy attitude adopted by some sales callers, are unacceptable. That is why we are offering you a new, free service called BT Privacy. It includes free BT Caller Display, which shows you who's calling, enabling you to decide whether or not to answer the phone. Plus there's automatic registration with the Telephone Preference Service which helps reduce the unsolicited sales calls you receive. In addition, we've included a sticker to help you deter door-to-door sales callers... You can rest assured that, at BT, we respect your privacy. And now, with the help of free BT Privacy, you can make sure everyone else does too."

Hmmm, I think we're talking irony in the non-Alanis sense. Steven has scrawled across the letter in black texta "My privacy is not for sale!". He will post it back to BT. Do you think BT will respect that? Or will they send another letter in six months... Or call.

Let me take you by the hand

Finally a couple of photos to share, although more will be coming soon. Here is Arna and I setting off on our Alpine ride from the highest city in Europe, Briancon, with the Tour route on the road you see behind us. We are looking tres professional, no? If you've ever avoided riding a bicycle because you're afraid of the idiots who try to kill you in their cars, trucks and buses, I recommend riding a bike in France. Not only is the sound of a diesel engine just as likely to be a Renault sedan as an enormous truck, but whichever it is will slow down and go right around you. Yes, a truck will actually slow down and wait until it can safely cross into oncoming traffic to avoid you. Even buses down city streets will do the same. It did not take long to cease to fear the sound of deisel and hold tight to the handlebars and position myself an inch from the side of the road. Just ride baby and the traffic takes care of itself.
And here too the Adelaide crew on the Champs Elysee on the day the Tour rode in to Paris. If you squint you can see the road sign on the building just in case you think I'm making it up. I wouldn't put it past me, would you?
I went to a barbeque last week and most of the guests were either from Adelaide or going out with someone from Adelaide! I don't think any of them knew each other from Adelaide but have since met in London. And while that's all a bit silly, it did put me in touch with two netball teams and I am getting a game tomorrow night.
The barbeque was in West Kensington, right in the thick of the Notting Hill Carnival on bank holiday Monday. It is an enormous street party which I believe started life in a civic hall as a celebration of Caribbean culture and has since branched out. There were official sound stages where the likes of Moby were playing but also other folk who hired PAs or used their own stereo systems from their houses or businesses on the street to add to the atmosphere. Lots of suburban superstar DJ set ups! Lots of barbequed chicken and drinks like fresh sugar cane and, needless to say, an enormous amount of people.
We went to a club on Friday night just around the corner with a couple of people from the barbeque which was great fun. Some of the group ended up in photos on a website devoted to um, clubbing. As I clearly didn't make the cut, I've added another high quality photo from Steven's phone to this blog to prove I was there. That's me with Anna and Donna, looking suitably trashed and oddly white faced. And yes, I do need a haircut. We're going out with the same lot this weekend.
Apart from being on the job hunt, I look out of the window when I hear shouting or broken glass which keeps me amused at all hours of the day.
And as the guy with whom Steven did a dodgy-back-of-the-van deal on a PA for his last party still hasn't come to pick it up, we're going to have a party soon. Hopefully the folk on the Eurostar will experience a certain ground shaking feeling as they ride by. Hah! Revenge!