A Parisian Odyessy Part 3; Notre Damnit it's all so beautiful

Where last I left the constant reader we had just dragged ourselves in at six in the morning, needlessly shushing each other and visions of sugarplums...I mean beds...dancing in our heads. Apologies, that last may have been because the Starbucks at Alonso Martinez has finally brought out its Christmas menu. Yes, I am fully aware we have not yet said goodbye to November. Please. Allow me my simple pleasures in the form of a gingerbread latté in a papercup with all snowflakes on. Anyway, back to Paris.

Alarms were duly set for noon, yet verily was I up and raring to go ten minutes before it sounded. I don't know how, I was operating on six hours sleep in the past fifty-two but perhaps it was my endorphins throwing in the towel and concurring that if we were going to collapse into our club sandwich at lunchtime we may as well enjoy ourselves doing it.

The plan for the day was Montmartre and to meet another dear friend who had found herself living in Paris by various twists of fate. This delightful quartier is found lurking behind the Sacré Coeur and if Galeries Lafayette is Paris in a ballgown, Montmartre and Pigalle is Paris in a negligée. In the former you find the Moulin Rouge, prostitutes a plenty and lots of stange leather things. In the latter you find an abundance of cafés, bookshops and gnarly denizens variously busking or watching life go by. We had a coffee and a tarte au citron of such deliciousness I abandoned all hope of ever finding joy again in Montmarte surrounded by tourists laughing, Parisians smoking and falling autumn leaves. It was all desperate French.

Aprés tout it was time for us to wander back down the white stone steps at the front of the Sacré Coeur to meet my dear hosts in front of yon merry-go-round off of Amelie. This was at first a stroke of romantic genius on my part but failed to take into account the sellers of bracelets

The sellers of bracelets all have terrible grins and stalk around the bottom of the Martyr's Hill (Montmartre) and every so often will lunge at your wrists in an attempt to affix to them a frayed bracelet woven of thread. They will then charge you an exorbitantly high price for this piece of tat which you are unable to get off your wrist given the nature of the knot they have tied. Mainly its best to avoid them at all costs but I am half minded to advise the readership the best course of action is to run screaming at them as one would a flock of belligerent one-eyed Parisian pidgeons. This would be purely for my own amusement and thus very wrong of me. But funny, terribly funny to imagine...

Of course after having made our way down the steps, on my part imaginging if I would roll or bounce witha misplaced foot, we gave the aul gluteals a bit more of a stretch walking up and into the basilica itself. It was (well, presumably still is, though I haven't checked BBC news in a while) beautiful, there was a choir of blessed sisters (collective noun, a superfluity; well I suppose too much is better than nun at all!) and the songs they sang reverberated around so that you could feel them in the soles of your feet. Much nicer than Notre Dame, no hunchbacks though, juts some very nice holy brethren.

Next on our magical mystery tour as the Champs Elysees. Actually it wasn't so mysterious as 'twas my dearest wish to see it and so I dragged everyone to Paris' high street where all shops and things is. But there was Cartier and Swarovski just where a cool young man was bodypopping like there was no tomorrow; Vuitton and Guerlain where we witnessed a Michael Jackson lookalike busting a move in sparkly gloves; at one end you have the Place de la Concorde where despite its name, the guillotine gave Antoinette and Robespierre a short back and sides; and at the other the looms the colossal Arc de Triomph, commissioned by Napoleon who had a lot to compensate for. He was very underwhelming, a disappointment really. Never had any confidence with the ladies. Marie-Louise must a been a patient woman.....to think only five foot six...

Night was once again falling as we made for that glorious staple of student life; pasta in any sort of sauce available and made our plans to head to the cinema. A film all in French! I was astounded to be able to understand any of it, but even more astounded at the prices those damn Frogs will charge for a wee bag of Pick n Mix. Not amused. Even moreso when I compared it to Woolworths, remembered that great emporium had shut up shop as it were and became very melancholy over the recession. But not for long; oh never for long.

Because at last bed beckoned and eight hours sleep were paid to the sleep debt, which never seemed to matter before university, and in the morning it was sunny and clear and I was for a-wandering.

Goodbyes said, it was time to wander round the city on my own. Or at least, within a few streets of Notre Dame. Postcards purchased I was able to find a terribly nice café which outdid itself in coffee and strawberry tarts and I sat next to the window alternately scribbling missives and writing the Parisian Odyessy. I was worried they'd throw me out after an hour, but surely not. A budding Baudelaire staring thoughtfully at a little notebook is excellent for business, I'm amazed they don't hire people to give this exact effect; I'd do it in a minute, it felt like a bohemian rhapsody. And all this was topped by a cherry when a group from Ohio wandered in, guffawing loudly, sat just  next to me taking off their coats, knocking my little table in the process and sending my postcards tumbling to the floor which in turn caused the serveur to rush over, not to take their order but to pick up my correspondence and say;

"Les américains, huh? Ne t'en fais pas, petite."   (Americans, eh? Pay them no mind darlin.)

Granted it would have been complete idiocy to say this aloud in English. Sarkozy would probably have recieved a sharp note from Obama. But he didn't have to say it at all and after months of "I speek eeenglish, don worry" as an answer to your query said in a foreign language, it was nice to be trusted as a francophone, not a franco-phony.

So I toddled off out of Paris touristland, muttering bye-byes under my breath, and caught the Metro to Porte Maillot where my bus would leave for Beauvais. All was well, followed the signs for Sortie, climbed up the steps, glimpsed the station in the near distance and made my jolly way towards it...until I was stopped by six lanes of inner-city traffic.

Okay, thats all right, I say to myself, I shall walk down to a crossing or some such. Except there is no pavement and the grassland is punctuated by hidden hollows making walking in kitten heels a tightrope act. But verily I see someone mere yards away and assure myself there is indeed an escape.

That is until I've walked for another five minutes and come to the realisation I am in the middle of a massive fecking six lane roundabout with no way out. I've passed the fella with the backpack three times now. We have begun exchanging the flash of smile when two human beings realise that each is in the same awful situation of not knowing what the hell's going on. On the fouth sortie, we stop and shake hands.

"Er, parlez-vous francias? O espanol? Or English even?"

"My English is better than my French, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Oh, not a word of German I'm afraid. Are you, ah, lost too? I'm Aileen by the way" (well, he was an attractive German)

"Hans Gruber, yeah that about sums it up. Been on this damn roundabout for 35 goddamn minutes. No way out, you see"

"Yes, yes, I know! It's all traffic, not a pedestrian crossing in sight. Shouldn't be allowed. What do we do? What do we do?! Make a break for it? Its our only chance. Let's go!"

"No, no! Calm down mein Freund, already lost an Italian backpacker to a minute sixteen rush of madness. No...we're going to have to play this smart."

Hang on, that may have got a bit out of hand there but it would take a genius who hadn't noticed the Die Hard reference to realise it was not an impeccable narrative of true events. In the end me and a German toruist (called Michael disappointingly enough) decided to boot it across six lanes of traffic in a barely sufficient lull.

The journey home from these places is never really interesting, which is odd because you find thousands of petites moments on the way There, but Back Again was never the thrilling bit of the Bilbo's story. It was all very quiet until I got into 39 Santa Engracia, dropped my bag, wondered if I could be arsed to go make some scrambled eggs, went to switch on my bedroom light which promptly exploded and plunged the whole flat into darkness and ended any chance of hot food. And so the credits roll and the screen fades on a Parisian trilogy, until all that is left is a cinematic

Fin

A Parisian Odyessy Part 2; Sightseeing; just an Eiffel of everything really

About halfway through the 19th century, Napoléon III got out of bed one morning and decided he wanted a wee bit of modernisation. Now, being an Emperor this involved less hunting out the Dulux colour charts for the kitchen and more summoning Baron Haussmann to discuss restructuring his capital city. This is the reason for the wonderful boulevards which lounge spectacularly through Paris and open the City of Lights to the sky. There, eddication by the powers!

160 years later, an Irish tourist is making full use of the wide open spaces to gawp out the windows of the airport shuttle and resist the urge to take snapshots or nudge the snoozing Spaniard beside me to tell him "I'm on my holidays" and if he's just going to loll against the glass, can I have the window seat?

My stay in Paris was made possible by wonderfully accomodating friends, because at my time of life you are wary of booking a hostel least you not be kidnapped and sold to a Bedouin cheiftain. It would happen to the blonde Scandinavians just out of high school and that would just upset me. Besides, hostel owners don't provide you with the most delicious baguette (freshly baked) and cheese (possibly Camembert) you've ever tasted. Really the only eloquent way to sufficiently describe the succulence of the combination is om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom.....

Autumn in Paris is by far the best way to experience the season. The trees laugh at the universe's suggestion "Now, we were thinking brown for lack of chorophyll" and get their bling on, with gold and red and maroon and chestnut and well they just go all out really. It was very cold and clear and there were contrails making a tic-tac-toe game out of the blue sky. The Christmas decorations were up, the streets were thronged and we were at The Galeries Lafayette because I was in Paris and feeling expensive.

Well I felt expensive right up until we walked in and luxury took one look at us and asked if we would be paying by card or cash and more cash?

It was exquisite; All the attendees were dressed in black , hands clasped behind them, and they ever so bemusedly arched their eyebrows every ten seconds. There was Chanel and Dior and Hermés and Bvlgari and Gaultier and yes I am fully aware that on beholding I would not appear to be able to pronounce much less know these names but one of my shameful secrets I can now exclusively reveal is that I have yet to miss an episode of Sex and the City and know my Yves Saint Laurent from my Ralph Lauren. There's an extra "t" in the former there yousee...

So, assuming my best "Mah faaaaather owns Bah-clays" expression (as though everything amuses you but if it bothers you a large man will appear and snap its fingers like a Kitkat; others have informed me I look like a stunned goldfish) and we went to see Paris from atop the Galeries. And is was exquisite. I felt like I was cheating on Madrid who was at home washing the dishes.

And so we drank in the beauty of our surroundings until twas nearly lunchtime. Then there was a beautiful moment. It comes when two or more human beings are thinking the same thing at the same time and is so magical we often call it love. Unless of course it's that horrible moment when both are thinking "I'll give it five more minutes and then if he/she doesn't Facebook chat me I'm burning all my things and moving to a nunnery/monastery." It began with "Ah, there's a MacDonalds just down here..." and the smiles on the faces of your kinsmen let you know we are one in purpose. The purpose being a MacFlurry and desperately wanting to order a Happy Meal because its got all you want to eat and it has a toy!

Feeling disgustingly americanised yet not because sweet lord ah-mighty what do they put in that special French fries sauce? we saunter to Notre Dame past a town hall that could play a Disney castle convincingly. The Catherdral was beautiful but one still cannot work out where the flying f**k the famous Rose Window was.

We gazed upwards at a stained glass window, afternoon sun streaming in, the predominant colour a soft rose. It was built in a perfect circle and the faces of the saints were picked out in loving detail. We "Ahhhh'ed" in appreciation. And turned to walk on...

...and came face to face with a window which looked exactly the same. This caused raised eyebrows, squinting round to see if anyone had noticed and once again settling into a suitable expression of wonder...

...until we set up off a flight of stair and found another window, exactly the £$%&ing same as the two before. So I attempted my most respectful "here lads, sod this for a game of soldiers" and snuck on earphones to accompany the sighseeing with the soundtrack to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who needs a guidebook?

Ah, the light had faded and my feet were very nearly walked off me but it was time to head out on the razzle! Which involved of course bringing the fine Spanish cultural pillar of botellon to France. I dot E, buying du vin and drinking it in front of the Eiffel Tower which was lit up like a bride on her wedding day/night, delete as appropriate to your sensibilities.

This was magical, but more so was our daddle to le Marais, where one can find art galleries, museums, gay bars and a lot of Chinese people. If all that together is your thing. We got kicked out of the line for a hip happening gay bar daddy-o, as a matter of fact. Despite my protestations of "You like men, we like men!! Can't we work upon this mutual interest?" and "Well how do you know we're not lesbians?" Granted if I'd reversed the order this approach may have worked better.

Nevertheless we ended up in a lovely bar called Enchantuer a wee way down the road. And this is where, in al the bars in all the Marais, I met a homesick Spaniard.

We had been talking in French to a group of party goers and switched to English for some reason or other when this boyo (rather attractive boyo, mind you) made a sound like a punctured porcupine and said "Non, non, pas en anglais. C'est trop d'un effort en francais quand meme, s'il vous plait." No, no not in French, it's too much of an effort as it is, please."

This arouses my, ah, curiousity and I ask "Quelle langue préférez-vous?" What language would you prefer?

"L'espagnole." He quasi(modo)-sighs. As to the effect of my next words, I never ever seen a man smile so genuinely, in such a dark bar, without any mention of say, whipped cream or handcuffs. Made me frankly ashamed of my mind.

"Pues, hombre, sí quieres hablar en espanol no te falta más que pedir."
Well son, if you want to speak in Spanish all you have to do is ask."

So we talked about Madrid, what was happening in Spain, if I liked it, if I preferred French or Spanish, I began to wonder if we would get around to whether I'd met his granny and if she was alive and well. And at the end of all this he gave me a rose.

While this was heartachingly romantic; everyone gave me a rose... Spaniard, dear new friend who wished not to accept his from a creepy Frenchman and the bartender who gave me a rose and two cheek pecks after we sang Over the Rainbow together, the Israel UnpronounceableSurname version. Had we had another hour I could have had a bouquet.

And so Part 2 draws to a close, as we wander home over the Seine, through the Ile Saint Louis and in the predawn glow I chuck a rose into the Seine and wonder where it will wash up, perhaps far away, once it has been swept out into the English Channel on the shore at Dover. This is far too flipping romantic, the damn flower will get ground to pieces in the locks at the Oise, but hey, I'm feeling romantic.

And so my friends, don't forget to miss the thrilling conclusion to this triumvirate spectaulaire! Witness the Sacré Couer, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees possibly as you've never seen them before or wish to again! And last but by no means least, me, trusted on my own to roam around Paris and find my way back to not-so-sunny Spain! It promises to have you on the edge of your seat, on the arm of the sofa, clutching the screen in amazement then getting bored and wandering off for a snack...

Á toute a l'heure xo

A Parisian Odyessy Part 1; Getting there by hook or by crook

"Oh, we're all going on a...reasonably priced city break...with no more worries for a...day or two!"

I am taking dreadful liberties with Cliff Richard as I run round our flat preparing to leave for gay Paris (note to self; check if this description is still allowable under SOS Homophobie guidelines. Author would not wish to cause unintentional offence...not when intentional offence is so much more fun.)

The flat is empty, as the others have wandered off to Marrakech. That's the way it goes on a year abroad, we go where the wind takes us, and if we happen to leave one of our number alone so she feels it acceptable, nay, necessary to re-enact Tom Cruise's dance scene from Risky Business then so be it.

Pizza consumed, dance scene complete, it was now time to catch the Metro at one in the morning. No sleep was on the cards for the weekend. This is a sentiment that would come to be regretted/regretten but that mattered not because, like so many things, that was a problem for tomorrow's Aileen. And I am not that unhappy wretch yet.

I arrived at Alonso Martinez and toddled down the stairs nodding amicably at the little old cleaner who looks like Manuel from Faulty Towers. I generally nod or speak to everyone, which makes me very unsuited for village life back home especially during those times when civil blood makes civil hands unclean over "what her Karen said about our John that time at your Bernadette's wedding, so don't give them the satisfaction of speaking to them."

This is where gentle musing descends into "ohshitohshitohshit" as I realise my plan of catching a train at quarter past to catch a train at twentyfive past to tie in neatly with when the Metro stops at half one works in world built around my plans and forgets about the fifteen minute gap between arrivals. I panic and make a snap decision...nothing for it but shelling out for a taxi to Plaza de Cibeles and the bus.

"Oye, oye mi hija! Que vas a otro sitio? Que pasa?"

This is Manuel; and he has asked "My daughter, are you going somewhere else? What's wrong?"

I do not wish to be rude and explain the predicament with "Tren...retraso...aeropuerto...no puedo"

He replies; "Sí, si nena! No te preocupas, que vas a llegar  Que corres como el diablo, no esperas, corre!"
"Yes, yes pet. Don't worry, you'll make it. Just run like f**k, don't wait, run!"

And so with his cries echoing behind me I do exactly this...run like blazes and arrive at the metro to the airport just as the buzzer signalling the Closing Of The Doors sounds. It was rather Disney. I genuinely believed this was impossible, but continued anyway on the advice of an old man and so the day was saved and I got my ass to the plane on time. A short Disney film to be sure but Morgan Freeman if you're tuning in there's a casting opening for Manuel in the movie adaptation of A Cautionary Tale...call me...

The Crook in the title can be no other than Michael O'Leary who abuses me dreadfully on occasion but yet I always go back to dear Ryanair sooner or later. On this particular occasion it was his cheery insistence that Beavais is a hop, skip and a jump away from Par-eeee. No, no, no, dearest Michael, that was a description of your landing.

It was because the pilot was from Dublin and was possessed a a beautiful lazy southern lilt that these next words washed over us almost unnoticed;

"Ah, right now ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be attempting to land in Beauvais in the next five minutes or so. If we are, for any reason, unsuccessful in this attempt we'll...ah..get back to you shortly with more information."

None of the Spaniards caught the mere suggestion in the remark, that getting back to us might just mean buying us a drink in the Afterlife bar and discussing how big those flames were back there. Nasty suspicions rose in my mind and caused me to look out the window...

...whereupon I saw nothing. This was not necessarily comforting as seeing nothing meant that two feet from the window a dense, clinging fog obscured everything from view. I instantly reassured myself that flying these days is all done by lasers and infra-red and such and the pilot is only really there for the look of the thing.

This opinion was quickly revised as the tarmac suddenly loomed out of the mist and the pilot took evasive action which was to swoop back up into the sky. Good plan that man. When in doubt, retain altitude. No one has ever successfully collided with the sky.

Eventually land we had to and I can only presume that Ryanair will now be refitting chair covers and tutting over nail marks. I enjoy a bit of life or death action as much as the next lady but I would prefer next time for wings not to graze the runway, if Michael doesn't mind.

La France, la belle France. Nous sommes arrivés. The extra ninety minutes in a bus would mean nothing...for, as we shall see in the next thrilling installment, it pales in comparison to baguettes, Hermés, Chanel, Haussman's doing with Paisian architecture what Colonel Sanders does to chicken, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and much much more debauchery...

Apologies for a blogging trilogy, the first of which dealt with planes, trains and automobiles. I love travelling in ways that begin to seem slightly deviant if you squint.

Á toute a l'heure xo

Portrait of the Artist as a Drunk Woman

Now I understand many of you won't have asked for this; indeed many won't have had any idea this was a distinct possibilty given the impeccable narrative thus far but the "artist" has thought it is high time the readership comes to terms with the inevitable coupling of free mojitos and reasonably priced pina coladas...a Victor Mildrew-esque rant against prices in Madrid's cocktail bars and the inaugral drunken blog. Hang on I've read over that sentence and it lacks oodle foodle tapas whay-hey!!!!! There, that should set the tone... Anywho...

Last week, Madrid woke up one morning and decided it was autumn. Tuesday you're prancing around in Tshirts laughing at Spaniards in their winter coats; Wednesday you've woken up to grey skies and golden leaves skittering around everywhere on a gale that just blew into town (ahaha, weather related humour.)

The problem with this dashed weather is that it leaves one unable to walk out the door without serious thought to the consequences...that is mere days ago I could wander down to Dia to purchase several bottles of wine and brandy for a fiesta, in my flip flops...a feat that lead to Que tienes fiesta este noche, no? (Are you having a party tonight?) Since my Spanish wasn't equipped to deal with my normal response of "Yes, Hercule Poirot, we are having a bit of a shingdig as it happens, how did you ever work it out?" I come out with "No, no, its all for me!" in a joke that not so much flops as leaps suicidally off the Empire State building...apparently I now AM capable of downing two rosés, two bottles of brandy and some decorative cinnamon sticks on my own thank you so very much Día's checkout finest...don't tell my mother, I probably could if dared...

Despire the perpetual drizzle the artist did manage to make it out this very night it the spirit of science and enthusiastic research (I can now freely find free mojitos, shots and sangria anywhere in the city at any hour of day...I believe that ability alone should be enough to earn me a place in Heaven...) The bars were lively, the restaurants packed, the tapas flowing and the fine tradition amoung Spanish men of verging on sexual harrassment alive and well...thus it may be time to indulge in a little renditon of Madrileno nightlife...

It begins with Día, that holy place where a carton of wine costs 55c and a bottle €1. This is to be drunk at leisure..savoured as it were, with a little music in the background. I have a penchant for Sinatra followed by Jay Z; some find this a little like tuna and chocolate, I leave it up to your gentle judgement.

Now I say the next is heading out...this is a Northern Irishism which means killing the sound, groping for coats and jackets and striding purposefully into the night hellbent on causing some mayhem... or finding the nearest MacDonalds...all previous intention seems to fade away on Gran Vía when you see the Golden Arches and remember you can play the "Spot a Prozzie!" game. Record stands at 25 in one night.

After that you can take it two ways...you can wander in and out of bars, freebies in each, until you inexplicably end up at the Fontana de Oro, the "Golden Fountain" Irish pub which seems to attract aimless party-goers like a black hole attracts matter and in which you should never EVER dance with Columbian men. I'm only telling you for your own good, they're no Fred Astaire...

Or you may gravitate towards one of Madrids many clubs; open til six thirty, guaranteed to offer music to make you move til  the wee small hours of the morning. Also damn fine measures in the mixers...

I apologise for the concentration on the tipsy wonders of Spains capital...hey, it's what you do to keep the punters amused...but also of greater merit is the food in the tucked away eateries dotting the fine city. Three courses, wine and complementary bread for €10 and everything tastes like a stereotypical Goodfellas mob boss cooking for his nephew. You know, like;

"Tony, whassamatta you? You look thin! Here, sit down, I get you something to eat...what you mean you don't want nothing? You tastes this. I swear is like the angel Gabriel hisself, he make the pasta. You crazy, you know that...you eatta this sauce, you go to your maker happy..."

And so forth...I can't promise they'll say exactly that but I'll surely have a go at Marlon Brando's Sicilian accent.

Now, first blogging under the influence complete I have to admit its not that shabby...mainly because I have been tracing every sentence with one wobbling finger and conducting my disjointed train of thought with a cup of Tetley's, occasionally the tea will make a spirited leap for the freedom but I have thus far managed to contain the bugger; which has made me absurdly pleased with myself.

Toodle pip chappies and as I promised you a "One Foot in the Grave" type rant you should now imagine me and you; linked arm in arm as we wander home through the leaf strewn, breezy Madrilenan night; wending our way past treelined streets and late night tabernas, waving a "No, gracias" to promoters handing out club flyers. And as we stroll under delicate balconies and sculpted stone a Norn Irish voice echoes into the night;

"€10 for a pina colada? €10!! I don't believe it! I could have flown to Cuba for a rum based cocktail and felt better about the damn waste of money...unbelieveable, next they'll be telling me a ham sandwich costs enoughto bail out the Greek banks..."

xo