A Shambles Ramble: Paris (Part 5)

(Continued from Part 4)

6th July

Oh my god, I think I love ballet. I can’t even think of one negative aspect of the experience, even if I tried. The whole experience was just incredible! The costume design, the set design (the forced perspective on the ton sets was insanely effective), the choreography, the dancers, the music, the incorporation of narrative into the dancing! Just everything about it was exceptional and I cannot express strongly enough how much I enjoyed myself last night. Alice was the happiest I have ever seen her. Her two favourite ballerinas, Hugo Marchand and Dorothée Gilbert, were in the starring roles of Romeo and Juliet. One of her favourite conductors was there with the orchestra. It simply could not have been any better. And ok, yes, the Apprentice theme appears in the ballet as the theme of the Capulets, but that aside it was one of my favourite sequences! I loved the use of brass as a motif for the Capulet family so much. And when the priest was talking to Juliet about the plan to feign death, and in the background, they had ballerinas acting it out in real time! Ugh, so perfect. I completely understand now why Dad’s been going on about for years whenever he brings up French ballet. I think I love ballet I want to perform onstage again now. There was one unusual aspect, however. That is, the extras in the ballet almost all had to wear masks, because Covid. This worked surprisingly well in the first scene, where there’s a plague cart and a train of mourners. It didn’t work so much in scenes in the market, or at each of the family’s estates. It’s a unique quirk that’ll only ever be relevant to this particular place in time, so I suppose I’m quite fortunate to have experienced it, in that regard.

I couldn’t stop staring at Marchand’s thighs. He’s an incredibly handsome man. In fact, just talking about him at length nearly ended Alice and Nicholas’ relationship last night! I whipped up a quick cheese sauce to go with the macaroni Alice was boiling, and whilst we were eating, we naturally talked more about the ballet. The more we talked, and the more we teased Nicholas about how much Alice loved Hugo, the less funny it seemed to be to him, so that she legitimately had to reassure him that she loved him more than anything. And then she blamed me! I told her then that if I was able to sabotage the relationship in one night, then it can’t have been that strong in the first place! It was all banter, just so you know. No hard feelings came of it, it was just teasing.

Today’s entry is going to have to be a little less meandering, because I’ve been spending a lot today wondering what to do with myself. The job in Hong Kong fell through due to the new travel restrictions on UK flights. Don’t want to go home instead, though. I think I’ve decided on Italy. This pen is running out after only a week booo… Naples maybe? Or go to Marseilles and Rome on the way there? Genoa? Who knows, haven’t decided yet. Greece for sure, they’re specifically open for the tourist season. A shame I’ve had to stay inside planning things because today’s been absolutely gorgeous.

-

Crêpes again. This time it was at Alice’s favourite Crêperie, La Crêperie de Josselin, on the same street as before. I spoke to the waiter in perfect French, according to the others at the table. Zahra came to join us before we went inside, but since Nicholas was held up by a dodgy train, we decided to wait for him in a nearby pub that was awful. The music was Heavy Metal, and it had overall terrible ambience. The drink I bought was a terrible beer flavoured with peach that made me wretch each time I took a sip. It’s good that Nicholas came when he did, because it gave me an excuse to neck the rest of it and not have to deal with it anymore. The crêperie was pleasant enough; a polite wooden interior ad an open kitchen (as far as stuffed crêpes require a closed kitchen in the first place). The back door opened onto a courtyard which, judging by the washing line, was meant to be private. Again, I decided to be brave and order the food and drink specific to Brittany (I assume). The cider was much more palatable than the beer. The ‘L’Amour’ was heavy on the meat and light on the greens. This I came to regret as towards the end I couldn’t even face the last few mouthfuls. Too much protein for me. Nicholas and Zahra didn’t even enjoy the taste of the sausage, which may as well have been ham considering the texture. Only Alice enjoyed it enough to help me finish. Dessert was much better; stewed apple and vanilla ice-cream.

When those at the table asked what the stereotypical French accent was, I hit them with the old “hon hon hon, du baguette”, to which they were entirely confused.

“But nobody ever says ‘hon hon hon’ “, Alice protested.

“I think it’s supposed to be laughter?” I replied.

“But none of us laugh like that.”

“I know, but that’s what the stereotype is. What’s the stereotypical way English people speak French?”

“I don’t think there is one, because no one expects English people to speak French,” Nicholas answered, in a damning and completely accurate assessment of our language skills. Oof. Also, your daily reminder that Brexit was a mistake, and that as a result there are no eligible teaching jobs in the EU as they require you to be an EU citizen. Fuck my life.

7th July

I figured out why my ankles hurt so much. The trainers Dad bought me are too tight, which is really affecting me after so much walking recently. Will need to buy new shoes ASAP.

This morning, I went to see Notre Dame, or what’s left of it. The cathedral was much different from how I remembered it the last time I was here. This time, you couldn’t even walk near it. A fence made it clear that no visitors were welcome, though it was low enough at the front end of the cathedral to for pictures to be taken without obstruction. A humungous crane stood watch to the side, inactive for now. The scaffolding reminded me of a dissection; the information presented on the walls showed the process of removing the windows and statues whilst it was being repaired, so rather than feeling like a grand project of renewal, it felt more like an old lady on life-support. Which is not to say it was any less beautiful. In a certain way, the contrast of the scaffolding and the façade helped highlight the original splendour of the church, as so despite its violent scarring, it manages to keep its dignity. It’s still hard to see it properly under all that scaffolding. The tourists (myself included) that swarmed around it may as well have been in the viewing gallery of an operating theatre. I circled it once to see it from all sides, but the south side was completely closed off. I had to view it from the other side of the Seine instead.

I followed the river for the next half hour or so, enjoying a slower pace and taking my time. Paris has an unfortunately high number of homeless people. Whether it’s because they’re just more visible here than in London, I’m not sure. What I do know is that I smell urine far too often in this city. Not just under the bridges, but in the streets too. Not very appealing.

8th July

You know, yesterday morning, Paris tested their nuke alarm. For about 40 seconds I was confused and increasingly worried, briefly considering my own mortality. For most of that time I thought I was alone in the flat, after I paced between empty rooms and found no one. As I did, questions swirled in my mind: what do I do? What should I do? Is this real? I this really real? What do I do? It sounds stupid in hindsight that I would jump to conclusions now, but I didn’t know what was going on, and suddenly I was evaluating at lightning speed my life decisions leading up to me being bombed in Paris. Luckily for me, Alice told me through the bathroom door that it was just a test and everything’s OK, but even so, I continued to wonder about if I was spending my life doing the right things. If I’d died in a nuke yesterday, would I have regretted anything, specifically recently? Did I feel like I’d missed out on life? No, I didn’t. I haven’t. If a nuke dropped now, I’d be a bit miffed, but dying in Paris is better than dying in Alton. My mind then drifted to whether I’m the kind of person to do a funny pose for the after-shadow or not. I figured that the silhouette of a man leant forward in a chair with his head in his hands would be the most poetic. Even my death would be a performance.

The rest of yesterday was quiet, but still very fun! Domestic fun, like cooking and watching things together. When I got back from my walk, I moved into the living room so that my pictures could upload onto my website better. There were 400 in total, so whilst it was doing that, I got to thinking about what I should do next again. Annecy looks beautiful, but what else could I do for the same price? Well, I was planning to go to Greece anyway, so what would it cost if I were to do that? Heraklion isn’t too bad. Faster to get there than Annecy too. I wouldn’t have to worry about all that bureaucracy like there is with getting into Italy either. There’s a pass that EU citizens can apply for, that’s basically a Covid passport for the whole Schengen zone. Can’t apply for it since I’m not an EU citizen, have to quarantine in Italy even though I’m fully vaccinated because the NHS record isn’t accepted. Daily reminder Brexit sucks. So, the reason I looked at Greece is because it’s much easier to show up with what I have with me already. I’ve always wanted to see Knossos too. Ancient Greece is my whole thing. It sounds like a good plan in my head anyway. This was my thought process yesterday afternoon.

England was playing Denmark in the evening, and after asking if anyone else wanted to go out to watch it, it looked like it would just be me and Alice. We decided to eat before we left to save some money, and after much deliberation we settled on a chicken and pesto pasta. The meal for two became a meal for four when Nicholas and Swan, his friend, asked for some too, and suddenly I’m in the kitchen playing “Little Bitty Pretty one” off my phone and spinning on my heels when getting all the ingredients. I feel like I was maybe a bit too extroverted for the others, but I had a lot of fun so it didn’t matter to me. Swan chose the next song and ended up choosing the rest of the music. Firmly 80’s. Not too bad. The chicken took a bit longer than anticipated and came out drier than I would have liked, but everyone seemed to like the end result. Alice was a great sous-chef. Unfortunately, we finished eating too late to make it to the bar, so Alice and I cracked out a glass of Rosé and watched it in the kitchen, which was just as good. I slipped into my geezer-speak while watching it for fun, and Alice tried to imitate how I said “come on!” in that slightly aggressive tone some lads say it in. I also taught her how to make a wine glass sing, so now she can annoy people at dinner to her heart’s content. And England even won the game! All in all, a pretty good night in.

-

And it was a pretty good day out too. Spent about 3 hours trying to find a pair of shoes that fitted me properly, but no lunch. There must be something weird with my feet I’ve decided. Maybe people will pay for it. After that I met up with Alice for a walk-through Jardin des Plantes and to see the Grande Mosquée de Paris. The gardens were pleasant and laced with myriad scents. It was nice to watch the bee do their busywork. Cities are fun, but I do miss the small aspects of nature now and again. The sun was strong today; the worst time to be resigned to jeans but my shorts were in the wash, not that anyone cares. We dipped into the Museum of Evolution, but after seeing the price and considering how nice the weather was, we decided against it and opted for the Mosque instead. It was closed, much to our disappointment, so instead we went to the teahouse. It was gorgeously decorated with cool-coloured tiles and tall green plants. The seating was full of patrons but we managed to fins a space out the back. The aromas from the tea and mini cakes permeated the air, and what tea we had warm, minty, sweet, and refreshing. Originally, I described it as warm toothpaste, but then Alice accused me of always being negative about things like this. I tried to defend myself by explaining it wasn’t a bad thing because it tasted nice regardless. It’s just fun to come up with unorthodox descriptions.

Afterwards, we walked down the Seine and across the bridge to find Alice’s favourite ice-cream place.

“You’ve been asking about ice-cream all week,” she laughed. I was very happy to oblige. A man stood silently on the other side of the small lane from the ice-cream shop. The message scrawled on his sign, like so many others in the city, said something about needing change for food. It was in French so I’m not 100% certain. He held a lit cigarette in his right hand as he held up the sign to face the crowd of people seeking sweet relief from the heat. Nobody even looked at him. Even the people who walked directly past him failed to acknowledge him. In hindsight, I realise that I could’ve asked if he wanted some ice-cream too. I have no change to give anyone, so buying them things I the best I can do. I feel awful I didn’t even think about it now. He even managed to muster a small smile at people as they walked by, perhaps sincerely, perhaps to make himself look more approachable. Nobody cared. I was having too much fun to think about him either. I’m disgusted with myself.

That was not the part I assumed I’d be writing about, but there we are. As far as the ice-cream goes, I chose two flavours I’d never tried before: Yuzu Yoghurt and what amounted to Terry’s Chocolate Orange ice-cream. If I’d known what the sign said, I would’ve chosen another non-chocolate one, but carpe diem and all that.

A Shambles Ramble: Paris (Part 4)

(Continued from Part 3)

5th July:

Surprisingly, I don’t feel I have much to say about Versailles. The palace is so big and ridiculously ostentatious that it kind of blends together after a while. This is Friday (2nd July) I’m writing about now, in case you weren’t keeping track of how slow I’m being. So, before we left for Versailles, Alice and I thought it would be a good idea to buy some lunch to avoid whatever overpriced food would be sold at the palace. And in perfect French, I ordered an awesome sandwich from that same boulangerie as before, and after a slightly messy start on the metro we were on our way. Paris, it turns out, is by itself a fairly small city with other cities around it. Before I knew it, we were in Boulogne – Billancourt, and I’d already eaten my apple as an excuse to have the mask off my face. They have double-decker trains here too! Just like in America!

Alice had a read of my diary. She said it was entertaining, which is good! Hopefully other people like it too. It always surprises me how much more topography there is in other cities. It feels like it’s literally just London that has no hills (except Hampstead. Greenwich is literally one small hill so it hardly counts). On the way to Versailles, you could easily see the contrast with Paris proper. Even just a little further up the Seine it appeared to be a working river, as in it was being used to support construction on the bank and the like.

The buildings and houses began to blend into classic terracotta-roofed buildings that are exclusive to the Catholics of the continent. I expected to see Versailles from a hill, which we would see the entire palace and grounds before descending to enter. I imagined it to be pristine in its appearance and all imminent traces of people to absent. Instead, we were the ones that had to go uphill, and make our way through a massive car park to get to the gates. One of the old stables was being renovated EVERYTHING IS BEING RENOVATED!!! That aside, my initial impression of the palace was one of silent awe. I couldn’t think of any words to describe it. It was so inconceivably luxurious, gigantic, ostentatious, and overbearing just to use a few adjectives. It blew out of the water any other palace I’ve ever seen. Buckingham just looks like a nice garage conversion by comparison. The gates were massive, sharp, and completely golden. Statues of cherubs and women holding overflowing cornucopias looked inward towards the paths to the main entrance. There were even Fleur de Lis’ acting as spikes. Gold paint on the window panes and roof. Immaculately clean. It was intimidating, in a way; I didn’t feel good enough to be there, like I wasn’t worthy enough to visit, which I suppose was part of the intention.

“If you’re not invited, you’re very much mistaken if you think you’re going to be allowed in.” – Louis XIV, probably.

Did you know that instead of paint or wallpaper, they used fabric? All the walls in the galleries and bedrooms had fabric on the walls like you’d find on an old sofa. Except, of course, the comparison doesn’t really help capture just how over-the-top the palace interior is. Throughout my time inside I feel that I said “wow!” more than any other time in my life. They have statues of almost every important king, queen, duke, prince in the history of France down one of the very first corridors. My neck was stiff from looking at the ceilings so often. All of the rooms, staircases, and corridors were so spacious that I was able to take all my pictures without blocking anyone. They have rooms devoted to individual primary colours in succession, giving the impression of a painter’s palette. Some rooms were themed around Roman gods and their associated patronage. Every room had some sort of elaborate relief lining on the roof, or massive chandeliers, or elaborate furniture, or all three at once.

I’d say the one painting that stuck out to me the most was of two women with a black servant. As far as I can remember it was the only painting in the whole palace on display that depicted a black person, and it was quite telling of how the artist (and the environment within which they worked) viewed other ethnicities. The servant’s eyes were bulbous, and her mouth was small and agape. She was staring at a small black dog being held by one of two aristocratic women. The dog and the servant were painted the same colour, and both had the same facial expression: mouth agape, bulbous eyes. I found it to be one of the most interesting paintings in the whole palace to dissect.

The Hall of Mirrors was very cool, though I felt bad for the poor servant that had to polish all of them regularly. However, the bedchambers were just bizarre. To have a barrier between your bed and any courtiers which came to watch you wake up and go to sleep every day, means that your every waking moment is public. There was no privacy. It sounds exhausting. No wonder they built so many retreats in the palace gardens. On the other hand, its hard to feel too bad for the royalty considering the environment in which they performed for the aristocracy. There are worst stages than Versailles to perform on.

By the time Alice and I had finished the palace, we were delighted to remove our masks. We entered the gardens and ate our sandwiches on a bench that looked all the way down to the Grand Canal, with the unexpected addition of Zadok the Priest blasting from the bushes behind us. Turns out they aren’t called the Musical Gardens for nothing. The irony was so obvious that I could only assume the song was selected on purpose to be ironic. To play a song commissioned for the coronation of a British monarch, at the most French of French palaces, the lyrics of which include “God save the King”, and “May the King live forever”, broadcast at the place whose final royal residents were executed cannot have been a coincidence. It was a very weird choice of song.

After we finished, we moved on to the flower gardens. They were absolutely beautiful. The statues there were beautiful. The fountain show was a nice distraction. I preferred the gardens to the palace for sure. In fact, we ended up spending the majority of our time in the grounds, visiting the Grand and Petit Trianon (lowkey I preferred the Grand Trianon to Versailles as a residence), and finally Marie-Antoinette’s estate, which is by far the most damning example of Bourbon elitism id yet seen.

Before I knew the context, I thought that the full-scale model village was an attempt to recreate the Austrian countryside Marie may have been missing. There were several houses, with small gardens attached that were being used for growing vegetables and the like. The houses were all reasonably modest, but definitely romanticised. The beams were in just the right places; each house had a small wooden gate at the front; each had a flat thatch roof. Rose bushes were neatly placed in just the right spots. Tiny streams were fed by a large pond in the middle of the town which had, of all things, a lighthouse on the bank. At this point, Alice let me know that, far from being a project conceived from homesickness, it was actually built as a playground for the courtiers in which to pretend to be peasants in. it was a giant doll’s house, with Marie-Antionette and her friends as the dolls. I could not believe it. Looking at it again with this new context, I could not believe how insane it was, how out of touch it was, how naturally superior these people had felt to those they exploited. When you have your rulers fetishizing your life, one can understand why you’d revolt. The upside to this was that she had also built a small farm, and that farm was filled with cute animals like pigs, donkeys, guinea pigs, and rabbits (which were my favourite). Yet, after so much walking, we were exhausted, and so after a good five or six hours we left the grounds and headed back.

Then we went to a party in the evening. I lost at beer pong twice, but managed to throw the ball into a cup with my eyes closed. I asked if we cold change the music to swing, and then spent the next half an hour or so showing people some basic moves and dancing together. Alice put on some rock and roll, and altogether it was the best part of the night. I also got to practice my French, which was good. We took the night bus home, but because I didn’t know how to validate my ticket, I was fined €35 by the police when they checked our tickets. That part of the day wasn’t so good, but at least it was at the end.

Oof, my wrist hurts now after writing all that out. I’m going to go out and do something today now, I think. It’s already 1pm and I’ve been writing since 8:30.

-

I lasted one sentence before they figured out I was English. I’m at Breton Creperie, just down the road from Alice’s, called “La Creperie Bretagne.” I don’t know why I felt nervous on the way. I was trying to think up some different sentences to say as I walked there, and I went up and down the street it was on twice, just to make sure it was definitely the one I wanted to go to. In the end, I don’t remember what I said to the nice old lady at the front of house exactly, but she said her day was good, and I managed to communicate I wanted a table outside alone, which I got without hesitation, which was nice. This whole street is Brittonic creperies, in fact. Kind of crazy. Each one represents a different area. Hard to believe there’s so much variety in such a small place. But then, for some reason I ordered a Spanish-themed crepe with chorizo and peppers, so good job on trying that local food, Alex. I screwed up trying to order a drink with my food, which is when I admitted I was English. The waiter offered me a menu in English but I stressed I was fine, and he understood I wanted to speak French if it was possible. He was OK with it, but my comprehension still isn’t good enough to keep up if people ask me questions I’m not prepared for. I still had the last bite of crepe in my mouth when he came to take the plate away, and though I didn’t understand what he said, I let him know I was done. The cider was great, actually. I was wondering where all the cider in France was. Of course it would be from the region closest to Britain, culturally speaking. It was served in a bowl just small enough to hold in your hand, if you’re not afraid of spilling any. I think it was called – actually let me ask for the name again. Whenever that nice lady comes back… ‘Dan Amor’, there you go. It was all sweet and lovely. As I was finishing that off, I ordered a chocolate and caramel crepe for dessert, which was equally as good. I then got treated to a whole box of tea when I asked for some, and chose some chai. But they forgot to bring out any hot water! That was a sweet exchange; it made the old lady laugh when I asked for some, and she apologised in broken English. I’ve just now asked for some milk to go with it.

I feel good though, you know? I feel like I’m improving slowly. I managed to order everything respond properly (most of the time), and even ask for extra things. It feels even better because there’s an old couple from Miami sitting behind me, and they haven’t even attempted any French. Brownie points go to me.

-

It felt nice to write about something the day it happened again, instead of trying to remember it two days after the fact. Now, let’s start writing about what happened two days ago!

Luckily for me, we didn’t do much. We were tired after such a long day at Versailles, so we took it easy. After a lazy morning, we all helped make stir-fry for lunch, and decided to eat it out on the balcony. It was brilliant. Sitting on chairs from the Napoleonic period and eating lunch with a view of the Eiffel Tower in the back was pretty cool. Nicholas revealed that he prefers not to have chillies in his food because he feels it only masks the flavour of the dish. I can’t say that I entirely agree, but I can understand where his coming from. Personally, I think it adds depth. The best part of the meal was definitely the cheese Nicholas brought out afterwards. He’s told me several times what they’re called but I never wrote them down. Write their names here, future Alex:

(Sans-Culotte – a goat’s cheese)

(Cantal Jeure- Best. It could even be “Salers” cheese, which is a specific variety of Cantal).

The soft one had a strong smell but an extremely mild flavour. The other one was one of the best cheeses I’ve ever eaten. It tasted like flowers. It was so unique in flavour I have nothing to compare it against. I need to buy some just to share it with everyone when I get home. I cannot understate how much I love this cheese. Oh my god.

So yes, it was a good lunch. Then, instead of catching up on my writing I napped instead. It was too hard to resist! The sun was casting low beams through the open door to my bedroom’s balcony, a warm breeze occasionally letting itself be known. The bed was so comfortable with its two large pillows. I was full from noodle and cheese, and didn’t want to sit at a desk for a few hours. I can safely say I feel no guilt for having napped instead of worked.

And so, when I awoke, it was so we could leave for a bar to meet with some people from the party the night before. The bar was in the same area that we went walking on the 1st July (near the burger place). The night-time mood was much different, unsurprisingly. People were vibing, the streets were full of smoke and bodies. The last embers of evening meals were petering out and being replaced by carb-heavy bar food and pints of beer. Some people sat out on the steps of a closed church and shared cigarettes. Waves of people broke around a homeless man begging for money. The noise of hundreds of people talking and laughing together as we walked through the city streets made it feel like, just maybe, things could get back to normal soon. I hope it does.

The Irish pub we went to had a shirtless, heavily tattooed bartender serving drinks. England thrashed Ukraine on the telly when the signal wasn’t interrupted. I got to try my hand at Cards Against Humanity – the French version – and repeatedly apologised for ruining any jokes that were planned out by the others since I didn’t understand either the questions or the answers. All the same, it was pretty fun. Then we walked home. Oh, I forgot to mention the big fountain and the old clock! Ah well. We’re going to the ballet now and I’ve written enough today.

A Shambles Ramble: Paris (Part 3)

(Continued from Part 2)

2nd July

I was woken up by those not-too-distant bells, and counted the rings before deciding whether to open my eyes and start the day. I imagine being able to walk out onto your balcony in the morning with a cup of tea, to watch the sun spill out over a monastery and its gardens as birdsong masks the din of the traffic is a rare thing in the centre of the city. I anticipate we’ll be off to Versailles soon. Hopefully ill be too busy sightseeing to write anything before this evening.

-

I wonder what order I should write in now. Yesterday, or today first? Chronological, or contemporary? Hmm.

3rd July

How about neither because your day was so busy and tiring that you had neither the time nor the energy to write anything. Now I’m two days behind and I only have 2 or 3 hours to write! Why did the atmosphere make a nap so irresistible?

Ok, let’s see. Wednesday was marvellous. Lots of small things added up to a big day. The idea was that Alice would guide me around town, but the route wasn’t set in stone. If we changed our minds, that was fine too. Before we’d left, I saw Alice putting compost inside a canvas bag, and felt very confused as to why you’d deliberately ruin a canvas bag like that. She explained that the only waste bin for compost was enroute, down the road. She was embarrassed to carry it around uncovered, hence the canvas bag. I’d never seen something like that before.

The day was bright but cloudy when we stepped outside, and together we set off towards Rue Mouffetard. Along Bord du Port Royal is a street market, which is open 3 times a week. Luckily for us it was open, so I got to see some of the specialities on sale in Paris for the first time. Cheeses, fish, fruits (4 stalls with the same offerings, why?), accompanied by what could have been a stray dog! Alice poured cold water on that idea though, saying that Parisians tend to let their dogs off the lead quit often. We may never know the truth. Just as we had reached the end of the market, we came across a surprisingly well-furnished homeless camp. The person had a mattress, a table, chairs, a sofa, and even a pillow or two. On the one hand, good for them; on the other what a shame that they had enough time to accumulate so much stuff. Best of a bad situation I suppose.

After walking past the police station and what appeared to be an abandoned house (which it probably wasn’t but they could at least cut the grass) we arrived at Rue Mouffetard. The first thing that struck me was the flowers on and around the roundabout. Their scent made a pleasant change from the dull pollution stink of the city streets, and made me wish we had more wildflowers on London. Alice explained that there’s a book series about a witch that lives on Rue Mouffetard, which, considering the choice of setting, makes sense. There was something unique about that street that I just couldn’t place. Maybe it was the pace of life slowed down by the absence of cars. Or, maybe it was all the cheese and wine on sale in different boutiques, sprinkled with small groups of people taking their time that morning. Or maybe it was the view back down the narrowing street that was almost good enough for a picture, but never quite enough. It’s a brilliant, tiny snapshot of a larger whole. Definitely bewitching! In a dissimilar vein, as we reached the square at the top of the hill, we found an old man apparently drunk before midday.

4th July:

Start sweating cause you’re too far behind now. The old man was waving his greetings at passers-by without any expectation of a return. Regardless, we moved swiftly on to a playing court in the stye of an old stone arena, only there were children kicking a football instead of doing something exciting like fighting a tiger and losing. It reminded me of the playground I had in Spain. Alice tricked me into thinking it was roman and I fell for it, because I’m dumb.

I’m running out of time to write so sorry if there’s less detail! After crossing behind Notre Dame, we arrived at the coffee shop Alice wanted to bring me to. It was smart and decent-sized, but surrounded by other coffee shops too. All of their exterior seating together made for quite a clustered view. Unfortunately for us, they were only serving people who would order food as well, so frustratingly we had to move on. No favourite coffee for Alice that day. After that we were less targeted in our walking, although Alice still had a route in mind. I would often stop and duck into side-streets or run over to a particularly pretty part of the area and take a picture quickly before the traffic hit me. One of the streets I popped into had an old house with great timber beams that I wanted to see more closely. As we were heading back to the main road, a short, full-faced lady was giving people the meanest side-eye I’ve seen for a while. She had with her a dog that was far too big for her, and she sang a slurred song I didn’t recognise, probably because it was in French. She had warts, also. Not that that’s essential information, though.

By now we were getting hungry (much like I am now in fact) and so we headed off towards the direction of food. The route took us past one of the ugliest buildings I’ve ever seen. It looked like it had hoovered up every industrial pipe in Paris and reconstituted them into a godawful construct. You know those times you see modern art, and you wonder if maybe you just don’t get it? No. This was just bad. Really bad. I hate it. Apparently, the architect has been hired by LSE to design a new building for them. All I can say is good luck.

The dirty fountain crammed with disunified installations next to the building didn’t help boost my appreciation either. Luckily for us, we weren’t stopping there, and after one more street and a walk past another church (the statue of Christ on the cross was ALSO being renovated; literally everything in this city is being renovated right now) we finally chose a place to eat: burger joint. For some reason this one burger restaurant had the monopoly on outside seating that stretched past the next (admittedly small) outlets down the road, so we found a seat with a fantastic view of Saint-Jacques Tower. There were laughs, there were chips, and one man’s jar fell out of the bottom of his paper bag and smashed, leaving a bright orange stain on the road. My French pronunciation was great apparently, so much that it convinced the waiter that I spoke French fluently. I’d joked before with Alice that my French was excellent as long as nobody asked any follow-up questions. When the waiter asked his follow-up questions, I pulled a grimace at Alice and apologised after several seconds about my complete inadequacy. Could be worse things to be mistaken for than a fluent French speaker I suppose. I don’t remember the specifics of our conversation now; it was 3 days ago leave me alone.

After lunch, we moved into a part of the city that reminded me a lot of London, especially the area around Chancery Lane and Jermyn Street. Tall, flat-topped, large-bricked buildings on quiet streets that suggest a more important past, and throughways filled with very expensive, very small, very specialised shops. ‘Artisan’ may be the work I’m looking for. They looked like the ones on Jermyn Street. We popped out the other side of the mall to see yet another big fancy building, that was a research institute for some-such thing. I’ve never seen a place with a higher concentration of institutes than Paris. Which is good, in a way; this way the Institute for Big Hats can more easily communicate with the Institute for Umbrellas and Parasols to discuss the future of sun avoidance in the 21st century.

Next stop was another of Alice’s favourite places: Jardin du Palais Royal. I’m sorry to say that the first thing that came to mind for me was Assassin’s Creed, which is certainly not a cultured reference point. Then again everything is permitted in these pages so who cares. So yes, I recognised it from that game, and Alice and I sat down by the fountain for a while to rest and talk. The garden was long, dusty, bright, and open, gently gated in by the palace around it. In the warm afternoon sun, we talked about accents; how hard some are to understand, what a strong accent sounds like to a local and a foreigner etc. Also, Americans. It’s always fun to make fun of American accents. My accent is much easier to understand, Alice says. Nicholas’ is strong and she hates it. He teases her by stressing it sometimes. Personally, I can’t tell

the difference, but that’s probably because I’m not French.

The ridiculousness of the French monarchy sunk in when we took literally 5 steps from one former palace and arrived at the Louvre. Paris is mostly palaces, it seems. Good for kings, bad for people. Someone should od something about that. We didn’t go into the museum as we were a little tired, and are also planning to go with Nicholas at the weekend (today!), so we moved on towards home. As we walked, and I continued to snap anything and everything that I thought looked nice, Alice commented how it felt like seeing Paris for the first time again. I’m taking perspective shots of roads and trying (and failing) to find nice angles for pictures, so I suppose it should follow that it’s because I have no idea what should be looking at. It was nice that it gave her that feeling again, though. I’m glad I could help. It’s not hard to find beauty in the mundane here in Paris. I understand that the ‘beauty of the mundane’ isn’t exactly a fair assessment by virtue of the fact that Paris is already a pretty city. Paris is so pretty, that even a non-descript street in the right part of town has its own charm. A je-ne sais quoi. Which is why I have so many pictures of streets.

This was true too for the art district we apparently ended up in, as shop after shop happened to be a small independent art gallery, which together spanned the length and breadth of the artistic spectrum. There was nobody else there to window-shop with us. One of the shops sold illuminated manuscripts and stencils. Alice loved in particular the Russian alphabet book, which was written out by hand in illuminated calligraphy. The penmanship was just stylised enough that she struggled to recognise the translation from the original Cyrillic to Russian lettering. For my part, I thought it made what I would usually consider to be a rather brutalist alphabet into a into a much softer one, with many more flourishes. I don’t know what I’m talking about, honestly, but I like to pretend I do. There was also a cool griffin, and a battle scene that I liked.

Before we got home, Alice spied an M&S, so we went to look for milk. I hid behind a column outside and tried to out-manoeuvre her so she wouldn’t see me, but I was quickly discovered. I then tried it again, and saw Alice doing the same thing in the window’s reflection. After the stalemate, Alice declared she needed more practice, and we headed inside. They did not have the right milk, and all of the wine had been sold. There was no wine on the shelves. Rows of naked shelves, wine-less and afraid. We left the shop.

On the final stretch, we dipped into the Jardin du Luxembourg, and came across the Boules players in their special Boules boxes. Why do they pay a yearly fee to use a dusty box instead of the just the (free) dusty ground? Who knows. Maybe they’re special Boules pits. I struggled to explain the distinction between Boules and Bowls, but all I could say was that instead of throwing the ball, you roll it. Turns out they’re pretty similar. Alice did not want to try out the old merry-go-round she used to play on when she was a baby.

And then we were home! And all that happened then was a rest, a writing session, and dinner. We had potato-less shepherd’s pie (it wasn’t really what it was called, but that’s essentially what it was) with a missed opportunity to add some red wine. Nicholas, being French in all things, managed to guess the origin of the leftover Rosé because he might as well be able to do that. Had a rather nice cake for dessert too. Alice is so popular that she has several parties that we could go to later in the week. The last thing I’ll say about that day is that Charlie Hebdo has some talented cartoonists, and that we had a conversation about French politics. Macron is a fantastic public speaker, but a poor statesman according to Alice, and the rise of nationalism in France is deeply worrying. But then, where isn’t it worrying?

Phew. Ok. One day down, now onto Versailles. After some breakfast at least, at what is now lunchtime.