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.

A Shambles Ramble: Paris (Part 2)

30th June:

Yesterday started off early for me, as between the monastery bells and measly one hour time difference, I found it very difficult to decide how guilty I should feel about still being in bed. I woke up to sun streaming through the window, but went back to sleep. When I woke up again I felt awful for wasting what little time I have in Paris. I checked the time; 7:30. Relief and annoyance competed for control in my mind. The ultimate response was to get up anyway.

To be entirely truthful, I can’t say that I accomplished that much yesterday. I failed to find a plug adaptor, which was sad, but it did give me an opportunity to walk through Jardin du Luxembourg, which was nice. It’s nice to see a capital city where the fountains are actually operational. I feel like most of the ones in London (outside of the Italian Gardens) must be paying by the droplet. My ignorance led me to largely ignoring the Senate on my way to the shop, but fortunately I can always go back. I understood the warning on the fence was warning me to not touch the fence, so that was one small victory for my French comprehension. I passed the Pantheon as I returned to the flat (which it turns out you can also see from Alice’s balcony), and although I only stayed there to eat lunch, I can safely say the area is quite impressive. I’ll go back at a later point and write a full report.

The highlight of yesterday was definitely the crepe feast we had in the evening. And I suppose the football too, though typically the one time I’m not in London is when England finally beats Germany. I’d never had savoury crepes before, no idea why in hindsight. Maybe I always viewed them as a dessert, that’s why. In the end, they were quite similar to omelettes, except drier.

I’m currently writing this on the steps of a church, and am feeling very hungry, but I think I’m in the fashion district; not sure that Paco Rabanne does a decent bacon bap. Maybe Chanel instead? I do want to write more, but I’m too hungry to concentrate. This break in the narrative is proof. Ugh.

-

I found food yay! But the table I’m writing on is wobbly noo! Oh well. Should be more embarrassed I went to a Pret instead of somewhere more exciting, but food is food. Plus, it gives me a wobbly table to write on. Anyway, the crepes were great, despite how much Alice worried about the quality of the ones she’d made. Nicholas brought out some cheese that he deemed too old to be eaten. He put his life on the line to try some first, and as a result nobody else had the opportunity to do the same. C’est la vie. He asked a lot about ‘yield’, about how we use it in English. It’s used with more flexibility in French, the ‘yield’ equivalent. This table is getting annoying so I’m taking my tea and finding somewhere more steady.

-

And about 4 hours later, here I am in my room, having finished the walk, napped, gone shopping, broken bread with Nicholas, eaten too many choccie biccies, and now having a sugar rush. Classic Alex.

So yes, yesterday was good, if quieter. Today was also quiet, but in a different way. I spent it walking around central Paris, starting towards Invalides. On the way, I was treated to a variety of smells ranging from cheese to petrol to sewage – momentarily, of course – and sometimes at the same time. Cheese and sewage is not a very pleasant combination one after the other, though I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. My mind was quickly overtaken by a stray German Shepherd that, after allowing itself to be pet once, scampered off down the road, pausing to wee once or twice. I hope to see more dogs to pet soon, and avoid the wee.

One thing that struck me while walking is just how much construction there is in this city. Maybe my timing was bad, just like it’s been with the weather, but even the tourist sites like Invalides (and later the Louvre and at Place du Concorde) were covered with scaffolding. The Colonne Vendome was being washed! Nothing was safe from the machinery’s machinations. Alas, this meant my first impressions of Invalides were soured; I couldn’t even find a way in, though I could clearly see people inside. Hopefully if I go back later, I’ll have better luck. We’re about to go out for dinner now, be back later.

-

Hello, I am now back later. Oh my god, I’m so slow about writing out what happens each day, this is dreadful. Then again, these private asides don’t help much I’m my own worst enemy, as ever.

To return to today, following the perimeter of Invalides led me all the way to Concorde. The road reminded me of the Mall on the way from Buckingham to Trafalgar Square, except no trees, and lots more police officers blowing cute little whistles, which suggests either that their bike horns aren’t loud enough, or they just transposed regular police officers onto bikes and never bothered about getting rid of the whistles. It was adorable, in an innocent way. I’m not trying to be patronising either, it just reminds me of a different time. Oh no, maybe that was patronising. I can hear them blowing their whistles at me already. I must say that the French have definitely looked after their obelisk better than we have. All the hieroglyphs were highlighted in gold. Maybe Napoleon pimped it out when he brought it back? It puts Cleopatra’s Needle to shame. This is around the time I was getting hungry, and impatient as a result. I bobbed into a side street that took me to the church I was writing at before. A couple sat next to me as I was writing; and American woman and a French man. From what I overheard, she considered 11:30 to be an early start, and he was discovering how hard it is to flirt in your second language. He was giving it a good try, though.

1st July:

After lunch, and a quick catch-up with dad, I decided to take my time more, and not worry so much about hitting all the marks on the map. Instead of taking the fastest route home, I instead followed the street East, and came across Place Vendome, and the Colonne in the centre.

-

It is 6pm and this is all I have written today ugh. The Colonne is a surprisingly reproduction of Trajan’s Column, except with French and Germans instead of Romans and Dacians, and muskets instead of swords. The effect was just as impressive, although slightly dampened by the man on a scissor lift washing it. After attempting a picture from several angles that were all plagued by the washing man, I left for the main roue home, which was back towards the Louvre. The construction followed me there, however. First, finding a way into such a massive complex was made harder by the fact that, for reasons soon to be discovered, many of the entrances were blocked off. In fact, I thought I was walking away from the building before I finally found a way in. It looked like they were setting up for some sort of event that involved a house setting and a stage. Lots of lights and chairs framed the courtyard, directed towards an undetermined point. Further on, I spilled out into the actual entrance to the Louvre: glass pyramids stood small in the centre of the grand courtyard, flanked by fountains that were almost all working. It was the first time I’d see how many statues of independent figures could be crammed onto one building. Paris seems to love venerating figures as facades. The whole atmosphere reminded me of a truncated Vatican, with all the saints gazing down on you as you walk around the central fountain. Or, in this case, a glass pyramid. But the amount of space stopped it being anything more imposing than a grand frame.

It turned out the reason so many entrances were blocked was because of a military ceremony happening by the gardens. No-one could leave that way, so I went out the same way I came in. As I did, a man with a petition confronted me, asking questions in French too fast for me to understand. When I explained I was English, and not very good at French, he switched to broken English, congratulated me on the football, and asked if I wanted to save Africa. How could I say no? But I was more interested in removing myself from the situation, so I gave a false name, almost wrote my age as 37, and signed with a false signature. It didn’t lower my suspicion when he immediately asked for a donation and held out a large, begging hand. I said I didn’t have euros (which was true) which seemed to satisfy him enough to leave me alone.

Afterwards I continued making my way back to Alice’s. Taking Dad’s advice again, I meandered off-course, allowing the hum of individual streets to lure me in. I found some beautiful nooks and crannies full of flowers and creepers, with picturesque coffee shops and faded advertisements peeling off the walls. One street had buildings that were quite clearly sloping inward like a wilted crisp packet. Others bulged instead. It was a pleasant place to get lost. Unfortunately my sense of direction is too impeccable to allow that, so after another jaunt through Jardin du Luxembourg, I was back again.

“And about 4 hours later, here I am. In my room. Having finished the walk, napped, gone shopping, broken bread with Nicholas, eaten too many choccie biccies and now having a sugar rush. Classic Alex” – literally a few paragraphs above this one. The timeline is complete.

In the evening, Alice, Nicholas and I went out for dinner to one of their favourite bistros in Paris. It was back towards the Pantheon, and on the way, we talked about more about life in Paris, and about the buildings we passed. For instance, the names carved onto the wall of the library by the Pantheon are all the names of authors whose work is inside. The Pantheon has very few women, but will be her future burial site, Alice promises. Any why not? Why not break the glass ceiling for burials? Glass casket? Show these dusty skeletons what a REAL social revolution looks like.

The evening light was trying to turn a deep blue, but the cloud cover kept it from anything other than a soft grey as we arrived. The bistro was lively and packed to the brim, with all the atmosphere of a classy tourist brochure. I was talked out of the risotto and went for the steak instead, and spent the next ten minutes or so practicing how to ask for it to be cooked medium-rare:

“Es-que jour pourais avoir entrecote cuiture apois?” (spell check please!)

In the end, I said it right, and the steak arrived so rare that it was practically trying to escape the plate. I had a hard time trying to cut off bits with the measly knife they provided, and the whole thing felt equally like I was back at school trying to chew on the cooked leather they’d provided, as well as sitting opposite my dad trying to persuade me that the meat was fine.

“You shouldn’t have ordered it if you knew you wouldn’t like it,” echoed his words as I ate. It was mortifying, and as soon as we were finished with the bill, I fled the scene before they could discover how much I’d left on my plate.

On the walk back from dinner we passed a few notable places; we found one of what must be hundreds of independent cinemas in Paris, and Nicholas revealed more about which style of films he prefers. Superhero films are out, 50s Hollywood is in. I tried to offer some commentary on the difference between modern and classic editing styles, but I don’t think I convinced anyone I knew what I was talking about. Least of all myself. I’m sure there was something else that happened enroute, but it’s now 11:30pm and I haven’t even started writing about today yet (we had dinner while I was writing this, please don’t think I spent 5½ hours writing a page and a half) and I don’t intend to today. Have to be up early for the trip to Versailles! I hope I can write some more in the morning, because so much happened today and I’ll be disappointed if I don’t remember any of it.

A Shambles Ramble: Paris (Part 1)

28th June:

Travelling used to be so easy. I remember when all you needed was a passport and an optional familiarity with your destination. I’ve spent the last week preparing for a 2-hour trip on a train because now I need at least 4 separate documents from 4 separate governing bodies and corporations. I need to be vaccinated; prove I’ve been vaccinated; take a covid test to make doubly sure I haven’t got it; sign written confirmation that I haven’t been licking door handles and drinking other peoples’ spit, all so I can get on a train. It used to be so easy. I was so stressed out this morning because I thought my NHS test wouldn’t be valid (it was, thankfully), and now I just have to wait in the departure lounge for an hour. I wish I hadn’t eaten all those sausage rolls dad made. Now I have nothing left for lunch.

But it feels good to be finally doing this again, you know? To be travelling, to be on the move again. It’ also good practice before I head back to Hong Kong in August, though I don’t yet know how much I’ll be able to write in this whilst I’m there. I’d like to keep it up, of course, but if I’m working the hours, I assume I will be, then that won’t leave me much time before or after my day. But that’s still uncertain. For right now, focus on Pairs.

This is kind of crazy in itself because I’ve only known Alice for around 3 months, and only seen her in person for around 1 week at the start of that. If I hadn’t randomly decided to contact Poppy after a few years, I wouldn’t have been invited to stay at hers for a month, I wouldn’t have met Alice, and I wouldn’t be going on this little trip to Paris for a couple of weeks. Funny how it works out. I have no idea what I’m going to do while I’m there. In classic Alex style I haven’t given it any more thought than the bare minimum. I’m not even sure how I should get to their flat yet. Taxi or Tube? Tube takes only 10 minutes but will be all en francais. I should’ve had lunch. I feel light-headed. Only one apple left.

-

Maybe I was told before and I didn’t remember, but Alice’s family owns a castle. Wait. Back up. Let’s do this in order. I arrived at Gare du Nord station at about 3:50, and after spending a frankly embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out which metro was the right one (I didn’t see ‘Sud’ until I was about to ask for help), I finally made it to Alice’s flat. It was so nice to see her again. She really is so lovely to talk to and be around, and I’m glad I was able to see her again before I fly away forever. Even with the glasses on I’m still blind though. I missed the lift that was right in front of me and went up the stairs like some crazy. When there’s only 2 flats on each floor, getting to #18 damn near killed me. Alice just laughed when she saw me coming. When she was in London, she showed me a picture of her living room.

It looked like a miniature ballroom. In reality, its more of a smoking room: shelves lined with browned book covers; classic wooden furniture with curved limbs; a small tapestry on the back wall, facing out over the ample floorspace and out to the balcony. If you stretch your head out and look to the left, you can see the Eiffel Tower. The railing is a monotonous sequence of clouded glass. The balcony itself is bereft of anything save an old plant-less garden pot. The tiling on the floor reminded me of a seaside promenade, and of skating across decorative tiles to get to the road again. Apparently, Alice’s grandmother is afraid of heights, and so she never used it. When I step back in, I see an old sword on the wall with a matching knife next to it. Nicholas, Alice’s boyfriend, casually picks up a duelling pistol. I suppose I should tone down the flirting this week then.

We’re just popping out to the shops and then I’ll be back!

-

I am, as they say in France, “a fucking idiot.” Forgot to bring plug adaptors. I have more to write but I need to find a shop that sells one ASAP. The one Alice has doesn’t work.

-

OK I’m going to have to find one when I’m out. For now, there’s enough for the rest of the evening, at least. Also, it turns out the knife was a very small gun. Where was I?

-

Never mind Alex, you went out to watch the footie and its now 1am. Time for bed, I think. This can wait until tomorrow. As far as first days go, this was pretty fun.

29th June:

My back hurts a little today. I want to say it’s the bed. So, I will. It’s the bed’s fault. I blame the bed.

Now, to finally pick up where I stopped yesterday. There is no TV in the lounge, which completed the ‘old world’ aesthetic. If it were possible to have a fireplace here, I’m sure they would have had one too. On one of the shelves is a fossil pressed into one of those blocks of something I never cared enough about to clarify for myself. It’s probably glass. Alice’s grandfather found it whilst he was helping construct the metro here. It makes me wonder what else was found when digging under Paris. The rest of the flat was less remarkable. The doors to the bathroom, toilet, and bedroom had been wallpapered over to blend in with the rest of the corridor, for better or worse. My room (Alice’s father’s old room) perhaps felt the oldest of anyone’s. I’m writing this right now on what could very well be an old gambling table, judging by the scuffed fabric on top that sports that iconic gambler’s green. The electricity sockets were a new addition back in 1963. Everything is beige. There are 3 lamps because the overhead one doesn’t work. The best part is absolutely the balcony, which this bedroom shares with the bedroom next door. It looks out over a quiet private patch of green, owned by the monastery that’s slightly off to the left ahead of me. I was surprised there existed such a small space of serenity so close to home. To complete the picture, a cockerel managed to project is cry over the background city din. It feels like this part of the city is suspended in time. But don’t stay out there for too long; the balcony is ever so slightly angled down, so you always feel like you’re falling forward.

After the little tour we went back to the kitchen. Alice asked if I was hungry, and she brought out a packet of English muffins, thus negating my journey to France. Whilst eating, she talked more about her family, and revealed that her great-grandfather bought and single-handedly renovated a medieval castle. It is now owned by her uncle, which I’m sure has caused no resentment from her side of the family. I laughed at the level of stereotypical happenstances I’d bore witness to; of course you can see the Eiffel Tower from the balcony, of course your family owns a medieval castle. This would not be the last instance I would run into that day. Stereotypes, I mean. Nicholas is from a town in the French Alps. Apparently, it’s quite famous, but I’d never heard of it. Then again, I am an ignorant foreigner. I might ask again later. In any case, he’s a big fan of cheese, so we might buy some fancy French cheese at some point.

I was invited out to watch the France/ Switzerland game with them and “14” friends later in the evening, so before then Alice and I nipped out to the shops for supplies. I had a great time trying to remember the name for all the fruits and vegetables, as if I’d just stepped out of secondary school. But I feel like I’m getting bogged down with unnecessary detail so let’s just move on. Our destination was a sports bar on Boulevard de Clichy, almost next-door to Moulin Rouge. The Red-Light District here puts the one in London to shame. I’ve never seen a more shameless series of sex shops stretching all the way down the road. There were even DVD and videos for sale! In 2021! I suppose it could be treated the same vinyl are now. I wonder if they have ‘used’ sections. The bar itself was full, so we wandered up the hill towards Sacre Coeur and found a suspiciously empty restaurant with other seating on what I presumed to be more of a side street to the main road. The buildings were full of classic Parisian style: Juliet balconies, stylised facades, the window baskets of deep red flowers, all of it bathing in the warm evening sun.

The location, despite our early scepticism, turned out to be better than our first choice. Almost every bar and restaurant on the side street had their screens out for the football. It felt very similar to the match against Croatia in the World Cup, except I could only bask in the atmosphere of the occasion instead of actively participate. Nevertheless, it proved to be pretty enjoyable. The food and drinks were overpriced as hell, which doesn’t mean they were bad either. I ordered my food in French, but then the waitress asked a follow-up question. I told Alice beforehand how I’d be stumped if id have to do anything other than say what I needed to say, and clearly the waitress knew too because she immediately switched to English to ask how I’d like the meat cooked. Apparently, she could tell by my accent. Everyone was still very encouraging thought, which dampened my dissatisfaction with my own ability somewhat. Even luckier for me, the French school system fully supports learning English, so there were a healthy amount of people by the end of the night who were nice enough to speak with me. One of them, a diver named Julien, actively helped me with my French and translation.

And I guess there was also a football match happening or something, I don’t know I couldn’t really see. Most of the time I just went along with the crowd, except I (as the only “Swiss supporter”) would only go crazy if the Swiss did well. Julien advised me to tone it down a little because he couldn’t guarantee my safety if Switzerland won. And then Switzerland won. The singing and dancing and laughing of the night was immediately replaced by an icy silence as every Frenchman’s smile dropped. People began to leave the bars almost immediately. I saw a man walking up the street dangling an open bottle of wine by the neck and wearing a beret. The woman in front of me at the restaurant had eaten snails. My “Welcome to Paris” starter pack was completed. I can’t wait to be caught in the middle of a workers strike next week.

I'm sure there were a lot more specifics I could go into, but it’s now 5:30pm the day after and I haven’t even begun on today yet, so I’ll end the account by saying how people who like to play bad music loudly on public transport are dicks, and that having a monastery outside your window with loud bells does not encourage a lay-in in the mornings.