After my 3rd sub 4 hour night’s sleep in a row (sometimes considerably so ‘n all) I’m looking (and feeling) like a good candidate as an extra for ‘Shaun of the Dead – Part II’. So I feel like just hanging around the hostel until I need to leave for my flight at about 14:00ish but this would be quite the waste when considering how much of Paris I’ve still to see. This means I’ll head off to Montmartre for a couple of hours trundling.

While on route to Montmartre some obnoxious middle-aged man had the dreaded ‘turbo folk’ blaring from his phone while swigging a can of lager with his wife next to him. Cretin.

To take my mind off the cretin and his cretinous tunes, I listened to the latest episode of ‘Matt’s Today in History’ which covers the D.B. Cooper case, an incident I was already familiar with but was glad to learn more on. I hope he is running a bar in South America somewhere with no one any the wiser.

My first stop was to the flea market that the girl on reception at the hostel had recommended, though I can’t think what possessed her to do that as it was bobbins. Maybe I was just at the wrong one though.

Then I grabbed lunch at a little bistro La Dolce Vita grill. I had lasagne and it was crap, it was actually cold in the middle and as the plate was very hot I suspect it had just been bunged in the microwave. I
didn’t have time to complain and couldn’t be bothered either. But it was a pretty disappointing €9 spent when the place looked quite nice.

After that I paid a very brief visit to the Sacré-Coeur which was nice, all very crisp and polished. It wasn’t as big as I’d have expected though.

On the way down the steps at the front of the basilica I was greeted by 7 or 8 African scammers. I knew what their game was straight away as I’d heard about the same thing in Milan. They walk up to tourists and try and place a ‘friendship’ bracelet on their wrists, then they try and demand payment for it. Anyway one of them walks up to me and starts giving it “Excusez-moi” and I just said “Not interested” several times while still walking, I could even see the bracelet in his hand. He straddled to the side and in front of me though with his hand on my chest all the while trying to block me, he had seriously overstepped the mark in terms of personal space and
I wanted to give him a whack and leg it but I don’t think that would have been a wise move with 7 of his pals behind me. He eventually got the message as I just pushed past him. They really wind me up though, get out of my face and do one.

I wasn’t overly impressed with Montmartre as a whole, I was told to expect a cool bohemian vibe and I didn’t get a whiff of it. I had very little time there though and didn’t get a chance to explore so I expect I just missed the good bits. As I often say, for another trip.

Nearly €10 to get to CDG airport on the light railway when it only takes half an hour if that. I’ve found that a lot of cities like to exploit their tourists with this sort of thing but plenty more don’t (Manchester being in the latter category). I should make a name and shame list.

Bugger, my flight is delayed an hour. All is not lost though as there is a PS3 demo unit in the departure lounge.

Ah, maybe it is as 2 annoying posh kids have caught sight of me playing it. I’m now trying to teach the pair of them FIFA 2009 but the poor sods are clueless and have no aptitude whatsoever for video games, I blame the parents. I’ve given up and left them to it, total lost causes who should never be let near a console again.

Actually my flight is delayed an hour and a half, flamin’ budget airlines. It’s not too bad I suppose though.

I take that back, what a bag of shite. The flight is now cancelled altogether apparently, though they are being pretty quiet with the information. They mentioned something about another flight at 20:35 (3 and a half hours after we were supposed to leave) but if it’s an already scheduled flight I presume they will have to source a much bigger plane. Now I’m stood in a large queue (and have been for half an hour) and I’m not really sure why.

The queue was to issue us a new boarding pass and they also gave us a €20 food voucher, that’s something I suppose. I made sure I got every cent’s worth out of it (in fact I actually went 50 cents over) and had an Italian salad with mozzarella and parma ham, a large bag of crisps, a chocolate chip muffin and pint of Heineken.

As the new departure time was approaching things weren’t looking promising as the plane wasn’t even in, one fella waiting had a WiFi connection and was checking the Manchester Airport site which was showing a new arrival time of 23:00 (which would turn out to be correct). He new more than the bloody staff who weren’t saying much at all, what a joke.

There was another FlyBe flight to Birmingham going out from the same departure lounge so I took on a few young Brummie lads on FIFA and gave them all a lesson they won’t forget for a while. Awe struck they were.

I’d been through belt off, wallet and phone in the plastic tray, security malarkey 3 times in the end as the toilets (and the cafes) were outside the lounge. “You again” said one of the officials to me at one point.

We eventually took to the skies at about 22:15, around 5 and a half hours after we should have done. Oh well, it could have been a lot worse.

So there we go, another trip reaches it’s completion. I’m now back on the ever faithful Blighty soil and ruddy glad to be so. Let’s have a look at a couple of stats for the duration of this European expedition to finish off:

- 27 countries visited
- 40 magnets collected
- 19 magnets missed (boo!)
- 2 live football matches witnessed
- 73 pizzas eaten
- 1439 pints of lager drunk*
- £15.04 AdSense revenue generated
- 8400 hits direct to this site
- 11206 hits on Lonely Planet site
- 0 Frenchmen with good sense of humour met

While you’re here you may as well have a look at my fully completed old skool analogue map below. Quite the route eh.

I’ll be back in STBB HQ at some point in January for my New Zealand jaunt, I hope you will join me. I’ll post the occasional update on my travel plans here so feel to check back in and leave some comment abuse every now and again. It’s been emotional.

* Including 1 courtesy of this lot.

Schön, »vom LKW gefallen« sagt man also auch in Frankreich zu Dingen obskurer Herkunft und benennt sogar gleich sein Geschäft danach. Von den ungewöhnlichen Dingen gibt es in diesem einmaligen Laden gleich eine beachtliche Auswahl. Selbstverständlich alles Dinge, die man nicht braucht, allerdings ist hier nicht nur die Frau begeistert, sondern auch der Mann.

Lots d’objects uniques – Posten einzigartiger Dinge – werden hier feilgeboten. Was das im Einzelnen sein kann, steht draußen angeschrieben:

Lots anciens et oubliés
Nombreux bijoux, perles et accessoires de mode
Stocks exclusifs d’usines abandonnées
Séries industrielles
Fonds de mercerie en abondance
Jouets manufacturés du siècle dernier
Matériel de laboratoire
Petits objects de culte à profusion
Stocks de fabricants et grossistes
Souvenirs des enseignes d’autrefois
Trésor artisanaux en quantité
Accumulations en tout genre
Gadjets historiques et traditionnels
Archéologie de l’enfance

Alle diese einzigartigen Dinge gibt es es also zahlreich, im Überfluss, in Hülle und Fülle, in rauen Mengen – nombreux, en abondance, à profusion, en quantité. Besonders angesprochen hat mich, dass man sich der »Archäologie der Kindheit« widmet.

Tausend Augen schauen dich an, und manche klimpern mit den Wimpern.

Mein Dank geht an die Lieblingszicke, die mir diesen Lieblingsplatz offenbart hat.

Mo-Fr 13-20h, Sa-So 11-20h

Steigt man auf den Montmarte, was man eher wegen des Ausblicks als der doch recht kitschig geratenen Kirche Sacre Cœur machen sollte, und läuft dann zu Fuß durch die schönen Straßen wieder ins Tal, stellt sich der Appetit ganz von selbst ein.

Die meisten Bistros und Restaurants am Wegesrand sind gut gefüllt mit Touristen. Aber nicht alle: An der Ecke von Rue Joseph de Maistre und Rue Constance findet man das Pub Montmarte, das den passenden Untertitel »Chez Clint« trägt, denn diese Kneipe ist mit allerlei Clint Eastwood Memorabilien ausgestattet, die Wände mit Westernszenen bemalt, und der Wirt selbst hat auch eine gewisse Ähnlichkeit mit dem Schauspieler. Er scheint sich in dieser Rolle auch ganz gut zu gefallen, hat er sich doch vor seinem Lokal stehend, das dafür kurzerhand als Saloon in die Wüste von Arizona verschoben wurde, porträtieren lassen.

Ein kleines Mittagessen für zwei, bestehend aus einem Omelette Fromage, einem Croque Monsieur und einem halben Liter Bordeaux, belastet hier die Urlaubskasse mit erschwinglichen 22,50€. Beide Gerichte kamen in großen Portionen und schmeckten ordentlich, selbstverständlich war es keine Gourmetqualität aber doch deutlich besser als das, was die allgegenwärtigen Burger- und Frittenketten so anbieten.

Des toilettes à la haute couture : 20 raisons de préférer la capitale anglaise

1. Les Parisiens sont étrangement fiers de la place de la Concorde. C’est pourtant là que l’on guillotinait sous la Révolution. Pendant ce temps, des tricoteuses de sinistre mémoire confectionnaient des chandails de très mauvais goût. Aujourd’hui, cette place concentre les pires embouteillages de la planète. Personne n’arrive jamais à en sortir.
2. A Paris, les toilettes publiques sont parfois décorées de jolies patères en cuivre poli et de mignons miroirs ovales. Quelle grandeur intolérable ! A Londres, au moins, les toilettes font preuve de modestie : les miroirs sont ébréchés, le papier hygiénique manque et ça pue. Comme il se doit.
3. Londres est indubitablement la ville la plus cosmopolite du monde. A l’école primaire, les enfants sont capables de s’insulter copieusement en 307 langues, dont le farsi, le tagalog et le mbum.

4. Londres est célèbre pour ses clubs, et à juste titre ! La ville est, par exemple, fière de sa Société du dé à coudre, de son Club de la carte postale, du Groupe d’étude des boîtes aux lettres et de la Société des personnes de grande taille. Londres, contrairement à Paris, est vraiment tolérante.
5. La place du Tertre, à Montmartre, n’est qu’une immense arnaque picturale. Ceux qui y tiennent boutique prétendent être des artistes alors que tous touchent, en fait, des allocations de chômage. De plus, ils font payer aux touristes des sommes ahurissantes pour les rendre plus beaux que nature. Et les pauvres touristes repartent ravis. C’est très cruel.
6. Les chauffeurs de taxi londoniens sont passés maîtres dans l’art de la conversation. Ils adorent les ragots et suivent de très près la vie politique. Et, contrairement à leurs homologues parisiens, si vous leur donnez un pourboire, ils ne vous couvriront pas d’injures.
7. En matière de bonne gouvernance, il faut bien admettre que personne ne fait mieux que Sa Majesté la reine. Elle porte sur la tête le plus gros diamant du monde et sur le nez des lunettes de la Sécu. Et c’est à Londres qu’elle vit.
8. A Londres, l’ambassade de France se trouve à Knightsbridge. Jadis, une colonie de lépreux était installée au même endroit. Comme quoi les Anglais sont bienveillants… même avec leurs lépreux.
9. Le London Bridge est une telle merveille que l’Etat d’Arizona a voulu nous l’acheter. Nous faisons humblement remarquer que le Pont-Neuf, lui, n’a jamais suscité un tel enthousiasme. La preuve, c’est qu’il est toujours à l’abandon, en attente d’un acheteur, depuis 1578.
10. Que dire des statues dorées à la feuille du pont Alexandre-III ? Sinon qu’elles sont couvertes de fiente d’oiseau. Pourquoi ne les nettoient-ils pas ?
11. Sur Bruton Street, les Londoniens peuvent acheter des fusils fabriqués sur mesure. C’est très utile pour chasser le gibier d’élevage ou quelques continentaux égarés. S’il faut en arriver là, bien sûr !
12. Le Louvre est censé être le plus beau musée du monde, alors qu’il s’agit tout au plus d’un vaste entrepôt qui ose faire payer l’entrée. Une sorte d’Ikea géant avec des croûtes du XVIIe siècle en vitrine. Migraine garantie et, en plus, on vous oblige à admirer La Joconde, ce tableau dont les nuances marronnasses sont les plus célèbres du monde.
13. Le métro de Londres est une expérience extraordinaire qui unit toujours plus étroitement les Londoniens entre eux. Certains considèrent qu’il a connu des jours meilleurs, mais ceux-là sont des passéistes invétérés, nostalgiques du nuage de lait et de la théière d’argent.
14. Les policiers de Londres, eux, ne portent pas d’armes mais des sandwichs.
15. S’ils le désirent, les Londoniens ont encore le droit de conduire des oies et des porcs dans le centre-ville. Il suffit pour cela d’acquitter un droit de passage modique. On imagine aisément que les Parisiens sauteraient sur l’occasion pour kidnapper quelques volatiles, les gaver des mois durant et les boulotter à Noël.
16. L’Albert Memorial a été édifié par la reine Victoria en souvenir de son défunt mari. Il commémore, pour la postérité, l’appétit sexuel vorace du prince. Et, bien qu’Albert fût allemand, il vivait à Londres, non à Paris. Ce n’est pas une coïncidence.
17. Paris est envahi de chiens miniatures. Certains s’habillent haute couture. D’autres se contentent de mordre et de chier sur la moquette. Les Parisiens les mieux avisés leur balancent des coups de pied.
18. Les Parisiens considèrent la tour Eiffel comme un sommet d’élégance. Ce n’est pourtant qu’un gros pieu métallique qui s’est retrouvé par erreur dans tous les guides touristiques.
19. Paris est la capitale mondiale de la haute couture, c’est-à-dire le zénith du crétinisme. Car qu’est-ce que la haute couture ? Des fripes hors de prix, conçues pour les maigres, les blasées, les vieilles et celles qui rêvent d’avoir l’air tarte de 5 000 façons différentes.
20. Paris a inventé le concept du chic, comme dans l’expression “Nous sommes chics, et pas vous”.

A confidently carnal painting … Blue Nude (1907), by Henri Matisse. Photograph: Francis G Mayer/Corbis

Something happened to artists at the dawn of the 20th century. They started to have sex. If you look at a nude by Matisse, and the painting in my head is his Blue Nude (Souvinir de Biskra) (1907), and compare it with a late Victorian painting such as JW Waterhouse’s Hylas and the Nymphs (1896), one of the things that strikes you is surely how much healthier, abundant, and fulfilled Matisse is, sexually. His Blue Nude is a fully, confidently carnal painting. By contrast, the Waterhouse is a perverse fantasy, a lubricious idyll, neurotic, bizarre, solitary.

There’s no way around it: many 19th-century paintings reek of masturbation. They are not lacking in sensuality, but it is of a deferred, fantastical, almost proudly warped kind, typified by Waterhouse. It’s only among the avant garde that love becomes real – in Gauguin’s painting Nevermore, for instance.

Read more at: How modern art shed its inhibitions

Next morning it’s coffee and a croissant in Au Relais, then over to Bercy and the Cinémathèque Française for the Magic Lantern Society meeting. It starts with a lantern show from Laurent Mannoni & Laure Parchomenko, the curators of the Exhibition Lanterne magique et Film peint – 400 ans de cinéma, using slides featured in the exhibition, accompanied by narration from actor Nathan Willcocks, Harp music from Liénor Mancip  and selection of sound effects by Chaab Mahmoud, some computer controlled, others of the old fashioned kind.

Another highlight of the day was an amazing find of an itinerant showman’s lantern and slides from the 18^th century. One other thing that must be mentioned is Alexia Lazou’s phantasmagoria hat, complete with open coffin, smoke, a ghost and a skeleton rising from it.

The back to Le butte de Monmarte for a long leisurely meal at the Poulbot Bistro.

Sunday we had to pay the hotel bill and stow our luggage before going off to breakfast. Maggie told us about the Monet Museum, asked us what we had been upto the day before, quizzed us about Halloween in England and about my poppy, told us how to tell an Irishman from a Scot by their eyes, and then told us about the Monet Museum again! Half an hour later we set off . A quick breakfast at Au Relais, then on the Cinémathèque Française, where we spent two hours drooling round the exhibition at a selection of some of the most fantastic slides and lanterns I’ve ever seen. Too much to see, let alone describe, but here goes, there were crudely painted 17^th century slides and fantastically detailed 19^th century Royal Polytechnic slides. There were comic slides and intricately animated scary phantasmagoria slides. Behind a heavy red velvet curtain “Minors interdit” was a room with erotic and pornographic slides, which included a projection of a hand painted porno film.

There was also a demo of The Optical Theatre of Emile Reynaud, which was operated superbly by a member of the museum staff.

After lunch we walk through Bercy in the teeming rain to the Museum of Fairground Art.

Professor Mervyn Heard, Chairman of the Magic Lantern Society, gets romantic in Paris

another member of the M.L.S perhaps?

Our knowledgeable guide Rochelle, led us through hall after hall of “wonderful things”.

An opera performed by animated waxworks, carousel rides and racing games which we were invited to have a go on.

A tour of the behind the scenes workshops where hundreds of carousel horses, pigs and other animals awaited restoration.

Rochelle demonstrated a Megascope (a lantern for projecting 3D objects rather than slides).

the marvelous megascope

Then we were taken in to the theatre of the Marvellous, where pianos, chimes, organs & saxophones played themselves. Meanwhile video projections of butterflies, fish, bubbles and waterfalls played all over the walls and painted figures and waxworks that looked on, while the dark ominous shadow of a shark flitted past.

Muybridge runner projected onto organ

I was beginning to feel like Hunter Thompson tripping, soon the come down, back on the streets of Bercy in the rain, saying goodbye to Alexia, today’s hat has a raven pecking at a rose – or am I still tripping!

Back to Montmartre for something to eat then pick up a taxi from the Lamark taxi rank, explain to the driver “no, there really is a hotel further up the Rue Lamark”.

Maggie is on form, she told us that she usually shuts the hotel door at 7pm, but will leave it unlocked until 7.15 for us tonight. It is 7.17 as I stand in the rain ringing the doorbell. The door opens instantly, Maggie is standing there with our case beside her. I step in to pick it up, Maggie looks behind me “where eeze your wife?” “Outside in a taxi”, she looks slightly disappointed. Then smiles “ere ees a present for you” she reaches behind her and produces a bottle of wine “geeve your wife a keess for me, a bientot!”

We arrive at Gard du Nord too early for our train, so we sit at a Brasserie table “Duex biere, une blanc et une brune, si vous plais”

This one has been in the works for a long time, but here it is at last!  Inspired by my trips to Paris and walks through Montmartre:

I loved my walks through that neighborhood and the Sacre-Coeur in particular was one of my favorite landmarks.  Just gorgeous.  This takes me back…

Available now in my etsy shop!

Brunch might bring to mind a slow Sunday afternoon sipping on a Bloody Marys and eating Eggs Benedict; or maybe tucking into a pile of hot cakes covered in butter and maple syrup. At Coquelicot brunch doesn’t fit that mold – they take the French approach – a table covered with baskets heaped with crusty golden baguette and served with individually wrapped servings of unpasteurized AOC butter and locally produced honeys and jams. Coquelicot is a boulangerie-pâtisserie that also serves brunch and small lunches. The lines out the door were witness to their delicious staples – bread.

When we arrived the greeting was less than convivial. The dining room upstairs had been reserved for a private party, so that meant we were to fend for ourselves for the 4 interior 2-top tables or grab a seat as it opened up outside. We were meeting 4 other friends, so we opted for the outside sidewalk tables – grabbed three empty tables once they became available and lined them up. Lucky us, right? Sitting outside is a 1st choice – on a nice day, but on a windy, cold day the interior dining room would have been ideal. They did, however, have a single, under-performing overhead heater. It didn’t work, but it looked good. Good thing more than one of us came extra-prepared with scarves. The company was great. We were two Americans, three Turks and an Italian. Our conversation was peppered with English, French and Turkish.

Ordering wasn’t easy. The waiter – who looked about 18 years old – was in a mass confusion when his hand-held computer wasn’t reading the same thing we told him. Some of us ordered eggs, some eggs and bacon – and we all had brioche and baguette in abundance. I had an oeuf à la coque (soft-boiled egg) with 4 perfectly sized pieces of baguette served beside it- just right for dipping in the gooey egg yolk. A feast for the eyes! The brioche was chewy and the mie (crumb) matched my egg yolks – toasted to perfection. We ate it with raspberry or apricot jam; I had mine nature. We had to ask more than once for the honey. Glad we did. It was a sugar rush produced by fancy bees in the South of France. The baguettes were sliced lengthwise, perfect for dipping into our piping-hot bowls of coffee or hot chocolate. This is a typical way you could have your morning cup a joe in la France. It’s also perfect for warming up cold hands.

We spent about 2 hours in all sitting outside. There wasn’t a single boring moment – a gang of trumpet-wielding gypsies even passed by in song. When I couldn’t feel from below my knees, it was time to go. Paying the bill was easy. At the register, we told the server what each of us had and paid separately.

Mmm.

I am taking a stroll around Montmartre this morning. It is a gray and gloomy day, but Montmartre is so charming that I still find it just as beautiful underneath a sheet of clouds. Equipped with an umbrella, an iPod and a digital camera, I am ready for some solitary entertainment.

I set my iPod to Yann Tiersen for a little Amélie Poulain music, which I feel is appropriate for this chemin. I am not a huge fan of the film, but I do take my camera out for this picture:

What a tourist I’ve become. More photos of Montmartre:

In putting my camera away, I look down at the curb near Abbesses. In my peripheral vision, there is something furry. Is that… a dog tail?

I examine it closer, and I confirm that it is, indeed, a dog tail. A real dog tail. There is no trace of blood, I ponder. How would that even happen? How would it get here? But then I realize, “Why am I even looking at this?!”

I think the dog tail is the most interesting thing I have seen in Montmartre, yet it’s the only thing I have chosen not to photograph. (Sorry to all you sick people who wish I had.)

So, I am very behind on my blogging timeline here.

Because this next string of images is from almost two weeks ago – at the Butte Montmartre.

Montmartre, itself, is a great neighborhood that I recommend you visit if you are ever in Paris – full of old world charm, small shops, and classic cafe’s (aside from the Starbucks of course).  There’s the Red Light district (Moulin Rouge, Le Chat Noir…), the fabric district (I wish I knew how to sew, I would be in heaven), and even the cafe featured in “Amelie” (just looking on IMDB, I guess that is the neighborhood the whole story was based…like I said, great neighborhood).

So the “Butte Montmartre” is kind of the icing on the cake.

Montmartre is north, and is the highest point in Paris (to find out ‘how high’ and all the other technical details, go here).  So when you reach the top, or the “butte”, you can see all of Paris.  Kind of like the Eiffel Tower, except free.

At the top, there is the Basilica Sacre Coeur, a Roman-Catholic church.

and then on down there are a multiple number of stairs to lead your way towards the city…

The most famous being a staircase called, The stairs of Rue Foyatier.

I did not climb these stairs, there have been enough stairs for me to climb since I’ve been here, and I’ve already lost a good pant size as it is…but it looks like a good trek – yes, a good trek indeed.  In fact, if you are unwilling to take the stairs they do have a solution – a gondola-like ride right next to these famous steps (I did not photograph that wonderful eye-sore).

back to blogging. the first crazy week of the semester consumed me. so now let’s catch up.

paris, france- bread and romance.

“Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Let’s break out the booze and have a ball
If that’s all there is”
-peggy lee

I decided that for the past five years, I have been unhealthily obsessed with the idea of Paris. too many books read, one room too many decorated, and too much thought dedicated to france. The city was indeed beautiful and the sights the most unique in europe, but paris is also reality. It isn’t the idealized land of sophistication I once considered it to be.

The trip had many hurdles that we tripped over, but in the end I couldn’t have been happier that I was able to finally see Paris with my eyes and put to death so many of my unfounded conceptions.

Just to clarify, there was no disappointment, just a reconstruction of perception. Paris was an amazing experience and another reminder to keep to reality.

in the end, i left paris not with a fluttering of the heart and fantasized mind,
but knowing that
1. paris is large, don’t walk across the city
2. the city must be the world’s leading consumer and producer of bread
3. i need to return.

17 November 2009 France (final day)

Yes, we’re in Paris and it’s raining! Shades of Rome… Off into Paris on the A.1 to return our trusty Citroen C4 to National Rental Cars. Despite the peak hour morning traffic, which was at a snail’s pace all the way in, we had no trouble locating the Gare du Nord (north railway station), where we were to leave it, but actually getting into the car drop-off area was hideous due to ‘no left turn’ signs. After several circuits of the area, and fraying tempers, we triumph – and enter the sub-terrain six floors underneath the station where it was eerily claustrophobic, depositing the car into its bay.

From there on it was all fun! After purchasing a book of Metro tickets we chose to first visit the Montmartre and Sacre Coeur. Map in hand and on foot now, we hiked uphill via at least 100 steps to the site of the famous Sacre Coeur Cathedral, immediately finding ourselves within a sea of tourists of all nationalities. It was with some surprise that we noticed several women sitting on the ground begging right at the very doors of the cathedral. Although the weather had cleared up somewhat, it was so cold and very hazy and so our photos of the vista from that high place do not show it at its best advantage.

A few paces further and we were right in the Montmartre, or artists’ area, which was just magical! As a very minor artist myself it was wonderful to amble round to study each artist’s style and flair. Many were of an advanced age, too, and apart from  just a few tourists having their portraits drawn, it 

appeared there was little business being done. We did not purchase anything, having no room in our suitcases for extra items and already owning quite enough paintings in any case. We were by now becoming quite hungry but as the prices in the cafes there were rather extortionate (coffees around 5-7 Euros) we descended via a few quite steep streets into another better-priced area. Over Crocque Monsieur (grilled French cheese on toasted bread) and a great salad, we filled our growling tummies. A French couple (Nadine & Erik), originally from Paris but now living in Cannes, sitting at an adjacent table began a conversation with us asking where we were from and they were delightful! We ended up exchanging email addresses and felt they were the kind of people we’d love to catch up with again sometime in the future! The French everywhere are just so friendly!

When in Toulouse we noticed a unique idea, that of a great little business where smart bicycles are attached to a lock on an adjacent pole. Once the required amount of money was paid into a machine in a booth nearby, this would release the bicycle for use! We saw many people riding them as they were a very conspicuous shade of red. In Paris we also saw these racks and racks of bicycles everywhere in a silver colour. Perhaps a bond has to be paid first in order to ensure that the bicycle is returned to a rack.

We again entered the Metro system in order to get as close as we could to the Arc de Triomphe, at the end of the Champs Elysees. There was some nostalgia at this point as we recalled the last time we were near this landmark, in 1992, with both of our daughters, after visiting Barcelona and then Expo in Seville, Spain. Walking a major part of the Champs Elysees, past the expensive designer stores and restaurants, to stand right in front of the Arc de Triomphe, was such an amazing feeling being right there amongst all of that history! So much to see and not enough time right now.

As we also wanted to  revisit the Eiffel Tower that day and the light was beginning to fade somewhat, we hailed a taxi which sped us across the bridge over the River Seine with its huge tourist boats. There it was – the magnificent Eiffel Tower – and we were soon standing right under it! More nostalgia…  In order to ascend the Tower we were first required to undergo a security check, where all personal items are searched, before we were able to queue for tickets to either the 2nd or 3rd level. Being the adrenaline junkies that we are we opted for the latter. Quite some time was spent in queuing, I might add at this point, as there were only two lifts operating instead of the normal four. As the lift began its slow ascent, there were gasps all round from the many tourists and if we thought it was high at the 2nd level we had still another 700 mtrs or so to reach the 3rd level. It was exciting yet scary looking down from that lift, I can tell you. Finally at the top, we were released into an absolutely freezing wind, such cold air, and lucky there is security wire from the railings going right overhead or there would have been many hats and scarves taking off into the wild blue yonder! The most incredible views could be seen of the entire city of Paris and we could pin-point many of the major historic buildings and landmarks. It was dark by the time we had queued for the ride down and all of Paris had put its lights on just for us! We were very lucky to have viewed the city in daylight and in darkness.

After a delicious casual dinner (with wine!) in the Gare du ‘este  (their stations are not like ours – they are very upmarket), we caught the 350 bus back to our Hotel near the airport, arriving about 9.30pm. It had been quite a day, one to remind us that we must come back to Paris again before too long as there is much, much more to see. With suitcases packed up at the ready for our 7.45am departure from the hotel, we fall into bed on our last full day in France.

It is a gorgeous clear day in Paris. Today at Butte Montmartre after my piano lesson I was trotting up the street to the Pigalle stop and paused on the sidewalk as I came upon a small crowd of waist-high children outside the theater, all bundled in hats and striped scarves and mittens. Someone inside the theater had pressed a bubble wand up against a small opening in the outside wall (perhaps for mail delivery?) and was blowing a stream of bubbles out into the street. All the children were hopping up and down delightedly clapping the bubbles between their fleeced paws and shouting happy things in French while their parents waited patiently in a group off to the side. It was adorable.

Also sort of adorable: this song. I don’t know why Game decided to make it over 4 minutes long, but it still makes me do silly hopping dances around my room when I hear it.

Game ft. Gucci Mane – Krazy

Later today I will make pomegranate preserves! Turns out jam is really hard to make.

yo la tengo et quelques très jeunes admiratrices devant la caméra de vincent moon
(paris – juin 2009) [clic]

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je n’ai jamais été vraiment  fan de yo la tengo – plutôt une sorte de sympathisant « à distance ». je n’ai quasiment aucun de leurs disques. trois si je compte bien : un exemplaire en pas très bon état de leur cd de reprises « fakebook » (1990),  leur lp « strange but true » (1998) en compagnie de jad fair (écouté deux ou trois fois, rarement jusqu’à la fin – vraiment pas ce que jad a fait de mieux) et, pièce à la fois la plus modeste et la plus précieuse de ma micro-collection, le 45t qui documente une version live à la radio de speeding motorcycle de daniel johnston chantée par lui au téléphone, depuis la maison, alors que le trio de hoboken l’accompagne depuis les studios de w.f.m.u. (east orange, new jersey).

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mon inculture en la matière fut cependant un peu soignée, à ma demande, par une amie précieuse qui, un peu avant la noël 2006, sur l’autoroute entre bruxelles et liège – en route vers un concert autrement plus noise et sauvage – me fit un petit mix rétrospectif en forme de cours de rattrapage quant à l’histoire de ce groupe quand même assez « touche-à-beaucoup » (polymorphe). elle se reconnaitra ; ce billet lui est dédié.

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en revanche, dès l’été 2006 j’ai été assez fan des « concerts à emporter » de blogotheque.net. via mon intérêt musical pour ramona cordova, jeffrey lewis, françois virot, les liars ou les dirty projectors je découvrais, assez admiratif, un boulot de « quasi-cinéma » (en vidéo) qui me touchait beaucoup.  un projet qu’en novembre 2007 je résumais ainsi : « filmer en plan-séquence deux ou trois morceaux de musiciens jouant dans le “monde réel” – arrêt de bus, salon de coiffure, trottoir, wasserette… -  plutôt que dans les cocons surprotégés du monde du spectacle – scènes, studios… ». aujourdhui, presque arrivée à sa centième session, la série semble avoir pris quelques libertés avec cette forme du plan-séquence (à moins que je l’aie moi-même surévaluée au départ ?), en tout cas dans les amorces et mises en situations des chansons proprement dites… mais c’est toujours une captation assez directe de ce qui se passe – ou, parfois, ne se passe pas – dans l’instant, dans les trois minutes d’une chanson, qui prime (« produire une présence » diraient dominique lohlé et guy-marc hinant). quand « ça marche », vincent moon et les siens saisissent en tout cas cette essence trop souvent négligée dans les flots de « musique filmée » qui viennent aguicher nos rétines et nos tympans : l’écoute (déjà entre les musiciens ; puis aussi de la part de passants, de quidams, d’habitants du coin, d’un public non convaincu d’avance… ).

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pour en revenir à yo la tengo, j’aime beaucoup beaucoup les trois premiers quarts de leur « concert à emporter » [ ! CLIC !] filmé en juin dernier par vincent moon et posté il y a six semaines sur la toile. paris, montmartre, la topographie, la pente, les escaliers en plein air, la rampe en métal… une plaine de jeux, des cris d’enfants qui couvrent presque la voix d’ira kaplan dans le deuxième morceau, un soleil timide, du vent dans les cheveux, des « papapa-pââ, papapa-pâââ ! » devant lesquels on ne peut que capituler… à l’image d’une georgia qui me fait de plus en plus penser à moe tucker (baguettes et voix fluette), yo la tengo vieillit bien – nettement mieux, même, que d’autres groupes historiquement ou musicalement plus importants qu’eux mais qui ne sont aujourd’hui plus à la hauteur de leur légende. la modestie et la simplicité se posent tout d’un coup comme d’excellents agents de conservation…

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yo la tengo (usa)
ce mercredi 11 novembre – 20h – het depot
12 martelarenplein – 3000 leuven – belgië –  20 / 23 eur

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yo la tengo (usa) ~ wreckless eric & amy rigby (gb/usa)
vendredi 27 novembre – 21h – fri-son
13 route de la fonderie – 1700 fribourg – suisse – 28 chf

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yo la tengo (usa)
lundi 30 novembre – 19h30 – le bataclan
50 boulevard voltaire – 75011 paris – france – 30 eur (!)

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ps1 / une dette envers yo la tengo que je n’oublierai jamais, c’est que c’est via leur album de reprises « fakebook » – et la médiation érudite de mon ami emmanuel levaufre –  que je découvris une chanson que j’adore : yellow sarong de the scene is now. or, je viens de découvrir via leur « espace », qu’un label australien, lexicon devil, est en train de rééditer un à un leurs albums…

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ps2 / curiosité architecturale : à 4 minutes 42 secondes dans la deuxième partie de leur « concert à emporter », yo la tengo se retrouve à pousser la chansonnette devant la porte de la maison que l’architecte viennois adolf loos (l’auteur du manifeste « ornement et crime » en 1908) construisit en 1926 pour tristan tzara [clic1 ~ clic2]

When I was in France as an exchange student all those years ago I wasn’t only an idiot obsessed with letting off fireworks and arguing with Jean-Louis. There was a part of me which was utterly entranced by the fact that I could travel for a couple of hours across a stretch of sea and find myself immersed in a radically different culture. In short, I loved France, which is why I signed up to go back and spend more time with Jean-Louis the following year. He and I might not have got along too well but he dug England when he came to stay with me, I dug France when I was there so it made sense to take the opportunity to go again.

One of the reasons I was keen to return was Paris although, as I will explain, Paris was one of the reasons my school might not have wanted me to go on the following year’s exchange. I’d got myself into a bit of trouble in the French capital, you see. It was all going spendidly well in the morning. Jean-Louis’ mum dragged me out of bed at some ungodly hour so that I could get washed and dressed in time to make the coach. It was barely light as we pulled out of Caen and began trundling 120 miles towards Paris. It was about half nine by the time we spilled out of the coach, hot and bothered and already full of brie and baguettes. As is probably customary with all exchange students, we were first taken to the Eiffel Tower. Either because of cost or because of time, we did not go to the very top but still got an amazing view from the second level. I know London a little because my father worked there and I used to take a train and he’d meet me at Paddington Station whenever I went to stay with him. Usually he’d take me to his place of work – a huge building close to Blackfriar’s Bridge – and he’d shown me around Westminster and Fleet Street and the like when time allowed. But Paris seemed like another world from the tower. Up there where the exhaust fumes did not reach, where the only sounds were of bickering seagulls, squabbling children and harrassed teachers, I fell in love with a place for the first time in my life.

Notre Dame

Our next stop was Notre Dame but I could not get the image of Paris from above out of my head. I didn’t want to stay in some scary old church, I wanted to explore the city. So I did. I edged towards the door while the guide was telling our group about the cathedral and walked out. For reasons I am not entirely sure, I was followed by one of the swottier boys from my class. At first I thought he’d been sent by a teacher to tell me to come back in, but it turns out there was a slightly rebellious streak in him after all. He had already been to Paris twice, he said, and didn’t want to trudge around Notre Dame again so he thought he’d hang around outside until they were done. “Where are you going?” he asked.”No idea,” I replied. “What do you mean?” he wanted to know. So I tried to tell him what I’d felt when we were up the Eiffel Tower and that I just wanted to lose myself in the streets and discover it all for myself. Not sure if he got quite what I meant but he reminded me of when and where the coach was leaving from that evening. “What if you get lost and miss the coach?” he suddenly thought. “No idea,” I said again and walked away. Moments later he was there alongside me and it seemed I’d found an unlikely accomplice for possibly the most idiotic spot of truancy I ever indulged in.

Actually, he didn’t last long. We’d been heading vaguely North (I now know, at the time I was just wandering wherever I liked, soaking up the sounds of the traffic and the conversations people seemed to be having at break-neck speeds), and began walking down a thinning street. On either side were women in short skirts with tiny handbags, cigarettes dangling from too-red lips. “Oh my god, they’re…” said Swot-Boy. “Hookers,” I completed his sentence. The further we walked along the street, the older and less attractive the women seemed to become. Near the other end one of them winked at my friend. He freaked out, as though a prostitute winking at him was the same as having paid her for services we were not even particularly ready for at that age. “I’m going back.” was all he said. So I let him head off and continued in the direction we’d been going.

Montmartre Steps

I did not know at the time that I was entering Montmartre. All I knew was that the chain stores had disappeared from the streets to be replaced with smaller shops, cafes, tobacconists, and murky looking antique places. Pavement artists seemed to be on every corner bugging the better dressed tourists to have their portrait sketched. This was the Paris I’d imagined from films and television. I had no idea that Montmartre was traditionally the bohemian quarter and down the years had been home to the likes of Picasso, and Renoir and even American writers such as Langston Hughes. All I knew was that this was MY Paris, I’d discovered it all on my own. Nobody had shown me the steps or the side roads: they were all new and all mine.

Feeling thirsty, I stopped in a cafe on the corner of a main street, pretended I could read more than ten words of the French newspaper which was lying on my table when I sat down, and beheld my new domain. I dreamed the normal dreams of impressionable teenagers who read too much Kafka and Orwell and who have stumbled into Paris as if guided by the hand of Fate. In other words I dreamed that one day I would return and live here, in this part of the city, and forget that I ever spoke English at all. And when I rounded another corner on continuing my explorations, I found yet another reason to come and live in Montmartre: The Sacre Coeur.

One of the reasons I adored the film ‘Amelie‘ so much was because of the scenes around the Sacre Coeur. I don;t know what it was that drew me to it as I was not and am not religious. But it was this glorious white building on top of a hill with inviting steps leading up to it. So I climbed the steps and went inside what suddenly seemed like some magical temple. There was a peace and stillness inside, despite the fact of it being quite full with tourists and worshippers, that made sense to me in a way that years of sermons and religious instruction at school had never done. Many people were buying candles and setting them on a specially provided stand, lighting them and, presumably, whispering a silent prayer. I put three Francs into the box, lit my candle and put it with the others. Rather than praying I became somewhat serious and realised that I was going to be in an awful lot of trouble with my teachers. I decided to wander round for ten minutes, drink in as much as I could of the Sacre Coeur, and then make my way back to the meeting point.

On the way back I tried telling myself I’d probably be fine. We were going to have sandwiches wherever after Notre Dame and then the students were going to be allowed to explore anyway. They’d probably not even missed me. I;d only skipped off an hour early after all. How wrong I was. My teachers were apoplectic with rage and also quite shaken with fear. Anything could have happned to me, they said. What the hell was I thinking, they said. The police were looking for you, they said. So I had to apologise to the teachers, and to the gendarme who they’d spoken to and who had alerted some of his colleagues by radio. I was sorry that they’d been so worried, sorry that I had caused disruption and trouble. But I was not sorry at all to have discovered Paris for myself that day. The memories will stay with me forever, even if I never did end up living the life of a bohemian in Montmartre. It’s probably all commercial these days anyway.