Paris Blog #2

I got a tad bored of Paris and decided to take a quick city-break in glorious Calcutta:



No, Not really. But we did find a slice of Paris, a slice with a strong taste of 'miscellaneous South-Asian town'. Occasionally, the walks in the guidebook are very useful when trying to find hidden gems off the tourist track. But one of the tours, entitled 'The Literary Latin Loop', would have been more aptly named 'The "I, the author of this guidebook, really fucking love Hemingway and want to see everywhere he slept, ate and shat" Tour'. But at least we found some other interesting things to take photos of:


Peter appeared to love that poster and I would not be shocked if he now announces that he intends to join some sort of martial arts establishment.

Regular readers (would do best to get themselves a hobby) but they may also remember 'Jeremy' from previous blogs. He is the chap who we blame for whenever a certain someone, who may or may not be the author of this blog, breaks, loses or forgets an item of importance. Jeremy is the one who smashes glasses. He is the one who spills milk on the floor. He is also the one who does not remove foil-wrapped biscuits from the microwave (our makeshift cupboard). Peter tells me he has had words with dear Jeremy about the dangers of creating a bonfire-night-style soiree inside the bowels of the kitchen white-goods:



In Berlin we found a number of 'artist squats' which were abandoned buildings which have been seized by artists and squatters who spray-paint on any bare surface. The result can be magnificent, so we were determined to find similar places here in Paris. Unfortunately, the government here seems to have cracked down on such things in recent years. Consequently, a vast chunk of the buildings, which just ten years ago were home to some incredible talent have now either been converted into flats, a Starbucks, or commercialised to the point that they would make excellent adverts for the process of commercialisation. Here are some photos of the final dregs of Paris's bastions of freeform art and grimy squats:









Another thing we missed from Berlin was a trendy WiFi café. But luckily, we've found one:





A few days ago we arrived back at the flat after a long day's walking. Nothing new there. That is until I found a piece of paper slotted into the grips of the lens cap which I had kept in my pocket all day. I unfolded it to reveal this strange message:



The telephone number has been blurred for obvious reasons. Neither of us dare phone it. Is she implying prostitution? We just don't know. There is also much more likely truth that I picked this up and forgot about it, in fairness that does happen to me quite a bit.

In an attempt worthy of an anorak of epic proportions we needed to find any excuse to use Line 14 of the Metro. I forced Peter to enjoy a trip to the national library which consists on four huge glass buildings which look like open books. Two of which are visible here:



You may be wondering why we want to use Line 14 of the Metro so much. The answer is simple. It's fast, has rubber wheels and has no driver. So it's possible to make videos like this:



Finally, I leave you with this profound and highly challenging thought:





And they say the age of reason, philosophy and intellect is dead! Bah! Bah, I say.

- Philip + Peter

Paris!

Nothing happened in our last 18 days in Berlin. Nothing at all. But look -- we're in Paris!





It was like the battle of the somme trying to getting from the airport to the hostel. Not only due to the fact that Charles de Gaulle airport is a labyrinth full of hairy cypriot minotaur impersonators, but also because Peter is shit at carrying luggage. He bored me with invented physics terms such as "friction" whilst he dragged the case (along with an entire network of pavements in the central Paris area) towards the hostel.

We had to leave our luggage at reception until our room was ready, so we found a café for a sandwich or something. "Get me whatever looks interesting, I don't really care what, just nothing too zany" I said. Peter promptly returns with two bowls of strawberries and cream. I hit Peter. I have to admit, I expected him to understand what is dessert and what is food.

Lifting 60kg of luggage up five flights of spiral stairs is the key to super-fun-crazy-go-nuts happiness, but we also had to dodge the ladders and loud Polish workmen who were smattering plaster in the general direction of the ceiling. Consequently, the stairs were also covered in plastic sheets which essentially turned them into slides. Mister Health And Safety Inspector would have had a bloody good time too.

Being in Paris meant I had to buy some Brie (the best cheese in the world), but unfortunately it did melt in my bag. Peter annoyed me further by coming up with the not-so-brilliant idea of storing cheese in a cup:



Still, it was edible, and for these two days we had to eat cheaply without a kitchen. This meant toast, cheese and apples:





All this toast is partly a tribute to the toastiest person we know: Tom. He should also like this:



We spent our first evening at Sacre Coeur, listening to live music and watching the city fall to darkness. There was also a drunk man dancing, much to the crowd's amusement.





The Arc de Triomphe has become one of our favourite places to stand. Seven lanes of unmarked traffic means that there's a near crash every 30 seconds or so. Due to my sadistic mind, I love watching these arrogant Parisian drivers have tiny little bumps, but when it's more of a thump then it's time to get the hell out of the way of the most idiotic roundabout ever. Ever.



It was important that we got some decent sleep that night as we had to be alert for Bastille Day, so we made our way back to the hostel. Then, for reasons we're still not entirely aware of, huge fireworks started going off all over the city. We only expected them to happen on Bastille Day, but there they were, in the distant skyline, and we missed the lot. Such a shame.



Bastille Day was very impressive. The entire length of the Champs-Élysées was lined with Parisians capturing the moment, as did we.







As we walked around town that afternoon looking for a suitably cheap café, a child on a balcony surprised me by shouting aggressive French at the street in a style highly comparable to John Cleese's character, Mr. Hilter. Then he ran inside, closed the door and probably shot someone.

The evening rumbled on with a festival on the Champ de Mars, where we drank cheap (but good) red wine and read our books on the grass.



Once it was dark, the fireworks exploded, along with the main speaker next to us. The odd thing is, they played the James Bond theme tune, which must be one of the most British pieces of music out there.



Here's a video of the events:



The next day we moved into our little flat next to Jardin des Plantes. It's a nice old building and we're on the top floor so we have the sloped roofs. It's all very Parisian.



We walked along the riverside to see what was in the area, and we found a little square where people danced with one another. Nothing fancy -- just some music, a sunset and some improvised dancing. It was great to see, as it's not something you would find in England, where the only equivalent that comes to mind is a slag falling over in the street in time to music.



The next day, it rained. And rained. And rained.



Today we chose to look at some more places mentioned in the guidebook. One of which was Jardin du Luxembourg, which is probably the most beautiful green space in Paris. I tried my hand at impressionistic sketching. [A Pathetic excuse for just being a bad drawer - Ed].









We also visited the grave of one of my great intellectual heroes, Jean-Paul Sartre (He'd probably both hate that he's anyone's hero and that people pay respect to him), where lots of people had for some reason left their bus tickets under stones, and the odd note:



Lastly, we had a look around the Shakespeare and Company bookshop. It's famous, biblio-tastic, and my idea of heaven. If you want to know more, look it up on Wikipedia or something. I'm not here to molly-coddle you.



- Philip + Peter

P.S. Madeleine -- Où sont vous?





P.P.S. How "Englishman in Paris" am I?

P.P.P.S. Plews, we miss you and your knowledge of cars.