minke: adventure in paris

Must stop thinking about the office. (Repeat 100 times).

It's a beautiful sunny day, I'm on holiday for two and a half days.

Seeing planes come in for landing is getting easier - I'm less likely to be reminded of the attacks in the States.

It really sucks because it used to make me happy to see them before, especially when I was in Australia. Every one was going somewhere exciting, and every one had people excited to be going somewhere, or about going home.

Feeling a lot better now. I've had a pistolet brie (for the irony value (ok, and because it was one of the few vegie options)), bought myself a big can of cold Grolsch (self-catering train trips rule), I've got a view of the IJ from the platform, and I'm going to be catching a fast train to Paris.

On the downside, my hair looks like I'd washed it, let it dry a bit and then slept on it, which oddly enough is exactly what I did.

After much deliberation, bought "Girl with a Pearl Earring" from AKO. The guy asked if it was a present for myself, I said "why not?" and we had a whole conversation about me being able to give myself a present.

Me: Oh, look, a present for me! I wonder what it is.
Him (being me): I hope it's a book!
Me: I hope it's the kind of book I would have chosen!
Both: Look! It is!

(Between you and me that's a tiny bit embellished, but it worked like that if you were actually there).

It looks like I've got a really good seat - probably facing the wrong way, but still. A section of just eight seats, a pull-out table between each set of two, and heaps more leg-room.

Notre Dame (and the flying buttresses out the back!).

Paris is so beautiful. I walked from the hostel (in a beautiful old mansion with a funny sloping spiral staircase) to the Ile St Louis, and through streets lined with incredible shops and a fantastic old violinist busking [I really regret not having given him anything but I still wasn't sure of the comparative value of the frank.], past cafes full of good food, across a pont, and suddenly here I am.

The sun is setting so the stone [on the sandstone buildings] around me is glowing. I figure I'll walk around a bit tonight, and eat and drink in the Marais.

I hate to say it but it does make Amsterdam look a little cramped and grey but it's hardly a fair comparison.

It's so beautiful. Beautiful but crazy. The gargoyles are very cute, but very odd. The front is covered in saints, or financiers, or whoever. I can't wait to see the rose windows from the inside.

Lots of beggars, and one very vocal crazy man.

I've forgotten how to say I don't eat meat - je ne mange viande? Also to time how long it took to get from Gare de Nord to Pont Marie for Sunday's return trip.

Knowing a little Dutch is really fucking up my French, which was limited to 'merci' etc anyway, but now I try to say them in Dutch.

So, I've been walking around. Found a bookshop, got a phrase book that has phonetics, and a f10 guidebook.

It still seems very weird that people are walking around speaking French. I'm sure someone said 'oh la la' before, and the Picturesque Committee put an old man wearing a beret and smoking an aromatic brown cigarello in my path.

Saw the Eiffel Tower! Just came across it while walking back towards the Marais.

Petit dejeuner. Coffee, bread, a tiny glass of jus. Those crazy Europeans and their bread for breakfast.

Got home about 12:30 last night, I didn't want to risk the curfew.

After dinner, I went to Amnesia, from a listing in Frommer's Online, of all places.

I'd started to feel unwell during dinner, so I was forcing myself to go out for just one drink.

There were a few stools spare by the bar, so I asked the girl sitting near them if they were taken. We ended up talking, and hung out for the rest of the night.

She knew lots of people, as she's something of a regular, so I chatted to lots of people and ended up downstairs in what ended up being the most packed club in the smallest space in the world. So much for the French apparently not having rhythm! It's amazing how men can still pull their sexy dance moves in such a tight space. It must make picking up really easy, cos just moving enough to dance I was practically having sex with everyone around me.

Linda (such an Aussie sounding name for a French Berber!) was quite amazing. She had something to say to everyone. When speaking English, she mixed the genders pretty randomly, without a direct correlation between him and her, but then she was, or had been, a bisexual, so maybe her grammar was accurate.

She was manic depressive, which might explain how she managed to be so 'on'.

She was kinda cute, but the warning vibes were stronger than she was cute. She had *great* lips - quirky but sexy - full and mobile, everything I like in pair of lips, and she made French sound very good. (But another reason not to be tempted was that her breath smelled of vomit.) She was an amazing dancer so I think if you met her on the dancefloor, you wouldn't notice the psycho vibe. Not that I think she's psycho, but full of intensity very easily triggered.

It's so early still! But I was woken by garbage trucks and thought I might as well get it over and done with. It looks a bit grey outside. I've got see if I can get a room tonight.

I pretended to be taking a photo of a domed building (probably something important [actually, St Paul's]) so I could take a photo of French kids at school on a Saturday. I hated learning French in school and knowing they had to suffer more hours of school than us made it bearable.

Australian restaurant, menu including:
Smoked Emu Salad
BBQ Fillet of Kangaroo, Candied Yams, Wok Fried Spinach and Tasmanian Pepperberry Jus
and that Australian classic, Pan-fried Calf Liver.

Photo of the Moulin Rouge poster with French tagline, but it probably won't turn out.

I'm absurdly happy, considering how much money I just spent - but I've got the new Kylie, the last Kylie (Australian tour edition with bonus cd), Alizee (I'd been hearing 'Moi... Lolita' everywhere for months before I realised it was in French) and random choice: Brigette Fontaine.

[I've never bought Kylie before and it was quite a shock when the rush of blood had cleared.]

I'm on my way down to see if I can find a flea market. The Picturesque Committee put an old lady on the scene just in time for me to see her shopping cart, with a baguette and a single long-stemmed red rose, disappear into an ancient apartment building. I really want a photo of the cops but I'm too scared to ask. Those little hats!

I almost hate how Paris is so much more beautiful than any city has a right to be.

I'm about to have lunch in cafe in Rue de Rivoli. I was going to save money and have a picnic, but fuck it, it's Paris. I'll have to go tomorrow and get some wine, and some framboise Pim's biscuits cos I haven't seen those before.

It's funny how French some people look. Fraser will love the French girl's noses. It's really made it obvious that a small plastic surgery Barbie doll nose might make you pretty, but an interesting or odd one can make you beautiful.

Found the market this morning, was tempted by some of the jackets but wasn't at all confident of my bargaining ability and didn't want to have to lug it back.

Took a photo of an old lady running a stall. I walked around the flea market trying to work out how to ask her for permission and how to work out if I should give her money but in the end, I only had to say "Bonjour madame! Pardon, je voudrais une photo (insert action of miming taking a photo here)" and she just said yes! I realised later I really should have tried to fill the frame, but hopefully it'll turn out anyway. It's sunnier now so I might take more photos.

I wrote that whole sentence down cos I'm still pretty impressed that I can say anything at all in French.

I was making my way back to the hostel, got lost, and had to say to an old man, "Ou est moi?". [But Fraser says thats grammatically correct anyway.]

Perhaps my conversation with the only-French speaking waitress did not work, I'm still waiting for my salad. Or maybe this is how it works.

I had to change hostels because they didn't get that I was booking for two nights when I called, but I might not have been able to get the second night anyway, they seem very full. Lots of French people staying in them, I guess they've come down to the city.

I figured I'd walk up to the Louvre, up the Champs Elysee to the Arc de Triomphe then down to the Tour Eiffel and back.

It's tempting to visit Pont de l'Almam, where Princess Diana was killed, but too much effort. It's funny that Linda circled it in my map without prompting last night when she was suggesting (mostly non-touristy) places I should visit.

The wine is making me sleepy, and there's not yet any sign of my salad. I need to go to the bank before I can get a coffee, assuming the salad ever comes.

I just had a thought - what if the reason the people falling [from the WTC] photos disappeared from rotten.com wasn't because they thought they were too tasteless, but because they were withdrawn so they could be sold to news outlets? They were probably worth a bundle.

I ended up getting the bill at the last place, they didn't mention the salad but broke up my change so that I could easily leave them a tip. As if!

Bought postcards, wrote postcards. Had an omelette and a coffee. Coffee f20, omelette f22. I can't work out prices here at all. I bought a Fanta at Gare de Nord to get change for the ticket machine, and it was f18, which seemed ridiculous but I guess that's station prices.

It's raining but I'll go for my walk anyway cos I won't have that much time to do stuff tomorrow. Besides, it should make it less crowded and it might make for atmospheric photos.

Things have a way of working out. Got temporarily spatially confused (ie lost) and ended up back at Places de Vosges, and therefore in front of the store of my favourite designer of all time, Issey Miyake. Yay!

The buskers are so good, the Busker's sub-committee of the Picturesque Committee must raid the Opera schools and orchestras.

A few minutes ago, I stopped to rest my (very) weary feet and check out the little church or chapel opposite the Louvre.

An old man who'd been standing behind a similarly old lady seated on another bench approached me, I thought perhaps he was going to ask if I could take their photo.

He said something in French, (the irony of saying I don't speak French, in French always strikes me, has since those fateful year 7 classes) I said I don't speak French, he asked if I was Deutsch, I said Anglais, he said, "oh, English", I said I spoke English but actually I was Australian, he said "perfect" and made a funny face at me. I just looked at him and he brought his face closer to mine.

I started to back away and he asked me for a kiss, bring his face closer to mine as I realised that he didn't mean a kiss on the cheek. It had hairs sprouting from all kinds of peculiar places, half his teeth were gold and those that weren't had gold fillings, making the total about three-quarters gold quite a treasure chest (or cave) indeed, and yet my resolve remained firm as I said, "no, sorry".

He smacked his lips together and brought his face closer still, as if to show me what I was missing out on, I said "no" again and he finally backed off.

So, anyway, while he was still shuffling off, the sun made a brief appearance and that's when I took this photo.

When I left he was pretending to inspect the railings of the chapel and presumably waiting for his next victim.

I'm exhausted. I wanted to go up to Pont l'Alma to the Eiffel Tower and back before dinner, but it's getting late. I'm having a coffee (too expensive to eat here) and I'll see if I can walk up and Metro back, or else have dinner and hen Metro back. God only knows how I'll have the energy to go out tonight, I'll have to find somewhere nice and quiet to sit and people watch.

The coffee is f24. I hope the waiter doesn't hate me for counting it out in change because I want to use the bathroom and check that I don't have my period.

Filled with local pride, Parisiens spend an awful lot of time pashing in the street, in restaurants, the Metro. Even older Parisiens. Especially in front of that most romantic symbol of passion, the Air France building on the Rue blah di blah.

Drama queen Police bulldozer rushing to the Palais. Perhaps a really big dog did a giant poo and they have to move it off the footpath. I know I'm almost delerious with exhaustion because I think that's funny.

Well, I made it. Here's the stupid photo of the stupid tower. I'm sure I'll feel glad for it later, but right now I'm just tired. And those raspberry Pim's aren't that great either.

Now, to eat and find a metro.

It is cooler than I thought. Immense crowds over the other side, I hate to think what it's like during the day in summer.

Dutch school group wandering by. Dooi!

Perhaps I made a mistake wandering in random search for a restuarant. But I got to see a sign for 'Chez Minh' which must be unique to France.

[actually ended up at Pont l'Alma. Ha!]

So, another night, another dyke bar. I've never gone to one alone as a stranger before, well, not for years, anyway. Last night was great, tonight could be called 'interesting'.

But in general; dyke bars are safest if you want to drink alone - no-one ever tries to pick you up in a dyke bar. When I realised this (why I'd chosen dyke bars, when I can't really pick up), I cracked up, and was still laughing a few minutes later. Even now, I've got a smile on my face and a giggle in my throat.

Fucking lesbian mafia - the last bar was like a French Glasshouse.

* holding the note up to the light.

So, backtracking. Got back to the hostel, metro was too hot, and I was flustered, and couldn't find my receipt, so even more so. I don't know what time I got back but I was talking to the American girl in my room until 11.

I'm sure I put my foot in it a million ways - she's probably a lawyer, cos I made a derogatory comment about lawyers. She lives alone, so my talk of living alone and being broken into so many times when down a treat.

It's really hard to talk to Americans about WTC etc.

We were talking about travelling by yourself and how people treat you, especially when eating by yourself. I was saying that I thought you became invisible, but she said that you could be the centre of attention. There's a couple staring at me now, so maybe that's true.

But in the last bar (oh, a segue!) everyone was desperately trying to avoid looking at me in case they were trapped into pity, like light desperately escaping a black hole.

The American-stuck-in-Paris-since-1952 talking to the English guy from some oddly accented county has been stuck on the same anecdote for five minutes. I feel like giving him a thump so he can jump to the next track.

I'd feel sorry for the Englander except that earlier he said "it's usually the actors that make or break a [film] script". Fatuous dickhead.

Revenge by saying that there's only one way to go from there, you've been in freefall ever since. [for the paris hilton, I got to sit at the special kings and heads of state table and be served by charles famous-guy, ask anyone in paris who he is anecdote]

Also, namedropping doesn't work if you have to say "ask anyone in Paris who blah is".

Btw, his anecdote is from the mid-50s and it's about what table he sat at )at the table of kings and heads of state) and who served him (the manager of the Ritz).

He must be in the hotel biz.

(I was writing in a hurry, not drunk! After that I started talking to them. 7.10.01, 11:07am)

Three hours left. Just got time for a museum - D'Orsee or Picasso, I guess. Wouldn't mind seeing the inside of the Notre Dame, and getting wine.

One beer before I go, a Jenlain. This place apparently makes beer cocktails, including one that lists 'bier flambe' as an ingredient.

f12 left, so not enough to get something to eat, unless maybe it's really cheap outside the station. I'm allowing myself an hour to get to the station and I don't have to make any connections.

Between here and London, I've nearly run out of ink in this pen.

I wish I knew what that last beer I had last night was, it was delicious.

I've been lugging around four bottles of wine all day - not appelation controlled, quelle risque. I hope they're nice, and worth the effort.

Went to Notre Dame, a mass was on (on? it's not a tv show!), and it smelled very churchy. I went in the side entrance first, saw one of the rose windows, then went around the back to try and see the one that faces out, but couldn't. Then the organ started playing and I got a bit freaked out. Something about the smell of candles and that Catholic incense (myrrh?), the echoing of the priest's voice and the organ.

Metro (well, RER) to Musee D'Orsee, but the queue was massive so I left and walked across to the Tuilleries and the Louvre. Queue from the pyramid around half the courtyard. If you go through the passages between wings you can see in a bit without having to go in. I'll come in winter, I think. Though it looks a bit like the sculpture garden in the Tuilleries outside, and that never does it for me.

Out, watched rollerbladers, got a free booklet about Belgian designers - lists shops in Antwerp, handy, hey?

Walked down to here, Chatelet Metro is across the road so it's easy to get to Gare de Nord.

I slept really badly last night, partly cos it was noisy - people downstairs, and hours later people buzzing the door and leaving. There's always one girl with an annoying laugh in any group of drunk people keeping you awake and I always plan to kill them if I meet them in the corridor in the morning.

I can't believe people really wear berets.

(The Seine always has a current, sometimes so strong it makes permanent waves in the middle. It always looks as if a boat has gone past. And the colour is so odd, as if it was a clay suspension. So different to Amsterdam's canals.)

Paris is so different to other tourist cities, I think partly because it's not as if they have to try to have a 'Paris end' (sorry Melbourne).

[I was also thinking about the air of desperation some other tourist cities have, being hustled and begged at, but then on the way back I encountered a horrible variant of the 'woman begs in subway with child' where the child was actually made to run towards you holding out a cup to match her mother's, begging for money. She would have been maybe three.]

The wind is blowing hard, but here inside it's a beautiful sunny day. I can see the Place de Chatelet through the window.

Oh no! It's the Rollerblade Police. (Four of them just crossed into Place de Chatelet, pert buns at the ready. I'm talking about the chick cop's hair, of course).

Nearly time to go. I'm so impressed that I can do this just for the weekend. I totally rock. Sorry, it's not like I built the fast rail track, but I went through all that crap and in the end, I get to do this.

I've come up with a theory about the Dutch and tolerance - it's all in the training. When you buy a beer, it's got a thick head of foam filling most of the top. At first, you think this is a rip-off, but then you realise the measure is way below the top and in fact, if they're poured badly (a head of only one finger, for example), you get bonus beer.

BUT - sometimes the beers aren't poured evenly, and one will have a noticeably bigger head (rather like me and Rachel) and it's just luck if you get the bigger beer.

This takes a while to get used to, cos if your family was anything like mine (though I can assume that in general it wasn't), any treats had to be shared exactly evenly between the kids, and this included exactly leve glasses of softdrink or WWIII would erupt, often resulting in tears before bedtime.

But the Dutch just cope with this inequality, and move on with their lives, taking this lesson with them, and there you have it - the root of the famed Dutch tolerance.

I think we're finally getting into Amsterdam.

Big fuss on the train - fighting woman, who smelt noticeably musty, like she was sweating alfalfa sprouts. Very odd relationship with husband, he seemed to bear it, but what a price. I think she had had a cast removed from her leg so maybe she's not always like that. But remind me never to fight with Fraser again. At least over petty stuff, anyway.

Everyone laughed at the French announcer's bad Dutch, and another announcer said "Ladies and Gentleman, goede middag" and we all cracked up. After that all the Dutch people laughed at the French guys's Dutch cos it was so bad.

I'm really dreading going back to work tomorrow, what a terrible state of affairs.

But I'm so excited to be coming home!

But what the hell does 'Pays-Bas' mean literally? Stocking country? Do the Dutch know the French are talking about them like that?