An Australian in Paris
Dear Reader/Subscriber to one of the fastest-growing, most-popular email lists for some guy's meaningless ramblings from overseas to date, I would like to begin by extending my gratitude to those of you who have taken the time to read my so-called ramblings and an even bigger thank you to the smaller group who have bothered to respond (cough...). Appreciation also goes out to my more senior demographic for their appraisal of my apparent grasp of the english language and ability to keep them entertained with my yarns (but alas, poor Merran, they will bever be sent to the English press). Now, I know you've only just gotten over the 'piece of literary brilliance' that was my last email, and some of you are still wiping the teears away after my 'slice of lemon' story (not you Matt V), but I feel I must divulge some of the thoughts and memories from my weekend escapades in Paris in print before any of the biting satirical insight is forever lost due to the mind-numbing effect that being hooked on UK Big Brother 4 is having on me. It will also allow me, for a brief moment, to forget that I'm an Aussie in London and escape such recent tabloid headlines as: "SCREWITT" and "IT'S ALL OVER DOWN UNDER: First rugby, now tennis". They don't let it go, not for a second... DAY 1: My story begins very early on a Saturday morning. 4:43am to be precise. The only things up were the sun and me as I revelled in the possibility of 15 minutes more sleep before having to get up to catch the 7.10am Eurostar from London Waterloo to Paris Gar du Nord. You could imagine the acute sense of panic that gripped mw when I next rolled over to realise it was now 6:25am. Surprisingly, Katie stayed calm and was on the phone to Eurostar within seconds. Unsurprisingly, Eurostar's phone lines didn't open until 8am. In a fluster we rushed out the door to hail a cab (yeah, right... cabs flock through Brixton all the time), waited for a bus, a tube, another tube... and finally got to the station at 7.20am - not bad but the train had still gone. We prepared to be berated and informed a ticket clerk of our situation. She politely enquired if we were students and gratiously found us two seats on the next train for the small sum of �15 each. As relief washed over us, she enquired as to why we missed our original train. I had prepared an elaborate chain of events for such a question, but before I could begin, Katie blurted out, "We slept in!" Talk about a change in modd. Next thing I knew she was ranting about our stupidity and having to pay full price, but she let us go with a warning and with the understanding that we owed her big time. We arrived around 1pm local time and made our way out into the sunny city weather. It had been nearly 5 years since we'd last been and we had never known Paris in the summertime. It certainly was a buzz walking down the street of our nearby hotel with people bustling about their lives, quintessential French architecture encroaching on top of one another, cars parked so ridiculously close together that they must have come from the Louise Parker school of bumper-parallel-parking (at least she can do it though, Simon). Ahhh... Paris. Now, I know a lot of people who don't like the place, with reasons ranging from the apparent rudeness of the people, not being able to understand people and the dirtiness of the city. However, thanks to the marvellous tutellage of the Xavier College French department (M Galigan, Mme Kubiki, Mme Strousi, et al), my limited ability to converse with the locals (i.e. "I am neither American nor English) allowed me to relax and enjoy the place. Oh, and the noticeable lack of dog turds on the pavement was just an added bonus. Tip for travellers No.1: Things are always a lot smaller in real life than their photos on the Internet. This was the case for our hotel room, but its quaintness (being able to narrowly squeeze between the bed and the walls of the room) just added to the authenticity of living in Paris. Adding to the authentic experience were the very audible maons, groans, shrieks and shouts that eminated from our neighbours' window early on the Sunday morning... as I said, Parisiens going about their lives. We showered, were up and out by 2:30pm and headed straight for the main tourist strip, the mecca for serious shoppers that is the Champs Elysees. It was only a twenty minute walk from the hotel and a very scenic route that passed the Opera House (L'Opera), the big shops (les Grands Magasins) and the Madeline church (La Madeline... OK, I'll stop that now). Every German tourist and their pig-dog (?eh?) was out enjoying the glorious weather and it was tough going weaving through the hordes of people while holding Katie back from every second shop, without the aid of a leash. We made our way from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triumph (one end to the other) in slow time and sat down to watch some of the most umbelievably stupid/scary/funny driving you're ever likely to see. Thirteen roads meet at this enormous roundabout where normal road rules seemed to have been turned on their head. Motorists in the four lanes of the roundabout must give way to traffic trying to get in. Hilarity ensues and you rub your eyes in disbelief as you watch a moped cut across trucks and buses that screech on their brakes. It's non-stop action. It seems that all they're missing is some load speakers blaring out Benny Hill's theme music. Oh yeah... the Arc was pretty impressive too. We then strolled down Kleber Ave to the Trocadero and marvelled at the Eiffel Tower, basking in all its glory and standing prouder than a honeymooner's d... ermm, well, lets just say its very phallic. The serenity was soon disrupted, however, by a horde of protesters on motorbikes of all descriptions. Hundreds upon hundreds of noisy, revving, honking machines makes for quite an impressive disturbance, although I couldn't understand what they were protesting about! Caught a bus back to L'Opera and the short stroll back to the hotel was broken up by a romantic dinner for two on a Parisien sidewalk, where I proceeded to shell out A$80 for 2 plates of heated up pasta (ordinary), 2 bowls of chocalte ice cream (from a tub), a beer and a diet Coke. [It was at this point that I recalled an episode of the Simpsons where an Italian waiter headed into his kitchen screaming, "Hey Giuseppe, give a plate a da red'a'crap to da Googalabonza and a di ugli kid!"] Seeing a map in my hand, our waiter made the safe assumption that we were tourists. When we informed him we were from Australia he thought he'd be hilarious by asking us where our kangaroos were ("Up my jumper. Where are your frogs? Up your arse? No? Well, you smell like it, you culturally niaive turd!" I thought to myself). He then looked puzzled when we tried to explain that there were places other than Sydney to come from. "Melbourne? Stop kidding me... never heard of it." ("Home of the 1956 Olympics? No? World's Most Liveable City, 1994? No? The Garden State? On the Move? No? Neighbours? No, no, no... Well then bugger off you stupid twat!" Again, all internal dialogue as I just smiled and laughed). Although it was still early and it was Saturday night, we decided to call it a night. The day had taken a lot out of us physically and emotionally and there was still so much to do. So instead of heading to Pigalle and downing some absinthe as other great literary figures have done in the past, Katie decided to read her book while I tried to watch McLeod's Daughters in italian and the French version of Big Brother, entitled Nice People - where 12 stunning Europeans of varying nationalities inhabit the house with little clothing, fewer inhibitions and delivers high ratings (the French no what they're doing with this concept). Day 2: Tip for Travellers No. 2: When somehting says Bed and Breakfast in France, they mean it literally, that's all there is. And a French breakfast ain't no English deal with the works, nor does it subscribe to the American 'refill' policy. With some cereal, the smallest croissant known to man and aeroplane coffee in us (we knicked the bread roll for lunch), we trooped off on our second day. Target: the left bank (la rive gauche... sorry, I'll stop, promise). Starting point: Notre Dame. Arriving at L'ille de la Cite by bus, we meandered around a quaint Sunday market that specialised in the sale of pets, mainly of the bird variety. As I gave into the inner child and remarked about the cuteness of various rodent-esque creatures on show, Katie proceeded to ruin the experience by ratling off a list of diseases we were probably being exposed to (she has a habit of doing things like that, especially when you're eating). We moved on. Mass was underway in ND Catherdral and I caught most of it. All the singing, kneeling, hand-shaking, etc was in the same place so I could follow what was going on. It was the first time I'd been to Church since missing Anthony's funeral so it was a pretty emotional and uplifting experience. We lit a candle for him and decided it wasn't appropriate to do the tourist thing while the service was going on and left (unlike some other disrespectful <insert nationality> tourists). We crossed the Seine and made our way to Boulevard St Germain in the Latin Quarter. As a location for a Sunday morning stroll, it rates atop any list I might have. Most of the stores were closed, bar a few cafes, the traffic was minimal and the leafy green trees provided shade from the beating sun. We wandered past small art galleries, used book stores and cute boutiques that specialised in paraphanalia from French children's literature like Asterix, Tin Tin and the Little Prince. Making our way through a maze of back streets we arrived back at the river, at the doors to the Musee D'Orsay (my favourite museum in Europe from last time). A quick stop off at a nearby cafe was first though, to experience the quintessential Parisien activity that is sitting in the street and watching life go by while sipping an esspresso. Sounds like a wank but it's just so... so... French. The bill of A$26 for a coffee, water and diet Coke quickly made me never want to do it again though. Van Gough, Monet, Gaugin and Co. managed to soothe the hole in my pocket somewhat as we perused the D'Orsay collection. I proceeded to get lost in the brushstrokes of some of the finest Impressionist art the Modern Age has to offer. No, no drugs were involved. There's just something hypnotic, captivating, "je ne sais quoi" (hanging to get that in) about seeing paintings in person, although I reserve the right to exclude modern art from this opinion. As the afternoon sun beat down, we decided to take a boat cruise to rest our weary feet. Highly recommended. We headed back to Notre Dame where the boat turned around and headed back past the Louvre, along the right bank. I'd like to digress for a moment, if I may, and talk a bit about a subject that some of you may find difficult to deal with, but I feel it needs to be discussed. Public nudity. Now, the human body is generally a beautiful thing and we should be free to celebrate it at appropriate times and in appropriate places, for example: little kids running into the shore break a tthe beach, models posing for a portrait, or a nudie run down the main street of Byron Bay, Port Fairy or the Balina race track. But there are some major exceptions to this rule. When the sun comes out of hibination in England, the Poms are bad: men strip off their tops to reveal way too much flabby, pasty skin; women who shouldn't wear tops that reveal their midrift wear tops that reveal their midrift; and this is all to see at your local park/tube station/street corner/butcher shop/church/kindergarten, etc. However, if I was a fully grown man who lived in Paris and felt hot and bothered on a scorching day, I imaging that I'd have the decency to resist any urge I may have have to go down to the banks of the local river, strip down to (let alone wear or even own) a g-string and congregrate with other scantily-clad gentlemen, no matter how open or comfortable I was with my sexuality. It appears that there are a large number of men in Paris who do not share my views on this matter and as a result, I now have some very unpleasant images associated with the banks of the Seine. And while on the subject, where, may I ask, were all the naked chicks? I assume they had the sensibility to reserve such behaviour to a beach or other such locale where this behaviour is tolerated moreso (...damnit!!). The boat made its way past the Champs Elysees at a leisurely place and by the time we got to the Eiffel Tower we were hot and bothered (not to mention scarred for life) and decided to disembark. Umming and ahhing about the whether to join the queue to go up the Tower, we decided evetually to give it a miss. However, I did manage to do a bit of star-spotting before we left, recognising some of the memebrs of one of world sport's more awe-inspiring teams, the All Whites. Yes, New Zealand's brightest footballing talent was on display with the likes of South Melbourne's prolific goal-scorer, Vaughn Coveney and, well, he's the only one I knew, were in town to represent Oceania in the Confederations Cup after humbling Frank Farina's mighty Socceroos a year ago (headline should read: "First soccer, then rugby, noe tennis"). I doubt they ever expected to be asked for an autograph while doing the tourist thing in Paris, of all places, and if they did, then they're probably still waiting in the departure lounge of Charles de Gaulle as they head home after having been comprehensively thrashed and humiliated in the 3 games they played, hahahahaha. Think about this: it's us or them in the next World Cup. Scary. We caught the Metro back to L'Opera again and headed to the room for a nap, emerging for a slightly less expensive and slightly nicer pile a da red crap at a different restaurant before piking on the Paris night life once more. I had wondered during the day why the city had seemed quieter and had assumed it had something to do with it being Father's Day. However, turning the TV on in our cubicle, I quickly realised where everyone in Paris was... at the Parc des Princes (large soccer stadium) for the 60th Birthday Celebration Spectacular of France's greatest ever musical superstar, Johnny Haliday. "Johnny Who?" I hear all of you except Dan Exell ask (you sick freak, Dexxy). Well, I'll tell you. Bursting on to the French music scene in the early 1950s, Johnny Haliday was immediately embraced by francophonic youth culture as the rebelious rock idol they desperately craved. As the decades moved on, so to did Johnny's career, changing his musical style with the times. The James Dean biker look made way for a clean-cut, suit-wearing pop in the 60s, to glam rock in the 70s, big hair and power ballads in the 80s and finally, epic stage spectaculars, fully equiped with fireworks and string orchestras in the 90s. His music has had universal appeal in French society. I suppose the most adequate comparison would be to our Johnny, John Farhnam, for his ability to be so famous in one country alone for such a long time. And for France's own "Whispering Jacques", this was the night for his swan song, where fans young and old had come to voice their appreciation. Looking somewhere between Rod Stewart and the blond guy from Sigfried and Roy (TIGERS... John, TIGERS!!), with flowing golden locks, surgically enhanced facial features and parading around in 'toight' shiny silveer vinyl ensemble, I watched him in awe as 250,000 screaming fans chanted his name. "Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!" Explotions, bright lights, power chords, rockin' riffs, tight, tight silver pants... WOW! Song after song, special guest appearance after special guest appearance, I marvelled at the grandeur of the spectacle and wondered to myself why all this was going on, because, quite frankly, he was, well... CRAP!! With every close-up on his face I was horrified by the threat of witnessing his face fall apart at the very tight seems that held it together, tried to place the samples of songs that he'd ripped from other artists and felt truly honoured and privellged to have been involved in the celbrations of the life achievements for an icon of French celebrity status and one highly overrated man. A definite highlight of the trip. Day 3: We checked out after breakfast on Monday morning but had most of the day to kill before our train left at 5:00pm. So we dumped our bags and headed worth up the hill towards Monmatre and Sacr� C�eur to sample the best vantage point for viewing Paris in my opinion. At the bottom of the climb, we were accosted by a couple of African swindlers who cornered us and coerced us into purchasing some crapping friendship bracelets but I managed to talk them into downing their price by impressing them with my ability to converse in French that we were a) students b) from neither England nor America, and c) being raped by the exchange rate (well, not in those exact words but, you know). We lit another candle for Ant in the church before ascending the claustrophobic staircase to the dome�s viewing area. I marveled at the rooftop view of Paris from its highest natural peak while Katie spent 20 minutes trying to find her lungs. We spent a pleasant morning strolling around the cobble-stoned streets of Monmatre, popping into souvenir shops and watching artists draw portraits of Japanese tourists in the local square. We headed downhill towards central Paris and made our way through Pigalle (a.k.a. the red light district) and wandered past numerous strip clubs that pumped out such classic hits as Snap�s 1990 smash �Rhythm is a Dancer� and Haddaway�s classic �What is Love� before we stumbled upon the Moulin Rouge. Its not that impressive in person although unfortunately I can�t vouch for the inside (Katie leaves in 14 days� will keep the punters updated). With a few hours to see out I held up my end of the bargain (�If we climb Sacre Coeur, I�ll let you go shopping�) and let Katie roam Galleries Lafyette, France�s biggest department store. Again, the exchange rate dictated that we left with very little (although I did think I�d look dapper in this brown Hugo Boss suit with cream shirt and bold striped tie ensemble, but thought better of the �700 asking price � one day�). We made our way back to the hotel to collect our belongings before making it to the station with PLENTY of time to spare, before arriving home and, with the prospect of work the next day looming, promptly crashed. It was an exhausting but thoroughly wonderful weekend. If you are still reading this, 2 things: 1) thank you; and 2) please seek professional help regarding where you may obtain a life pronto. Hey� I�m primarily writing this for my own memoirs and can be as self-indulgent as I want when I�m stuck in another data room all day. So I�ll go on� BECKHAMANIA: If you have made it this far, for whatever reason (sleeping disorder, psychotic, interested?), then I�d like to voice my thoughts on the biggest news story of recent millennia. I don�t know what sort of coverage Australia has received regarding the �25 million purchase of David Beckham (English pin-up, fashion icon and occasional footballer) by Real Madrid FC, but it is the first story to my knowledge to occupy front page, sports, business and entertainment headlines in the one newspaper on the one day. Beckhamania is out oaf control here. I counted his image no less than 10 times in the one newspaper last week. All this coverage, from the speculation to the fallout at Manchester United, to the presidential elections at Barcelona and finally to the transfer itself, I feel that what has been lost in all the flurry of hype is the fact that, crossing and free kicks aside, he can�t play for shit. He doesn�t tackle, doesn�t defend, can�t beat a man with the ball at his feet and they want to play in the middle of the park?!? I liked the article printed in The Age recently that read: �LIFE AFTER BECKHAM FOR TIATTO: Despite common consent that he gave the England captain a toweling when they last met, the Australian wing back will have nothing to do with speculation that he was the main impetus behind Beckham�s move to Madrid.� I�m still not sure if someone was having a laugh when they wrote this, but it still cracks me up. Anyway, David, I've got two pieces of advice for you: 1) Learn the spanish for "Does my bum look big in this sarong?"; and 2) Buy some tweezers because you're gonna be picking splinters outta your bum for the next four years. If you can't find any, then just borrow some from Steve McManaman. Small Notes from a Big Island: I'm sending this email from Edingburgh's Royal Mile (SWEET!!) Just did a four day bus tour from London to Bath, through Wales, to the Lakes District and now here - I won't be arsed writing another epic but will fill you all in upon my return. Heading into the Highlands for he next three days before doing Cornwall by car. Job has been put on hiatus for two weeks but will hopefully be there when I return. Normo's off on Contiki Europe and will head home upon his return so my travel plans are now shaping up to be: Ireland (1 week), Stockholm (3 days), Scicily, Sardinia, Corsica, Cote D'Azur & Spain (3 weeks) and the BIG one.. CUBA (2 weeks) hopefully (if that falls through, I'm tossing up Egypt too) before NYC and Contiki West Coast USA. Had some shout outs already written but left them in London, sorry. Will also send on return. Love and respex, Samuel "Bagpipes" McDwyer "You may take my money, but you'll never take my FREEDOM!!"
