A Weekend in Paris
(Do you have any idea how much fun it is to write that?)
Last weekend I had the inestimable honour of joining Le Tour de Fear 2007 for their final fling in gay Paree.
I was disproportionately excited about going: I haven’t been anywhere in ages, not least because the Home Office has had my passport for a while. The rationale for my trip was a questionable one: Le Comte had some exams he needed to sit and I was required to officiate while he did so. [ Apparently I’m sufficiently qualified and responsible a member of society to be approved to do such things. Who would have thought?] At any rate, I was on my way to Paris and that’s always good news as far as I’m concerned.
Friday
It was my first trip on the Eurostar, which was excellent fun. I booked late, and on Captain Kloss’s credit card, and so accidentally happened to be seated in a travel class above that to which I am accustomed. I was surrounded by grumpy well-dressed business people, all of whom played Sudoku for the entire trip – even while they were eating their dinner (which, by the way, was surprisingly good – I guess that’s what happens when you book Fancypants Class). My fears of being trapped in the tunnel were allayed by the lovely wee bottles of red wine that the hostess obligingly brought me at regular intervals.
After whipping myself up into a frenzy of giddy excitement before my departure and then one or three too many bottles of red on the train, my first night in Paris turned into One of Those Nights that every traveller has once in a while. As my brothers would say, it was an attack of The Fear.
The boys weren’t arriving until the following day, so I had booked a hotel for the Friday night. My hotel was surprisingly cool – with green apples instead of mints on the pillows – and after checking in I set out to roam the streets for a while.
It was late, I was tired. I was out of cigarettes. I don’t speak French.
I was reminded of how it feels to have those moments of utter and complete despair when in an unfamiliar place. It doesn’t take much, but when you’re tired and cranky and nothing’s open and you can’t ask for help, small tasks become overwhelmingly complicated. It makes me shy and hesitant and frustrated and I’M NOT HAVING FUN, DAMMIT, WHEN WILL THIS BE FUN?
I wandered the streets for an hour, aiming for bright lights and being disappointed time and again at finding nightclubs instead of supermarkets. I cursed myself for not making more of an effort to remember some French before I came. Random words from Madame Smythe’s Grade 8 French class flitted through my brain, as though they might be useful: ‘window’, ‘fish’, ‘happy birthday’, ‘left’, ‘warm’. I had to fight the temptation to ask in Spanish, as if speaking in any different language would suffice.
Eventually, I found a Holiday Inn and decided to try to impersonate one of their guests. I walk straight up to Reception and give him my one sentence: ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t speak any French.’ (it’s best when completed with a mournful, apologetic look). He directed me to the bar, where after whispering my request shyly I finally managed to exchange money for nicotine.
The tension eased somewhat, I made my way back to the hotel. In my earlier panic, I had completely failed to notice that I was staying right in the middle of deliciously clichéd storybook Paris: small dark streets lined with little bistros and dark, cosy bars, people sitting outside and smoking and looking impossibly chic. I wandered along, listening to the funky music and busy French chatter wafting through the air and then felt miserable all over again as I realised I was lonely and in no way brave enough to sit down somewhere to order a drink and try to do something about it.
I decided Conquering Paris could wait until morning (there’s a surrender monkey joke somewhere here, but I can’t quite find it). Weary and feeling sorry for myself, I found a little grocery store and went in to buy some snacks (and a beer) to take back to the hotel. I found cheese, and decided to splash out and get some salami as well – grabbing a package at random and discovering to my dismay upon my return to my hotel to discover that it was, in fact, bacon. I vowed to speak of this to no one.
My very exciting trip really wasn’t going very well so far.
Moments later, it got worse. I realised that not being able to say ‘how much is that?’ or ‘where can I buy cigarettes’ is one thing. The true depths of my language problems were made clear to me when I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to say what I needed to right at that moment:
“I’m very sorry, but I have spilled my beer all over the carpet”.
(Sob).
I didn’t even try. I mopped it up as best I could and tried to feel thankful that it wasn’t the bed.
Reasonably miserable by now (and beerless), you’ll be pleased to know that consolation was found in the form of hilarious French television, particularly an excellent show called “Splashdance”. A horde of young, scantily clad beautiful people clustered around a pool in a tropical location, bopping about to funky music. There was a raised wooden platform over the pool, and two people at a time clambered up to have – get this – a dance battle. When they were done, the crowd would vote, and the wooden platform split and tilted and the loser was dumped into the pool. It was awesome.
It happens sometimes, you know – all this excitement and adventure isn’t all fun all the time. I know it’s always worth sticking it out, though, so I sat and sniggered at the television, eating cheese and knowing it would be better in the morning.
The Rest of the Weekend
The Lads called early – they had already set up camp in a wee village outside of Paris. I hopped a train out there with minimal angst – navigating routes and timetables with relative ease. Abandoning all memories of my Friday night angst, I boarded the train and settled down with my book, feeling slightly smug as I thought, man, I’ve definitely got this travelling thing sorted.
Then I noticed that the train was going express, hurtling through each station at an alarming speed. I wet my trousers in panic, wondering where the hell I was going to end up and how on earth I was going to find my brothers. I used the last of my mobile phone credit to alert Captain Kloss of this alarming development, then cursed my trigger-happy nerves as the train slowed down and started calling at every station along the line.
Crisis averted, I was soon met by my hosts and escorted to my first encounter with the Messy Days Express. My first impression was that it was less smelly than I had feared - no small feat, given that it had housed three boys for a month. It was huge, but crowded inside with a wee kitchen and bathroom, a booth with a table, cabinets and drawers everywhere, everything neatly self-contained. The Lads had set up the card table outside the front door under an awning – it was camper’s paradise.
I’m a very responsible examination supervisor, so I checked thoroughly to make sure that there were no textbooks and no internet access, then we left Le Comte with his exam papers and headed back into town.
We weren't particularly fussed about seeing Paris sights – I’ve been there before, and the boys are coming back in September for the rugby World Cup. We ticked a box or two, wandering around the Louvre courtyard and climbing up the Arc de Triomphe, as shown here:
…but the bulk of the weekend was spent focussing on some bike race that was apparently a fairly big deal.
We found a pub just off the Champs-Élysées that was showing the penultimate stage of the Tour on television. We drank many pints, the boys regaled me with stories from their trip and I sat and scrolled through their many very entertaining photographs. There was one of TPC in red Speedos that was among the best things I have ever seen. I don’t have a copy, sadly, but perhaps if we’re all very, very lucky he’ll put it up on his blog.
We struck up a conversation with a garrulous Yank who had apparently been drinking Jagermeister all afternoon. He was highly entertaining, filled with stories of his Tour so far – he’d met everyone and scammed his way in everywhere. He was loud, but harmless and friendly, carrying packets of flower seeds from his native Texas to hand out as gifts. I made an excellent joke about yellow roses that didn’t get the love it deserved.
I tried to pay attention to the cycling, asking many questions and letting The Lads trip over each other to display the knowledge gained from three weeks on the road. As the beer flowed, my questions became louder and stupider. I recall speaking at length about my views relating to how the race could be enhanced with the addition of spokey dokeys, which I can only presume did wonders for my credibility. At one point, the Texan accused me of paying too much attention to the contents of the cyclists’ shorts as I peered intently at the screen. I told him he was right, but not in the way he thought:
jLo: “What I can’t stop imagining is the scar tissue on their arses. Imagine – years and years of professional cycling, the chafing must be unbearable. It must build up into layer upon layer of scar tissue, all along their legs and butt cheeks."
The Texan was flummoxed: “This is my fourth Tour de France. I can honestly say that has never occurred to me before.”
I told him that expanding your mind via conversation with random strangers is what travelling is all about.
We rounded out the day with champagne and a most excellent dinner. I’d tell you about what we ate, except that I know there are some vegetarians who read this blog who really don’t want to hear about it. Let me say just this: it was delicious, and I feel very bad about that.
On the train ride back out to camp, the boys taught me the card game that has kept them going for the long weeks of the Tour. It’s called 2,3,10 and I am pleased to report that I was a natural and reigned triumphant all the way home.
Camping in the Messy Days turned out to be a highly comfortable experience, not least because there was plenty of room for me after CK elected to seek solitude for an evening by finding a hotel and staying in town. The next morning, we hiked up to the train station, through the beautiful village of St Genevieve de Bois. There was a patisserie open at the station, and the boys groaned at the thought of pain au chocolat for breakfast again. For me, it was a novelty. A delicious novelty.
By the time we arrive back in the city, the Champs-Élysées was already choked full of people jostling for spots along the rail. The small streets off the main drag were beautiful and completely empty. We wandered for a while, then set up at the pub again to watch the start of the stage. The boys bought bucketloads of merchandise, because they are suckers:
(Check out TPC's hilarious beard!)
Just before the bikes arrived in town, we ventured out into the crowd that by this stage were three and four deep on the Champs-Élysées, chattering with excitement. We found a spot and TPC fetched us beers, arriving back just as the peleton flew by for the first lap. My impression of the Tour de France? Those bikes go really fast. Seriously, I can’t even describe how fast they were going. This blurry photo will have to suffice:
There were a bunch of American college students standing in front of us, making inane comments about the race. They were clearly scenesters, and The Lads scorned their superficial knowledge, bursting with self-importance at having seen (almost) Every Single Day of the Tour. It amused me enough that I joined in and did some sneering of my own - smug by association.
Eight times the pushbikes flew by, then we scurried back to the pub to watch the finish. It was jubilant and exciting, The Lads cheering the end of their odyssey. An hour, several beers and many hands of 2,3,10 later, it was time for me to head back to the station to catch the Eurostar back to Londres. I may have seen little of the city, but it was a most excellent weekend nonetheless. Next time, I’m going to have some French. I swear.
Last weekend I had the inestimable honour of joining Le Tour de Fear 2007 for their final fling in gay Paree.
I was disproportionately excited about going: I haven’t been anywhere in ages, not least because the Home Office has had my passport for a while. The rationale for my trip was a questionable one: Le Comte had some exams he needed to sit and I was required to officiate while he did so. [ Apparently I’m sufficiently qualified and responsible a member of society to be approved to do such things. Who would have thought?] At any rate, I was on my way to Paris and that’s always good news as far as I’m concerned.
Friday
It was my first trip on the Eurostar, which was excellent fun. I booked late, and on Captain Kloss’s credit card, and so accidentally happened to be seated in a travel class above that to which I am accustomed. I was surrounded by grumpy well-dressed business people, all of whom played Sudoku for the entire trip – even while they were eating their dinner (which, by the way, was surprisingly good – I guess that’s what happens when you book Fancypants Class). My fears of being trapped in the tunnel were allayed by the lovely wee bottles of red wine that the hostess obligingly brought me at regular intervals.
After whipping myself up into a frenzy of giddy excitement before my departure and then one or three too many bottles of red on the train, my first night in Paris turned into One of Those Nights that every traveller has once in a while. As my brothers would say, it was an attack of The Fear.
The boys weren’t arriving until the following day, so I had booked a hotel for the Friday night. My hotel was surprisingly cool – with green apples instead of mints on the pillows – and after checking in I set out to roam the streets for a while.
It was late, I was tired. I was out of cigarettes. I don’t speak French.
I was reminded of how it feels to have those moments of utter and complete despair when in an unfamiliar place. It doesn’t take much, but when you’re tired and cranky and nothing’s open and you can’t ask for help, small tasks become overwhelmingly complicated. It makes me shy and hesitant and frustrated and I’M NOT HAVING FUN, DAMMIT, WHEN WILL THIS BE FUN?
I wandered the streets for an hour, aiming for bright lights and being disappointed time and again at finding nightclubs instead of supermarkets. I cursed myself for not making more of an effort to remember some French before I came. Random words from Madame Smythe’s Grade 8 French class flitted through my brain, as though they might be useful: ‘window’, ‘fish’, ‘happy birthday’, ‘left’, ‘warm’. I had to fight the temptation to ask in Spanish, as if speaking in any different language would suffice.
Eventually, I found a Holiday Inn and decided to try to impersonate one of their guests. I walk straight up to Reception and give him my one sentence: ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t speak any French.’ (it’s best when completed with a mournful, apologetic look). He directed me to the bar, where after whispering my request shyly I finally managed to exchange money for nicotine.
The tension eased somewhat, I made my way back to the hotel. In my earlier panic, I had completely failed to notice that I was staying right in the middle of deliciously clichéd storybook Paris: small dark streets lined with little bistros and dark, cosy bars, people sitting outside and smoking and looking impossibly chic. I wandered along, listening to the funky music and busy French chatter wafting through the air and then felt miserable all over again as I realised I was lonely and in no way brave enough to sit down somewhere to order a drink and try to do something about it.
I decided Conquering Paris could wait until morning (there’s a surrender monkey joke somewhere here, but I can’t quite find it). Weary and feeling sorry for myself, I found a little grocery store and went in to buy some snacks (and a beer) to take back to the hotel. I found cheese, and decided to splash out and get some salami as well – grabbing a package at random and discovering to my dismay upon my return to my hotel to discover that it was, in fact, bacon. I vowed to speak of this to no one.
My very exciting trip really wasn’t going very well so far.
Moments later, it got worse. I realised that not being able to say ‘how much is that?’ or ‘where can I buy cigarettes’ is one thing. The true depths of my language problems were made clear to me when I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to say what I needed to right at that moment:
“I’m very sorry, but I have spilled my beer all over the carpet”.
(Sob).
I didn’t even try. I mopped it up as best I could and tried to feel thankful that it wasn’t the bed.
Reasonably miserable by now (and beerless), you’ll be pleased to know that consolation was found in the form of hilarious French television, particularly an excellent show called “Splashdance”. A horde of young, scantily clad beautiful people clustered around a pool in a tropical location, bopping about to funky music. There was a raised wooden platform over the pool, and two people at a time clambered up to have – get this – a dance battle. When they were done, the crowd would vote, and the wooden platform split and tilted and the loser was dumped into the pool. It was awesome.
It happens sometimes, you know – all this excitement and adventure isn’t all fun all the time. I know it’s always worth sticking it out, though, so I sat and sniggered at the television, eating cheese and knowing it would be better in the morning.
The Rest of the Weekend
The Lads called early – they had already set up camp in a wee village outside of Paris. I hopped a train out there with minimal angst – navigating routes and timetables with relative ease. Abandoning all memories of my Friday night angst, I boarded the train and settled down with my book, feeling slightly smug as I thought, man, I’ve definitely got this travelling thing sorted.
Then I noticed that the train was going express, hurtling through each station at an alarming speed. I wet my trousers in panic, wondering where the hell I was going to end up and how on earth I was going to find my brothers. I used the last of my mobile phone credit to alert Captain Kloss of this alarming development, then cursed my trigger-happy nerves as the train slowed down and started calling at every station along the line.
Crisis averted, I was soon met by my hosts and escorted to my first encounter with the Messy Days Express. My first impression was that it was less smelly than I had feared - no small feat, given that it had housed three boys for a month. It was huge, but crowded inside with a wee kitchen and bathroom, a booth with a table, cabinets and drawers everywhere, everything neatly self-contained. The Lads had set up the card table outside the front door under an awning – it was camper’s paradise.
I’m a very responsible examination supervisor, so I checked thoroughly to make sure that there were no textbooks and no internet access, then we left Le Comte with his exam papers and headed back into town.
We weren't particularly fussed about seeing Paris sights – I’ve been there before, and the boys are coming back in September for the rugby World Cup. We ticked a box or two, wandering around the Louvre courtyard and climbing up the Arc de Triomphe, as shown here:
…but the bulk of the weekend was spent focussing on some bike race that was apparently a fairly big deal.
We found a pub just off the Champs-Élysées that was showing the penultimate stage of the Tour on television. We drank many pints, the boys regaled me with stories from their trip and I sat and scrolled through their many very entertaining photographs. There was one of TPC in red Speedos that was among the best things I have ever seen. I don’t have a copy, sadly, but perhaps if we’re all very, very lucky he’ll put it up on his blog.
We struck up a conversation with a garrulous Yank who had apparently been drinking Jagermeister all afternoon. He was highly entertaining, filled with stories of his Tour so far – he’d met everyone and scammed his way in everywhere. He was loud, but harmless and friendly, carrying packets of flower seeds from his native Texas to hand out as gifts. I made an excellent joke about yellow roses that didn’t get the love it deserved.
I tried to pay attention to the cycling, asking many questions and letting The Lads trip over each other to display the knowledge gained from three weeks on the road. As the beer flowed, my questions became louder and stupider. I recall speaking at length about my views relating to how the race could be enhanced with the addition of spokey dokeys, which I can only presume did wonders for my credibility. At one point, the Texan accused me of paying too much attention to the contents of the cyclists’ shorts as I peered intently at the screen. I told him he was right, but not in the way he thought:
jLo: “What I can’t stop imagining is the scar tissue on their arses. Imagine – years and years of professional cycling, the chafing must be unbearable. It must build up into layer upon layer of scar tissue, all along their legs and butt cheeks."
The Texan was flummoxed: “This is my fourth Tour de France. I can honestly say that has never occurred to me before.”
I told him that expanding your mind via conversation with random strangers is what travelling is all about.
We rounded out the day with champagne and a most excellent dinner. I’d tell you about what we ate, except that I know there are some vegetarians who read this blog who really don’t want to hear about it. Let me say just this: it was delicious, and I feel very bad about that.
On the train ride back out to camp, the boys taught me the card game that has kept them going for the long weeks of the Tour. It’s called 2,3,10 and I am pleased to report that I was a natural and reigned triumphant all the way home.
Camping in the Messy Days turned out to be a highly comfortable experience, not least because there was plenty of room for me after CK elected to seek solitude for an evening by finding a hotel and staying in town. The next morning, we hiked up to the train station, through the beautiful village of St Genevieve de Bois. There was a patisserie open at the station, and the boys groaned at the thought of pain au chocolat for breakfast again. For me, it was a novelty. A delicious novelty.
By the time we arrive back in the city, the Champs-Élysées was already choked full of people jostling for spots along the rail. The small streets off the main drag were beautiful and completely empty. We wandered for a while, then set up at the pub again to watch the start of the stage. The boys bought bucketloads of merchandise, because they are suckers:
(Check out TPC's hilarious beard!)
Just before the bikes arrived in town, we ventured out into the crowd that by this stage were three and four deep on the Champs-Élysées, chattering with excitement. We found a spot and TPC fetched us beers, arriving back just as the peleton flew by for the first lap. My impression of the Tour de France? Those bikes go really fast. Seriously, I can’t even describe how fast they were going. This blurry photo will have to suffice:
There were a bunch of American college students standing in front of us, making inane comments about the race. They were clearly scenesters, and The Lads scorned their superficial knowledge, bursting with self-importance at having seen (almost) Every Single Day of the Tour. It amused me enough that I joined in and did some sneering of my own - smug by association.
Eight times the pushbikes flew by, then we scurried back to the pub to watch the finish. It was jubilant and exciting, The Lads cheering the end of their odyssey. An hour, several beers and many hands of 2,3,10 later, it was time for me to head back to the station to catch the Eurostar back to Londres. I may have seen little of the city, but it was a most excellent weekend nonetheless. Next time, I’m going to have some French. I swear.
posted by jLo at 10:20 PM
4 Comments:
Great couple of posts jLo, it's amazing how it flows when you've got stuff to write about.
Great work
You are hilari-arse. What a great psot. The layers and layers of scar tissue was a nice cover for perving at hot cyclists asses.
Your lack of understanding of other cultures is terrible- first you couldn't speak french, then you didn't know that the Polish actually spell captain Kapitan - the intials are therefore KK - get it together.
Yeah jLo!! Thats why the initals become funny when someone is describing my kapers, kids and kindness
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