"What I hate about Christmas, is the obligation to be happy." Thus said one of my students last Friday morning. I didn't know what shocked me more; this sudden outburst of dislike toward the most joyful of festivities, or the fact that the sentence was grammatically faultless. Moreover, this was not the first time that I'd heard this sort of 'Scroogery' in the last couple of weeks.
Just the week before, I'd heard a mother tell her son the cold, honest truth about Father Christmas. To emphasise the point she informed the child in both French and English, just in case he hadn't understood the first time. The little boy must have been, oh, about five! Cue, expansive howling and no doubt very expensive psychotherapy.
A good friend of mine has gone a step further and changed her name to 'Grinch' for the holiday period; a stance that rather amusingly backfired when she had to help her grandmother wrap a small mountain of Christmas shopping.
It's easy to take all this holiday 'humbuggery' at face value. After all, thanks to the last mad dash for presents, the major Parisian shopping centres are now no-go zones - or rather cannot-fit-any-more zones. The five-minute walk from Havre Caumartin Metro to my office has become an terrifying battle zone where casualties could be the result of anything from trampling, by hordes of Louis Vitton-wielding Chinese tourists; 3rd degree burns from the upturned drums of roast chestnut sellers or near-fatal tinitus from the combined effects of Salvation Army bells and battery-powered Rudolfs. A week of this and you would have to admit that the green furry one has a point. However, somewhat randomly (as is my want) my first proper foray into French literature for sixteen years has made me consider this a little more deeply.
'Dessine-moi un Parisien' by Olivier Magny, is, as the cover blurb puts it, 'a plunge into the strange world of the Parisian'. Each mini-chapter is a firmly tongue-in-cheek look at something that defines this most contradictory of species. Be it their inane insecurities about education, their origins or accent; their undisguised hatred of Les Fachos or les Américains (this despite all secretly longing to be New-Yorkers); or their simple joy at the sight of an organ grinder, snow or sunshine.
'La Première Gorgée de Bière' by Philippe Delerme, on the other hand, is an undisguised, delightful hymn to all the little things about life that make your average Pierre or Pascalle feel warm inside. Perhaps my favourite was the 'Le croissant du trottoire' about the surplus, oven-warm pastry joyfully consumed on the cold Sunday walk home from the boulangerie. Or it could have been 'Invité par surprise' describing the gently subtle etiquette of an off-the-cuff dinner invite; or maybe it was 'On pourrait presque manger dehor', 'We could almost eat outside', as I shared the twinge of hope felt at the first pale, sunshine of Spring.
'What was the point of this little literary interlude?' you may well wonder. Well, it occurred to me that anyone who can take unbridled joy from a shaft of sunlight; laugh at their own inability to accept an error or break into a mile-wide smile at the thought of an al fresco lunch, cannot be labelled Grinch, Scrooge or curmudgeon.
It's not that they particularly dislike Christmas, they're just asking the question: "Why only now? What's there to be happier about now than any other time of year?" Good point!
Bonne Fêtes!
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Sweetness and light (and maki)
For once the grey shroud had lifted. The sky was a piercing blue that, unlike its colour-absorbant predecessor, reflected the sharp winter light onto every surface. Paris looked beautiful. The normally drab and imposing Haussmann buildings looked like they had been given a seasonal re-spray.The spires of Notre Dame glistened as we jogged along the banks of the suddenly shimmering Seine.
This is my favourite weather and I joyfully gulped down gallons of the searingly fresh air and thought about what the day ahead might bring. My friend Elodie had suggested visiting a very special market in the 3rd arrondissement and we agreed to meet there for brunch. She'd posted an article on it on my Facebook page to whet my appetite, but reality, as we all know, has a habit of surprising us.
Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, dating back to the early 17th Century, originally took its name from the inhabitants of a then abandoned orphanage who used to wear a uniform of bright red. There was nothing bright nor special about the creaking iron gates that marked the market's entrance on rue de Bretagne and if I'd been on my own I would have walked straight past it.
Upon entering we weaved our way through a labyrinthine collection of the usual market stalls selling the usual fare: fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, cous-cous. Wait a minute, cous-cous? Making up the rear section of the market is a sensory confection of food stalls. There were mounds of fragrant spiced Moroccan specialities, served on clay tagines and unctious cassoulets and confits from the south. On one side of an aisle an Italian waiter sung orders for five more rissotto de cèpes, while on the other a character straight out a manga cartoon was dishing up variety boxes of bento. Behind that the air was filled with the sounds of sizzling, spicy acras from Martinique.
We plumped for the Japanese and sat in a corrugated plastic greenhouse, warmed by induction heaters, sipping life-giving, smokey thé grillé trying to pry the last grain of soy-soaked rice out of our trays with our chopsticks (luckily they also supplied forks!) After the grating grind of the working week, this was a gloriously disorganised time-out that was, at 4 o'clock, still doing a roaring (no doubt hangover-inspired) trade as we wandered back, sated, into the world outside.
We weren't done with the 3rd yet though, as we had to go back past rue Debelleyme and "Popelini", a purveyor of petits choux. I guess we'd call them 'mini eclairs', but size was the only thing small about these cluster bombs of flavour, whose glutinous fillings included luscious raspberry and rose, creamy vanilla (you could feel the seeds!) and a dark chocolate that was so bitter it needed counselling. www.popelini.com
As befits the randomness that is a parisian weekend, we ended up sharing these (inexpertly halving them with a coffee spoon on an unused saucer) at the "Rush Bar" (32 Rue Saint-Sébastien), a Liverpool Football Club supporters' pub around the corner from Elodie's flat. There was no doubting that that Sunday's combination of sunshine, sushi and sweetness was a hat-trick of the quality that even the eponymous Ian would have struggled to surpass.
This is my favourite weather and I joyfully gulped down gallons of the searingly fresh air and thought about what the day ahead might bring. My friend Elodie had suggested visiting a very special market in the 3rd arrondissement and we agreed to meet there for brunch. She'd posted an article on it on my Facebook page to whet my appetite, but reality, as we all know, has a habit of surprising us.
Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, dating back to the early 17th Century, originally took its name from the inhabitants of a then abandoned orphanage who used to wear a uniform of bright red. There was nothing bright nor special about the creaking iron gates that marked the market's entrance on rue de Bretagne and if I'd been on my own I would have walked straight past it.
Upon entering we weaved our way through a labyrinthine collection of the usual market stalls selling the usual fare: fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, cous-cous. Wait a minute, cous-cous? Making up the rear section of the market is a sensory confection of food stalls. There were mounds of fragrant spiced Moroccan specialities, served on clay tagines and unctious cassoulets and confits from the south. On one side of an aisle an Italian waiter sung orders for five more rissotto de cèpes, while on the other a character straight out a manga cartoon was dishing up variety boxes of bento. Behind that the air was filled with the sounds of sizzling, spicy acras from Martinique.
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(photo courtesy of Elodie Salares)
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As befits the randomness that is a parisian weekend, we ended up sharing these (inexpertly halving them with a coffee spoon on an unused saucer) at the "Rush Bar" (32 Rue Saint-Sébastien), a Liverpool Football Club supporters' pub around the corner from Elodie's flat. There was no doubting that that Sunday's combination of sunshine, sushi and sweetness was a hat-trick of the quality that even the eponymous Ian would have struggled to surpass.
Sunday, 18 November 2012
Gris ça change
It had started off as such a beautiful day, even the back of the shopping centre, with its grubby lock-ups and piles of discarded packaging, looked glorious. I even texted my friends to say so. By midday, I was receiving messages doubting my honesty as, once more, Paris had donned its sullen autumn cloak.
This garment, however, provides no warmth or comfort, but both suffocates and chills simultaneously, blanketing the world in dour grey. This colour seemed to pervade everything. The windows of the nondescript office building in the nondescript suburb, amplified it, reflecting the drabness into every unstable paving slab, patch of scraggy grass and denuded tree. The fumes of post-lunch smokers further enhanced the monochrome; their glowing tips barley registering a spark.
Back in town the change of season has been even more insidious. Parisians, who seem to subscribe to the Henry Ford school of fashion, "you can wear any colour, as long as it's black", have turned the Grand Boulevards into shuffling conveyor belts of gunmetal, charcoal and slate.
The Metro has become almost unbearable. How come there is so much less room? Has there been a sudden, adult-sized baby boom? Ah, no, the reason I can barely breath is the masses of fake fur, wool, cashmere and synthetic fibres (all grey) that the masses are huddled inside as the thermometre dares to dip into single figures.
Into all of this muffled grey and pinching cold comes the hopeful twinkle of a season still a month off, Christmas. The longed-for jingle of a chorus of cash registers and the bounteous bleeping of credit card readers, have brought the first fizz of festivity to the shop windows of L'Escargo.
Forgive my cynicism here - anyone who knows me knows I am the happiest of sand boys come Christmas day - but maybe you haven't seen the displays. Only cash, perhaps with a touch of sadistic psychology and a pinch of insane tastelessness, could have inspired the front of Gallery Lafayette.
The Harrods of Haussmann has gone all out this year, keeping us in wrapped suspense since October. When the boards were removed from the windows, what greeted eager, expectant eyes was a simply hideous, nightmarish pastiche. Juddering and jiggling polystyrene puppets with maniacal grins and arching eyebrows, wires clearly visible, played out normally fun-filled scenes (skating, dancing, hot-air ballooning?) in ways that would make Tim Burton shudder.
Further down, the regular, faceless manikins have been have been joined by a taxidermists menagerie of Christmas creatures; swans, polecats and leopards (in one store I even saw a gazelle in a waistcoat having Christmas dinner with a grizzly bear).
You'd have expected any decent onlooking consumers to be outraged, covering up their children's innocent eyes. Far from it! They gaze and gawp, taking hushed and exited pictures. As I manoeuvre my way through them on that first afternoon after the unveiling, I figured that there must be something blinding their common sense. Actually, it was quite obvious. Just as most people here had been over the last month, their synapses had been suffocated by that most Parisian fifty shades of grey.
This garment, however, provides no warmth or comfort, but both suffocates and chills simultaneously, blanketing the world in dour grey. This colour seemed to pervade everything. The windows of the nondescript office building in the nondescript suburb, amplified it, reflecting the drabness into every unstable paving slab, patch of scraggy grass and denuded tree. The fumes of post-lunch smokers further enhanced the monochrome; their glowing tips barley registering a spark.
Back in town the change of season has been even more insidious. Parisians, who seem to subscribe to the Henry Ford school of fashion, "you can wear any colour, as long as it's black", have turned the Grand Boulevards into shuffling conveyor belts of gunmetal, charcoal and slate.
The Metro has become almost unbearable. How come there is so much less room? Has there been a sudden, adult-sized baby boom? Ah, no, the reason I can barely breath is the masses of fake fur, wool, cashmere and synthetic fibres (all grey) that the masses are huddled inside as the thermometre dares to dip into single figures.
Into all of this muffled grey and pinching cold comes the hopeful twinkle of a season still a month off, Christmas. The longed-for jingle of a chorus of cash registers and the bounteous bleeping of credit card readers, have brought the first fizz of festivity to the shop windows of L'Escargo.
Forgive my cynicism here - anyone who knows me knows I am the happiest of sand boys come Christmas day - but maybe you haven't seen the displays. Only cash, perhaps with a touch of sadistic psychology and a pinch of insane tastelessness, could have inspired the front of Gallery Lafayette.
The Harrods of Haussmann has gone all out this year, keeping us in wrapped suspense since October. When the boards were removed from the windows, what greeted eager, expectant eyes was a simply hideous, nightmarish pastiche. Juddering and jiggling polystyrene puppets with maniacal grins and arching eyebrows, wires clearly visible, played out normally fun-filled scenes (skating, dancing, hot-air ballooning?) in ways that would make Tim Burton shudder.
Further down, the regular, faceless manikins have been have been joined by a taxidermists menagerie of Christmas creatures; swans, polecats and leopards (in one store I even saw a gazelle in a waistcoat having Christmas dinner with a grizzly bear).
You'd have expected any decent onlooking consumers to be outraged, covering up their children's innocent eyes. Far from it! They gaze and gawp, taking hushed and exited pictures. As I manoeuvre my way through them on that first afternoon after the unveiling, I figured that there must be something blinding their common sense. Actually, it was quite obvious. Just as most people here had been over the last month, their synapses had been suffocated by that most Parisian fifty shades of grey.
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Little things (lift you the highest)
Sometimes the funniest things are the least expected. On my way from the eighth étage of another Parisian office building, I glanced down to the floor of the lift. The maker's name sent me giggling all the way back to the school: "Schindler"!
(please tell me this doesn't need explaining!)
(please tell me this doesn't need explaining!)
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Painting a different picture
Anyone living in any built up area anywhere will be well aware of graffiti. Some call it a blot on the landscape, while others simply describe it as "street art". Whatever you think about it it's there and we have to recognise that it has many forms and many purposes: from the scrawled tag on a phone box, declaring "this is our place" through stenciling (a la Banksy) to make socio-political statements, to the building-sized murals that can both shock and amaze in equal measure.
Paris being the metropolis it is, has more than its fair share and there's no fixed location either. It even seems that if you leave your van stationary for too long it'll become a canvas-on-wheels for the local taggers, street artists, call them what you will.
In this blog I will let the pictures do the talking and please, this is an open forum, say whatever comes to mind. Talking of minds, I will just ask you to keep yours open. Oh, and if you have any examples you'd like to share, please do.
While walking up rue Belleville I turned around and saw this. It looks just like a crayon sketch and is all the more impressive in its simplicity.
Paris being the metropolis it is, has more than its fair share and there's no fixed location either. It even seems that if you leave your van stationary for too long it'll become a canvas-on-wheels for the local taggers, street artists, call them what you will.
In this blog I will let the pictures do the talking and please, this is an open forum, say whatever comes to mind. Talking of minds, I will just ask you to keep yours open. Oh, and if you have any examples you'd like to share, please do.
Though this first is from Dusseldorf, it and the one adjacent, are stark in their simplicity. While I'm not sure of the significance of the child, the broken images of characters from a Parisian banlieu suggest despair, but the message in the centre rings a clear bell of hope "Make hands meet".
I told you about the vans, didn't I? Made all the more amusing in this case, as you can quite clearly tell the generation of the artists concerned!
Between the left bank of the Seine and the educational edifice of Bibliotheque François Mitterand is the setting for some beautifully breathtaking street art, of which this is but one example (alight at Quai de La Gare Metro stop on the 6 and head right, along the river, to spot more). The most effective use of a box of wires as I've ever seen
for some more great Parisian street art by the artist Da Cruz.
The scenes below are a selection of pieces from my trip to Melbourne, regarded by many to be Mecca of street art, as I'm sure this series of works clearly demonstrates.
These in St Kilda tell of Aboriginal legends.
These three are from the concrete canvas of "laneways" in Melbourne town centre. The one on the left is a poster I know, but the intellectual mickey-taking just makes me giggle.
I thought I'd leave you with this from Barlcay Street, St Kilda. It's not exactly graffiti but it is urban decoration none the less and all the better for having been assembled by members of the community (each of the tiles surrounding the main frieze has been individually designed). I have included detail both funny and forceful to give you a clearer view. It's multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, beyond being pigeonholed into any one stylistic shoebox.
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| Enough said! |
Friday, 2 November 2012
In the pink
For once the squeeze meant nothing. Yes, I was practically wedged up against the glass of the RER B on the way back into Paris from the suburb of St Denis. Yes, it was going to be a nightmare hauling my rucksack through the scrum onto my destination platform and yes, I was probably going to be more than a bit whiffy by the time I reached it. The only difference this time was that I didn't care and no-one else on that train did either.
The explanation for this totally un-parisian lack of Metro-stress was to be found in a colour not normally seen on this type of occasion - nor for that matter on my normally uber-trendy travelling acquaintances - shocking, bright, neon pink.
Enough of the intrigue. Last Saturday afternoon I had been lucky enough to be a part of the crowd at the Stade de France to watch the Top 14 (French League) match between the reigning league champions and perennial Heineken Cup star performers, Stade Toulousain and the Parisian boys, Stade Français, currently languishing down the wrong end of the table and whose flower-emblazoned shirts bore witness to the time-worn maxim that only real men wear pink (tough looking thorny tendrils had been added just in case). It had been quite an afternoon's entertainment.
Spilling out from the train at La Plaine (Stade de France) station at a quarter past two - 45 minutes before kick-off - I could already feel the buzz. There was pink everywhere. Not only on the replica shirts, but on scarves, berets (this is France!), tracksuit tops and, of course, flags; a veritable rose-tinted sea (dotted with splodges of Toulouse red and black) flowing toward the stadium on a tide of expectation. The fuchsia frenzy didn't stop when you got there either, even the entrance to the players tunnel and the posts themselves had been daubed pink for the occasion.
Just after locating my seat - barely six rows from the pitch and resplendent, to my excitement, with a free pink flag - I was almost knocked out by the huge, inflatable rugby ball that had been bounced down from the top tier of the stands. I watched as it made its way over various heads towards a small-scale, portable set of posts (pink, of course) that stood in front of the crowd. A spectator in the front row caught the ball and lobbed it, with some difficulty, through the posts. This achievement was greeted by a raucous cheer from our section of fans who, as I then realised, were in competition with the other sections as to who could score the most "goals" in a set time.
The pre-match madness didn't stop there. Ten minutes before the start a cardboard Moulin Rouge (yes you read correctly!) was wheeled onto the centre of the pitch. This was joined shortly by a troupe of can-can dancers from the eponymous show-hall who defied the icy cold by completing a high-kicking routine that ended with a further two of their colleagues emerging from the windmill to present the match ball to the referee. I could only hope the match lived up to this!
It did! Toulouse were expected to win this one comfortably, but after ten minutes found themselves 6-0 down to a brace of penalty kicks from the Paris no. 15 Jerôme Porical. They were further rattled when their prop Jean-Baptiste Poux was sin-binned. The stadium was really starting to warm up now (no mean feat in that weather) and it fair exploded when Stade Français rumbled the resulting penalty scrum up to the Toulouse line and number 8 - Italian rugby legend Sergio Parisse - controlled and deftly scooped up the ball to dot down for the opening try, 11-0 Paris!
It was at about this point that I noticed my neighbour, a bespectacled, a fairly ordinary-looking middle-aged lady. I noticed her because because she was shouting and she didn't stop! If I'd had a small child with me I would have stopped-up their ears because this woman was turning the pink air blue. No player or official was safe from the tirade and when Toulouse wing, and French international, Vicent Clerc got the luck of the bounce and pounced for his club's first try, I thought my own ears were going to melt.
Worse was to come when the giant black and red number 8, Edwin Maka, thundered over the Parisian 22 and brushed past the despairing lunges of rose-clad defenders to score. It all looked like Stade's great start had been little but a mosquito bite on the back of a now very angry southern French rhino. 24-14 at half time. Things were looking bleak.
All hearts were somewhat warmed by a half time show consisting of speedo-wearing pom-pom girls, a mini-rugby club parade and a penalty competition between two junior teams. Shortly after the break it seemed that the Toulouse players still had their minds on those pom-pom girls as their back line parted to allow home scrum half, Fillol, to gratefully fall over the line onto an unguarded through ball. Now the energy of my flag waving was more than matching the decibel level coming through my left ear - though this was now tinged with a distinctly more positive tone.
Stade Français were now putting more and more flowing moves together, but were still lacking that killer punch and with seven minutes to go were still three precious points down. Cometh the moment, cometh the legend and after another attack had seemingly broken down, Parisse was there at the right time and on the right shoulder to collect the right pass and gleefully trundle under the posts for the try that sent the crowd into ecstasy: "Allez, allez! Allez, allez! Allez, allez le Stade Français!". There was still time for finger nails to be put at risk during a frenetic finale as the champions threw everything they could at Stade, but the floral fortifications held firm. Final score: 28-24 Stade Français!
After the players had completed their lap of honour, greeted as they went by their furiously flag waving fans (myself chief among them), and the sun had begun to cast ghostly beams through the fading smoke of the ear-splittingly fabulous post-match firework display, it was clear that it was going to be a while before anything as mundane as a packed train carriage was going to bother anyone there. Well, at least until Monday morning.
The explanation for this totally un-parisian lack of Metro-stress was to be found in a colour not normally seen on this type of occasion - nor for that matter on my normally uber-trendy travelling acquaintances - shocking, bright, neon pink.
Enough of the intrigue. Last Saturday afternoon I had been lucky enough to be a part of the crowd at the Stade de France to watch the Top 14 (French League) match between the reigning league champions and perennial Heineken Cup star performers, Stade Toulousain and the Parisian boys, Stade Français, currently languishing down the wrong end of the table and whose flower-emblazoned shirts bore witness to the time-worn maxim that only real men wear pink (tough looking thorny tendrils had been added just in case). It had been quite an afternoon's entertainment.
Spilling out from the train at La Plaine (Stade de France) station at a quarter past two - 45 minutes before kick-off - I could already feel the buzz. There was pink everywhere. Not only on the replica shirts, but on scarves, berets (this is France!), tracksuit tops and, of course, flags; a veritable rose-tinted sea (dotted with splodges of Toulouse red and black) flowing toward the stadium on a tide of expectation. The fuchsia frenzy didn't stop when you got there either, even the entrance to the players tunnel and the posts themselves had been daubed pink for the occasion.
Just after locating my seat - barely six rows from the pitch and resplendent, to my excitement, with a free pink flag - I was almost knocked out by the huge, inflatable rugby ball that had been bounced down from the top tier of the stands. I watched as it made its way over various heads towards a small-scale, portable set of posts (pink, of course) that stood in front of the crowd. A spectator in the front row caught the ball and lobbed it, with some difficulty, through the posts. This achievement was greeted by a raucous cheer from our section of fans who, as I then realised, were in competition with the other sections as to who could score the most "goals" in a set time.
The pre-match madness didn't stop there. Ten minutes before the start a cardboard Moulin Rouge (yes you read correctly!) was wheeled onto the centre of the pitch. This was joined shortly by a troupe of can-can dancers from the eponymous show-hall who defied the icy cold by completing a high-kicking routine that ended with a further two of their colleagues emerging from the windmill to present the match ball to the referee. I could only hope the match lived up to this!
It did! Toulouse were expected to win this one comfortably, but after ten minutes found themselves 6-0 down to a brace of penalty kicks from the Paris no. 15 Jerôme Porical. They were further rattled when their prop Jean-Baptiste Poux was sin-binned. The stadium was really starting to warm up now (no mean feat in that weather) and it fair exploded when Stade Français rumbled the resulting penalty scrum up to the Toulouse line and number 8 - Italian rugby legend Sergio Parisse - controlled and deftly scooped up the ball to dot down for the opening try, 11-0 Paris!
It was at about this point that I noticed my neighbour, a bespectacled, a fairly ordinary-looking middle-aged lady. I noticed her because because she was shouting and she didn't stop! If I'd had a small child with me I would have stopped-up their ears because this woman was turning the pink air blue. No player or official was safe from the tirade and when Toulouse wing, and French international, Vicent Clerc got the luck of the bounce and pounced for his club's first try, I thought my own ears were going to melt.
Worse was to come when the giant black and red number 8, Edwin Maka, thundered over the Parisian 22 and brushed past the despairing lunges of rose-clad defenders to score. It all looked like Stade's great start had been little but a mosquito bite on the back of a now very angry southern French rhino. 24-14 at half time. Things were looking bleak.
All hearts were somewhat warmed by a half time show consisting of speedo-wearing pom-pom girls, a mini-rugby club parade and a penalty competition between two junior teams. Shortly after the break it seemed that the Toulouse players still had their minds on those pom-pom girls as their back line parted to allow home scrum half, Fillol, to gratefully fall over the line onto an unguarded through ball. Now the energy of my flag waving was more than matching the decibel level coming through my left ear - though this was now tinged with a distinctly more positive tone.
Stade Français were now putting more and more flowing moves together, but were still lacking that killer punch and with seven minutes to go were still three precious points down. Cometh the moment, cometh the legend and after another attack had seemingly broken down, Parisse was there at the right time and on the right shoulder to collect the right pass and gleefully trundle under the posts for the try that sent the crowd into ecstasy: "Allez, allez! Allez, allez! Allez, allez le Stade Français!". There was still time for finger nails to be put at risk during a frenetic finale as the champions threw everything they could at Stade, but the floral fortifications held firm. Final score: 28-24 Stade Français!
After the players had completed their lap of honour, greeted as they went by their furiously flag waving fans (myself chief among them), and the sun had begun to cast ghostly beams through the fading smoke of the ear-splittingly fabulous post-match firework display, it was clear that it was going to be a while before anything as mundane as a packed train carriage was going to bother anyone there. Well, at least until Monday morning.
Monday, 22 October 2012
And I've barely even begun....
One of the chief factors that led me to decide to come to Paris was to experience la vie Parisienne. Two months in and I still couldn't tell you what that is. I could try, but it wouldn't come close to adequately describing the kaleidoscope of experiences I've had so far.
What I've loved is that - even in this city where so much is larger than life - the best of those experiences have been unassuming, warm yet beautifully social affairs led by the people at their heart and not the city at their feet.
Yes, it's undeniable that having a back-lit Notre Dame as your companion under the fairy lights at an evening's book-reading at Shakespeare and Co.'s bookshop could be called spectacular. However, the scene on this balmy October night would not have been complete, indeed I would never have come, if it had not been for a newly discovered friend (Elise) and her unencumbered glee at uncovering all things cultural (and free!)
It was this same Elise that took me scooting merrily from gallery to gallery on a rain-splattered Thursday in the freakishly chic 8th arrondissement admiring, goggling and sneering in equal measure at the art, the money and the boorishly snobbish effrontery of l'Escargot's elite.
They say you're never more than 500m from a Metro stop here; it's more like 5 miles for every park, but what wonderfully sculpted creations they are. You may have the opulent symmetry of Tuileries or the laid back splendor of Luxembourg. However, my highlight (sorry for the pun here folks) has been wandering with Dan (my best friend here in Paris) along the Coulée Verte, just over a mile of verdant viaduct strung over a mile of the 12th. We have put the world to rights on many occasions in the parks of Paris and I'm sure we will continue to do so.
Now, I couldn't sign off without saying something cheesy. No, seriously, there are very few parisian evenings that could top four of us being ensconced around a fold-out table in Elodie's cozy little pad; black cat scurrying after cloth toy mouse; former metro musician Keziah Jones's slappin' blues funk rolling out across the room and glutinous golden streams of Mont D'Or slowly enveloping piping hot new potatoes.
Bonne Soirée!
Saturday, 13 October 2012
Two-pin (a little plug)
I'm not normally one for plugging my own stuff folks but just to the right of this post is a little button under the title: "Followers". If you like my random ramblings then please just click that button. I appreciate it. Ta ra for now.
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
The Busker Factor
A few blogs ago I mentioned how buskers in Paris ought to receive more plaudits than the Metro-going public currently dish out. Well, I mentioned this to a friend who informed me that the Mairie de Paris actually currently audition those musicians who seek to play the tile-lined corridors.
At first I was sceptical. I knew they were good, but I just couldn't imagine a firing squad of sharp-suited, dagger-heeled mayoral staff inviting prospective talent into the corridors of power. Well, maybe, just to be vindictive. I could certainly hear the Cowell-like crushing blows:
"Sorry mate, your smell's got more of a chance of getting a reaction than your music."
or perhaps,
"The only audience you're going to get is from the pest-control team."
Even so, there is no doubt that the Parisian street musician is a class above, anything I've heard before.
I've even compiled my Top Three, based on quality of song (and a little personal taste):
3. Buddy Holly Junior with a wonderfully whiney rendition of Jeff Buckley's "Violet Wine"
2. The "Invisible Rocker" (I only heard it while walking the other way) rocking the corridors with Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters"
and finally,
1. The Angel of Nation (so called for the station I saw her at and for a voice I would have paid much more to hear for a great deal longer) with a soulful folk song that I am embarrassed to say I couldn't place.
Before signing off though, I have to mention the weathered hispanic troubador who, this morning, brought joy to a thoroughly dismal commute and a smile to my otherwise miserable visage: "Venga, venga la camissa negra!" Your morning coffee's on me my friend!
At first I was sceptical. I knew they were good, but I just couldn't imagine a firing squad of sharp-suited, dagger-heeled mayoral staff inviting prospective talent into the corridors of power. Well, maybe, just to be vindictive. I could certainly hear the Cowell-like crushing blows:
"Sorry mate, your smell's got more of a chance of getting a reaction than your music."
or perhaps,
"The only audience you're going to get is from the pest-control team."
Even so, there is no doubt that the Parisian street musician is a class above, anything I've heard before.
I've even compiled my Top Three, based on quality of song (and a little personal taste):
3. Buddy Holly Junior with a wonderfully whiney rendition of Jeff Buckley's "Violet Wine"
2. The "Invisible Rocker" (I only heard it while walking the other way) rocking the corridors with Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters"
and finally,
1. The Angel of Nation (so called for the station I saw her at and for a voice I would have paid much more to hear for a great deal longer) with a soulful folk song that I am embarrassed to say I couldn't place.
Before signing off though, I have to mention the weathered hispanic troubador who, this morning, brought joy to a thoroughly dismal commute and a smile to my otherwise miserable visage: "Venga, venga la camissa negra!" Your morning coffee's on me my friend!
Monday, 8 October 2012
Balls of Steel
It's impossible to describe the game of petanque without conjuring up images of Napoleonic warfare crossed with a British country club.
For starters, there are the balls. None of your lightweight, plastic, neon-coloured holiday rubbish here. Non messieurs, these are bullet-smooth mortar rounds of the sort the l'Emperor's artillery used to pound the foe into submission (see, there go the military metaphors). Mind you if the combatants I had the pleasure of watching last weekend had been in the little general's forces, wars would have been a lot shorter. They could have landed a shot right on the end of booted big toe, albeit from 12 foot out.
The other point is the regimented pomp and etiquette of the game. The starting arc is marked out by a regal sweep of the foot. Humps and dimples in the gravel or sand are smoothed out like a batsman tamping down the square after receiving his first bouncer of the day. Each shot is applauded and even the most vicious cannonade is greeted with a chorus of the French equivalent of "Good shot, old bean!"
But what shots!
On Sunday I had decided to cut across the 5th on my way from the Jardin du Plants to a pub near the Panthéon to watch El Classico between Real Madrid and Barcelona. On my little map I spotted a point of interest known as L'Arênes de Lutece. Lueticia was the Roman name for Paris and here, right at the heart of the city, was a little amphitheatre re-created on the grounds where the original had once stood. Only now, where there were once gladiators there were now les petanqueurs.
It was clear that I had arrived at the end of a game (played to 13) as there were tense looks on the faces of the scattered audience around. The pairs were easily recognisable too. Pair One consisted of a character I named 'the Corsican' as he was dark and swarthy, with jet black hair and a glare hardened during nights of hunting in the Maquis. In between lanes he fired off practice boules one after the other sending them scittering away with unerring accuracy. His partner was "Cappy" - on account of his blue baseball cap - who didn't walk so much as stride between ends.
The second partnership was an odd one at first sight. 'Guillaume le Kid' was shaven headed and a good 20 years younger than his playing companions, not that his laser-sighted arm exhibited any sign of inexperience. Finally 'L'homme du main plastique' had obviously injured his non-playing hand and had wrapped it in a protective plastic bag to ward off infection. It could have been a superpower-wielding prosthetic for all that I saw.
All I could see was that battle had been well and truly joined and it seemed that pair 2 had the upper hand. What turned out to be the final end went something like this:
- Le Kid fires off the cochonet and launches a boule to within an inch of it.
- Cappy canons Le Kid's boule away with a fire-cracker but cannot get his shot closer.
- The Corsican moves in to aid his colleague and they have the advantage.
- Plastique and Cappy exchange pin-point shots until the strider has his ball closest, within two feet and Le Kid has one boule left.
- Not content with moving an opponent's boule, Guillaume takes aim at the tiny, green, wooden jack and from all of 8ft away lightly flips it between his and the grinning Plastique's last shot, giving him and his partner a two-shot win and the match.
Cue applause, quite a few "beh oui!"s and much gallic back slapping as the ground is cleared away for the next time.
The Circus Maximus it may not have been, but from this particular spectator: Ave gentilhommes! Ave!
For starters, there are the balls. None of your lightweight, plastic, neon-coloured holiday rubbish here. Non messieurs, these are bullet-smooth mortar rounds of the sort the l'Emperor's artillery used to pound the foe into submission (see, there go the military metaphors). Mind you if the combatants I had the pleasure of watching last weekend had been in the little general's forces, wars would have been a lot shorter. They could have landed a shot right on the end of booted big toe, albeit from 12 foot out.
The other point is the regimented pomp and etiquette of the game. The starting arc is marked out by a regal sweep of the foot. Humps and dimples in the gravel or sand are smoothed out like a batsman tamping down the square after receiving his first bouncer of the day. Each shot is applauded and even the most vicious cannonade is greeted with a chorus of the French equivalent of "Good shot, old bean!"
But what shots!
On Sunday I had decided to cut across the 5th on my way from the Jardin du Plants to a pub near the Panthéon to watch El Classico between Real Madrid and Barcelona. On my little map I spotted a point of interest known as L'Arênes de Lutece. Lueticia was the Roman name for Paris and here, right at the heart of the city, was a little amphitheatre re-created on the grounds where the original had once stood. Only now, where there were once gladiators there were now les petanqueurs.
It was clear that I had arrived at the end of a game (played to 13) as there were tense looks on the faces of the scattered audience around. The pairs were easily recognisable too. Pair One consisted of a character I named 'the Corsican' as he was dark and swarthy, with jet black hair and a glare hardened during nights of hunting in the Maquis. In between lanes he fired off practice boules one after the other sending them scittering away with unerring accuracy. His partner was "Cappy" - on account of his blue baseball cap - who didn't walk so much as stride between ends.
The second partnership was an odd one at first sight. 'Guillaume le Kid' was shaven headed and a good 20 years younger than his playing companions, not that his laser-sighted arm exhibited any sign of inexperience. Finally 'L'homme du main plastique' had obviously injured his non-playing hand and had wrapped it in a protective plastic bag to ward off infection. It could have been a superpower-wielding prosthetic for all that I saw.
All I could see was that battle had been well and truly joined and it seemed that pair 2 had the upper hand. What turned out to be the final end went something like this:
- Le Kid fires off the cochonet and launches a boule to within an inch of it.
- Cappy canons Le Kid's boule away with a fire-cracker but cannot get his shot closer.
- The Corsican moves in to aid his colleague and they have the advantage.
- Plastique and Cappy exchange pin-point shots until the strider has his ball closest, within two feet and Le Kid has one boule left.
- Not content with moving an opponent's boule, Guillaume takes aim at the tiny, green, wooden jack and from all of 8ft away lightly flips it between his and the grinning Plastique's last shot, giving him and his partner a two-shot win and the match.
Cue applause, quite a few "beh oui!"s and much gallic back slapping as the ground is cleared away for the next time.
The Circus Maximus it may not have been, but from this particular spectator: Ave gentilhommes! Ave!
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Bargain!
The first thing anyone says about Paris is that it's expensive. Shopping, eating, traveling, living, everything is over the odds and everyone is trying to make the extra buck. A sign of the times perhaps? Not really. One of the biggest parisian cliches there is is how an espresso can cost you €2.20 on a cafe terrace, but €1.00 if you stand at the bar. It's perfectly normal here to charge extra for sunshine and fresh air. So the events of this evening were more than just a little surprising.
It started with a conversation exchange. This involves meeting up with people who happen to speak a language you would like to learn and speaking to them in a language they want to learn. It costs nothing and you get to meet - if my first rendez-vous was anything to go by - some pretty interesting people. Mine turned out also to be a teacher who, upon seeing how expensive the half pints were at the bar I'd chosen, suggested heading to a vernissage next time. A vernissage is, she explained, when an artist, or artists, exhibit their work, for free, while often providing expert insight to the work, for free, as well as nibbles and wine, yes, for free! I needed no further convincing.
Feeling pretty good about my new-found social foray, but also pretty hungry, I made my way down to the Metro towards home. In the carriage a lady of a certain age apologised for her bag blocking the way. I replied that the Sciatica-Inducer was of equal annoyance to many. She started up a conversation with me and it turned out that, not only was she heading the same way as me, but that she also spoke English. While rumbling through the airbrushed evening, amicably chatting about this and that, Francoise ably demonstrated to me how even little, old parisiennes could outmuscle the burliest back-packer with a strategic jab of the elbow and an "excuse-moi" of a certain tone and volume.
Bidding goodbye to my second bilingual conversation of the night, but still pretty starving, I headed for the "two Snickers for €2" offer in one of the Metro vending machines. Fishing about for my choc-and-peanut double-pack I felt something lighter and crinklier in the tray of the machine. It was a packet of barbecue-flavoured Walkers (don't get me started on the Lay's nonsense). First thinking that the wrong snack had fallen out I groped around some more and yes, there was what I had asked for.
There is was; tonight, in the city where fresh air costs you money, the stereotypists had been well and truly told to BOGOF.
It started with a conversation exchange. This involves meeting up with people who happen to speak a language you would like to learn and speaking to them in a language they want to learn. It costs nothing and you get to meet - if my first rendez-vous was anything to go by - some pretty interesting people. Mine turned out also to be a teacher who, upon seeing how expensive the half pints were at the bar I'd chosen, suggested heading to a vernissage next time. A vernissage is, she explained, when an artist, or artists, exhibit their work, for free, while often providing expert insight to the work, for free, as well as nibbles and wine, yes, for free! I needed no further convincing.
Feeling pretty good about my new-found social foray, but also pretty hungry, I made my way down to the Metro towards home. In the carriage a lady of a certain age apologised for her bag blocking the way. I replied that the Sciatica-Inducer was of equal annoyance to many. She started up a conversation with me and it turned out that, not only was she heading the same way as me, but that she also spoke English. While rumbling through the airbrushed evening, amicably chatting about this and that, Francoise ably demonstrated to me how even little, old parisiennes could outmuscle the burliest back-packer with a strategic jab of the elbow and an "excuse-moi" of a certain tone and volume.
Bidding goodbye to my second bilingual conversation of the night, but still pretty starving, I headed for the "two Snickers for €2" offer in one of the Metro vending machines. Fishing about for my choc-and-peanut double-pack I felt something lighter and crinklier in the tray of the machine. It was a packet of barbecue-flavoured Walkers (don't get me started on the Lay's nonsense). First thinking that the wrong snack had fallen out I groped around some more and yes, there was what I had asked for.
There is was; tonight, in the city where fresh air costs you money, the stereotypists had been well and truly told to BOGOF.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
March(et)ing to a slower tune
There's few places better suited to wasting time than a market and nobody does markets like the French. Take the little farmers' market that appears five floors down from my window every Wednesday and Saturday. It was a feast of sensory temptation. There were honey glazed ham hocks at the rotisseur, dripping with artery-clogging deliciousness. The were tiny jewel-like fraises de bois, winking at you in the morning sunshine. My favourites though, Boskop apples from Picardy, the size of a canon ball and more tart than the whole of Pigalle.
Two weeks ago I had the good fortune to attend a marche flottante, is one that moves about from town to town sharing its wares. This particular one was of the regional variety - the South-west of France to be precise - extolling the virtues of the Gers, Lot-et-Garonne and Tarn-et-Garonne regions. It also had the best gig in town. Quai Montebello isn't just any old mooring post by the Seine. It's a shady, cobbled haven on the left bank under the watchful, balustraded eye of the great Lady of Notre Damme.
If the venue at least tempted you, the atmosphere and the produce on offer made sure you lingered a long while in a late Autumn sunshine. The three regions had set up stalls adjacent to one-another. Resplendent in their regional colours, the representatives from vinyards, fruitiers, charcuteries and patisseries were all out in force extolling the virtues of glorious pate de foie gras, sumptuous melons from Lectoure and glasses spilling over with nectar-like vin moilleux.
Not wishing to waste anything I went for a sample of all three and propped myself up against a wooden hoarding while dangling my feet over the lazily flowing water beneath. Even the emergency services had got in on the act. Next to me a cool-as-you-like team from the FFSS (some branch of water security) had set up station on the end of long boat decked out like a Bayou townhouse. The only emergency they had to cope with all afternoon was rescuing a chic, black handbag that had probably been dropped by a waving tourist from one of the bateaux mouches that occasionally chugged past us, occupants probably wishing they were where I was.
I could have stayed where I was all afternoon, but soon the joyous sound of brass band music filled the air and drew me toward it. A dapper foursome from the Tarn, decked out in dazzling white with straw hats and red neckerchiefs were keeping the party swaying, singing and just plain moving along (by this point no-one needed much encouragement). A local drunk had nominated himself as Number One Fan and happily harangued anyone that didn't comply with the band leader's encouragement to Assis! Assis! (sit down! sit down!) and he rocked like a paper boat on a swell as the band swung us back up and clapping again.
The shadows had now begun lengthen over the quai, so I reluctantly decided to make a move. As I meandered through the throng heading down for more food and fun, a thought hit me. Though most Parisians speed through the week like hornets on nicotine drips, on the weekend even the maddest of them all can often be found, as Otis Redding almost put it: sitting on the back of the quai, wasting time.
Two weeks ago I had the good fortune to attend a marche flottante, is one that moves about from town to town sharing its wares. This particular one was of the regional variety - the South-west of France to be precise - extolling the virtues of the Gers, Lot-et-Garonne and Tarn-et-Garonne regions. It also had the best gig in town. Quai Montebello isn't just any old mooring post by the Seine. It's a shady, cobbled haven on the left bank under the watchful, balustraded eye of the great Lady of Notre Damme.
Not wishing to waste anything I went for a sample of all three and propped myself up against a wooden hoarding while dangling my feet over the lazily flowing water beneath. Even the emergency services had got in on the act. Next to me a cool-as-you-like team from the FFSS (some branch of water security) had set up station on the end of long boat decked out like a Bayou townhouse. The only emergency they had to cope with all afternoon was rescuing a chic, black handbag that had probably been dropped by a waving tourist from one of the bateaux mouches that occasionally chugged past us, occupants probably wishing they were where I was.
The shadows had now begun lengthen over the quai, so I reluctantly decided to make a move. As I meandered through the throng heading down for more food and fun, a thought hit me. Though most Parisians speed through the week like hornets on nicotine drips, on the weekend even the maddest of them all can often be found, as Otis Redding almost put it: sitting on the back of the quai, wasting time.
Monday, 1 October 2012
Swedish smarts
"I think that if you've asked yourself: 'Should I...' then the answer should be 'Yes!' Otherwise, how would you ever get to know that you shouldn't?"
Wise words indeed from Jonas Jonasson, bestselling Swedish author of "The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared" www.hesperuspress.com A fantastic read, give it a go!
Wise words indeed from Jonas Jonasson, bestselling Swedish author of "The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared" www.hesperuspress.com A fantastic read, give it a go!
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Metro music
You always hope that you'll assimilate quickly into the way of life of a new place. So, it was with some pride that I informed a new friend and colleague about my increasingly proficient Parisian ability to bump and barge people out of the way on and around the Metro (they call it bousuler and yes the sciatica-inducing rucksack has helped with this).
"Ah," he intoned wisely, "but do you still say 'sorry' after you've done it?" I had to admit that yes, I did. "Well, you're still British then."
Although I could concede this, I have noticed the convergent effect that public transport has on the La Manche-sized gap that separates our two cultures. The most noticeable is the 'switch-off'. This is the ability of the most ardent Latin - normally found gesticulating wildly over his copy of Le Figaro every morning - to, upon entering a Metro carriage, stare fixedly at his winkle-pickers, pointedly ignoring even the ten-day-old-brie-scented armpit or kidney puncturing elbows of his neighbour. Enter a Metro car at Opera and you may as well be doing so at Canary Wharf or Regent Street.
This can come in useful, mind, when your commute is interrupted by one of the capital's plethora of itinerant poets, musicians, dramatists and unfortunates who ride the lines in search of a charitable centime. When one of these enters a carriage you have never seen so much attention payed to bootlaces, handbag straps or the intricate way a staple holds a newspaper together.
Although many of the more pungent, hirstute operatives inspire similar actions from me, there are occasions when I feel that M. or Mme. Commuter is missing out.
There was the accordion player whose fingers blurred across the keyboard, his arms furiously pumping as he induced foot-tapping tunes from his squeezebox. There were also the the mournful, yet melodious tones of a Mahgreb singer who had me drifting off to the harsh, terra-cotta backdrop of the Atlas Mountains.
On both occasions I had my coins at the ready to reward their efforts, but so expectant were they of their fellow passengers' ingratitude, they pushed past me in a haze of habitual disappointment.
Outside the opulent main opera house one evening I saw a trainee concert pianist entertain a crowd of hundreds who cheered every chord. Maybe the Metro musicians deserve some greater recognition of their talents. Perhaps it's time Monsieur et Madame became a little less London and a petit peu more Paris.
"Ah," he intoned wisely, "but do you still say 'sorry' after you've done it?" I had to admit that yes, I did. "Well, you're still British then."
Although I could concede this, I have noticed the convergent effect that public transport has on the La Manche-sized gap that separates our two cultures. The most noticeable is the 'switch-off'. This is the ability of the most ardent Latin - normally found gesticulating wildly over his copy of Le Figaro every morning - to, upon entering a Metro carriage, stare fixedly at his winkle-pickers, pointedly ignoring even the ten-day-old-brie-scented armpit or kidney puncturing elbows of his neighbour. Enter a Metro car at Opera and you may as well be doing so at Canary Wharf or Regent Street.
This can come in useful, mind, when your commute is interrupted by one of the capital's plethora of itinerant poets, musicians, dramatists and unfortunates who ride the lines in search of a charitable centime. When one of these enters a carriage you have never seen so much attention payed to bootlaces, handbag straps or the intricate way a staple holds a newspaper together.
Although many of the more pungent, hirstute operatives inspire similar actions from me, there are occasions when I feel that M. or Mme. Commuter is missing out.
There was the accordion player whose fingers blurred across the keyboard, his arms furiously pumping as he induced foot-tapping tunes from his squeezebox. There were also the the mournful, yet melodious tones of a Mahgreb singer who had me drifting off to the harsh, terra-cotta backdrop of the Atlas Mountains.
On both occasions I had my coins at the ready to reward their efforts, but so expectant were they of their fellow passengers' ingratitude, they pushed past me in a haze of habitual disappointment.
Outside the opulent main opera house one evening I saw a trainee concert pianist entertain a crowd of hundreds who cheered every chord. Maybe the Metro musicians deserve some greater recognition of their talents. Perhaps it's time Monsieur et Madame became a little less London and a petit peu more Paris.
Saturday, 29 September 2012
L'ecole de bierre
After a hearty Vietnamese meal in the heart of Paris Chinatown last night, followed by two pitchers of Dublin Ale at the Sputnik Bar on Butte au Cailles, I wished bonne nuit to my Metro-bound friends and wandered onwards to find a nightcap of sorts. What I found was Chez Michel, a bar devoted to top-class Belgian beer run by an Algerian. This would normally have been enough to have put the cherry on top of a wonderfully cosmopolitan Parisian Friday night.
Chez Michel, compared to the other more salubrious, chic or lively pubs and bars in this little area of the 13th, has a more rough-and-ready atmosphere. Many of the beers advertised are done so with a scrawl of felt-tip pen on a blank piece of full-scap paper stuck to the wall. This is made more exotic by the sheer variety of spirits behind the bar, ranging from top-shelf Absinthe to what looked like witches' brews of various fruits in alcohol, not to mention the plethora of well-known beers (Kwak, Duval, Kriek) to the unknown (to me at least) like Chouff.
Unwittingly, I chose the strongest and darkest, an almost syropy thick Trappiste, served in what looked like a flat-based white wine glass with a gold rim (I admire barkeepers who use the authentic glassware for these beers). Michel poured out a trickle into the glass and left me to it. Not really aware that there was anything more to it, and slightly worse for wear, I continued to pour and took a sip. A taste like smokey, hoppy molasses rolled onto my tongue, ensuring that, as late as it was, and as weary as I was, this was not beer I was going to quaff.
Unbeknownst to me, my naive and unskilled supping had been noticed by the proprieter. He put his glass of milky pernot down, ambled over and in a patient tone, usually reserved for about this time of night, rhetorically asked me if I had never drunk this particular beer before. Not waiting for the obvious answer he took the bottle, with the remainder of the beer, and with a deft hand, swirled it expertly around. The aim of this action, he informed me, was to dislodge the sediment that would otherwise have collected at the bottom of the bottle and given me a nasty surprise at the end of my otherwise heavenly drink.
I thanked him profusely and then sat in admiration of this Mahgrebian prof de bierre and wondered if a barman anywhere else would have bothered, or would they have just let l'anglais murder his drink and his taste buds. Pride in one's profession and the in-depth knowledge of one's wares is a little found quality these days. So with this deft flick of his practiced wrist, Michel had ensured that this gallois, another potentially one-off customer, would make Chez Michel a little part of of chez moi from now on.
Chez Michel, compared to the other more salubrious, chic or lively pubs and bars in this little area of the 13th, has a more rough-and-ready atmosphere. Many of the beers advertised are done so with a scrawl of felt-tip pen on a blank piece of full-scap paper stuck to the wall. This is made more exotic by the sheer variety of spirits behind the bar, ranging from top-shelf Absinthe to what looked like witches' brews of various fruits in alcohol, not to mention the plethora of well-known beers (Kwak, Duval, Kriek) to the unknown (to me at least) like Chouff.
Unwittingly, I chose the strongest and darkest, an almost syropy thick Trappiste, served in what looked like a flat-based white wine glass with a gold rim (I admire barkeepers who use the authentic glassware for these beers). Michel poured out a trickle into the glass and left me to it. Not really aware that there was anything more to it, and slightly worse for wear, I continued to pour and took a sip. A taste like smokey, hoppy molasses rolled onto my tongue, ensuring that, as late as it was, and as weary as I was, this was not beer I was going to quaff.
Unbeknownst to me, my naive and unskilled supping had been noticed by the proprieter. He put his glass of milky pernot down, ambled over and in a patient tone, usually reserved for about this time of night, rhetorically asked me if I had never drunk this particular beer before. Not waiting for the obvious answer he took the bottle, with the remainder of the beer, and with a deft hand, swirled it expertly around. The aim of this action, he informed me, was to dislodge the sediment that would otherwise have collected at the bottom of the bottle and given me a nasty surprise at the end of my otherwise heavenly drink.
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Thought for today
"Stay out of the merde - say 'bonjour' to everyone."
A sound piece of advice to nouveaux/elles Parisiens/ennes from well-known francophile Stephen Clarke - author of the "Merde" series of novels (pictured) - inscribed in my newly bought copy of his latest "The Merde Factor" at a signing at WH Smiths in Rue Rivoli last night. (www.stephenclarkewriter.com)
On the right side of the tracks
One of the things I was most dreading about moving to Paris was getting around. I had never lived in a capital city before and an essential part of my job (itinerant business English teacher) is to travel from office to office, spending as little time in between as possible - because as any TEFL teacher knows, time (spent traveling) is money (you don't see).
I was envisaging becoming a harried, sweaty, stressed-out sardine with chronic sciatica - due to humping ruck sacks full of text books - and a wish to return to the humdrum yet peaceful world of the outskirts of Dusseldorf, my former home.
Well, after a month, the sciatica is coming along just fine (I've been promised a wheely-bag, for Christmas!) and after a couple of Metro journeys my pores are happily ejecting whatever delicious Parisian pastry products I've hurriedly consumed that day.
However, the most feared symptom, the stress, has been substantially reduced by several brilliant, barely mentioned characteristics of the French capital's transport system:
1. Buses - you would have thought that most capitals' roads would render this public transport inviable and impractical. Not so, by taking a bus you can, for example, reach Place d'Italie (13th) from Place Gambeta (20th) - as I once did with 30 kg of luggage - in about 40 stress-free minutes, while avoiding the crowds and the labyrinth of the metro and taking in some lovely sights along the way. What's more I've never waited more than 10 minutes for one.
2. Bus stops - if you wander as aimlessly as I do, you will be happy to know that all bus stops in Paris display both a local and city map, so, as you're never very far from one, at least you'll know whereabouts you became lost. The RATP also provides you with a door-to-door mapping service on its website. www.ratp.fr
3. Overground Metro lines - a large part of lines like the 6 (Etoile - Nation) run above ground, a breath of fresh air in more ways than one, which brings me onto...
4. Windows on Metro trains - they actually open enough to let (what accounts for) fresh air in (only if you stand mind).
5. Buildings, signs and other accoutrements - they have style here, so Metro signs, station buildings and even the viaducts holding the overground tracks are often works of art. Some you barely see (Place de Monge). In fact most you don't have time to admire because I've never waited more than 5 minutes for a train at any of them.
I'm not saying getting around the biggest city in France during the morning rush is a breeze, but there's less to sniff at than you'd think (unless you count my shirts).
I was envisaging becoming a harried, sweaty, stressed-out sardine with chronic sciatica - due to humping ruck sacks full of text books - and a wish to return to the humdrum yet peaceful world of the outskirts of Dusseldorf, my former home.
Well, after a month, the sciatica is coming along just fine (I've been promised a wheely-bag, for Christmas!) and after a couple of Metro journeys my pores are happily ejecting whatever delicious Parisian pastry products I've hurriedly consumed that day.
However, the most feared symptom, the stress, has been substantially reduced by several brilliant, barely mentioned characteristics of the French capital's transport system:
1. Buses - you would have thought that most capitals' roads would render this public transport inviable and impractical. Not so, by taking a bus you can, for example, reach Place d'Italie (13th) from Place Gambeta (20th) - as I once did with 30 kg of luggage - in about 40 stress-free minutes, while avoiding the crowds and the labyrinth of the metro and taking in some lovely sights along the way. What's more I've never waited more than 10 minutes for one.
2. Bus stops - if you wander as aimlessly as I do, you will be happy to know that all bus stops in Paris display both a local and city map, so, as you're never very far from one, at least you'll know whereabouts you became lost. The RATP also provides you with a door-to-door mapping service on its website. www.ratp.fr
3. Overground Metro lines - a large part of lines like the 6 (Etoile - Nation) run above ground, a breath of fresh air in more ways than one, which brings me onto...
4. Windows on Metro trains - they actually open enough to let (what accounts for) fresh air in (only if you stand mind).
5. Buildings, signs and other accoutrements - they have style here, so Metro signs, station buildings and even the viaducts holding the overground tracks are often works of art. Some you barely see (Place de Monge). In fact most you don't have time to admire because I've never waited more than 5 minutes for a train at any of them.
I'm not saying getting around the biggest city in France during the morning rush is a breeze, but there's less to sniff at than you'd think (unless you count my shirts).
Monday, 24 September 2012
Thought of the day
From my mate Ali Bullen: "If we run around in circles, we only run from what we chase - so be still."
http://www.writerscafe.org/Alistair go and read his poetry, it's amazing!
http://www.writerscafe.org/Alistair go and read his poetry, it's amazing!
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Meant to be
What does a big, fat, Greek wedding, the Indian Premier League and someone's inability to comprehend internet jargon have in common? My blog.
I've been procrastinating about doing this for years now. I've seen quite a few things, been to quite a few places, met great numbers of great people and had a huge number of thoughts about it all. I've always thought about telling others about these. The thing was that life went on, I met new people, went to new places and did new things and there never seemed to be the moment.
As is usual with these things it took a number of random, completely unconnected series of events to make the moment happen. The second two don't take much explaining. Last year English coverage of the IPL (www.iplt20.com/) was sponsored by www.godaddy.com where you can buy web hosting kit (smash 'em bash 'em cricket and web hosting, I didn't understand either). I went on and soon realised that names like SQL and the such meant nothing to me, so I searched the Internet for help. There I found http://www.mahalo.com/how-to-set-up-a-blog-for-beginners/ and so I began to follow the step-by-step instructions designed to help even the web illiterate begin their journey into the blogosphere.
The thing was you needed a name for starters; something bright and catchy, but not naff or cliched; original, but not so 'out there' that no-one's going to understand it. Well, it just so happened that I had been at my cousin's wedding the other weekend and after the lovely ceremony, we adjourned to her dad's garden for the reception. There I met a lovely lady (NOT a bridesmaid, I'm trying not to be cliched here, OK) and we started up a conversation. Somehow, we got around from me wanting to write a blog to the dad in MBFGW insisting he could derive any word from the Greek and then back to how certain things just happened because they were supposed to
"Serendipity" I said.
"Pardon?" was the understandable reply.
"I bet that comes from Greek."
"O-K". So we set about trying to do it. I thought the first part sounded like the Greek for 4 or "TesSERA". The second half she admitted could conceivably - when conceived on several glasses of wine - could come from "diploma" meaning a fold (look on Google translate, it's there).
"So," I surmised, "Serendipity means 'to fold something over four times'," a hesitant look, "at just the right time." I added. A sly smile,
"You have to put that in your blog!"
So there, you have it, fourfoldsandover, the random blog that was meant to be! Enjoy!
I've been procrastinating about doing this for years now. I've seen quite a few things, been to quite a few places, met great numbers of great people and had a huge number of thoughts about it all. I've always thought about telling others about these. The thing was that life went on, I met new people, went to new places and did new things and there never seemed to be the moment.
As is usual with these things it took a number of random, completely unconnected series of events to make the moment happen. The second two don't take much explaining. Last year English coverage of the IPL (www.iplt20.com/) was sponsored by www.godaddy.com where you can buy web hosting kit (smash 'em bash 'em cricket and web hosting, I didn't understand either). I went on and soon realised that names like SQL and the such meant nothing to me, so I searched the Internet for help. There I found http://www.mahalo.com/how-to-set-up-a-blog-for-beginners/ and so I began to follow the step-by-step instructions designed to help even the web illiterate begin their journey into the blogosphere.
The thing was you needed a name for starters; something bright and catchy, but not naff or cliched; original, but not so 'out there' that no-one's going to understand it. Well, it just so happened that I had been at my cousin's wedding the other weekend and after the lovely ceremony, we adjourned to her dad's garden for the reception. There I met a lovely lady (NOT a bridesmaid, I'm trying not to be cliched here, OK) and we started up a conversation. Somehow, we got around from me wanting to write a blog to the dad in MBFGW insisting he could derive any word from the Greek and then back to how certain things just happened because they were supposed to
"Serendipity" I said.
"Pardon?" was the understandable reply.
"I bet that comes from Greek."
"O-K". So we set about trying to do it. I thought the first part sounded like the Greek for 4 or "TesSERA". The second half she admitted could conceivably - when conceived on several glasses of wine - could come from "diploma" meaning a fold (look on Google translate, it's there).
"So," I surmised, "Serendipity means 'to fold something over four times'," a hesitant look, "at just the right time." I added. A sly smile,
"You have to put that in your blog!"
So there, you have it, fourfoldsandover, the random blog that was meant to be! Enjoy!
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