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!

   

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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!