Paris

I’m spoiled. Really spoiled. Who, with the exception of business people, Eurostar drivers and err, passport control, gets to go to Paris five times in their life? Me! That's who! It’s ok, I realise how lucky I am. So much so, I was giving thanks like a nun getting laid for the first time on my way back this morning. It went something like ‘blah blah thanks be to me who gets to pop over to Paris when some people have never left their city’. Then, my thanks was over, because really, it was a little vomit worthy and frankly, I was boring myself. So instead I had a snooze with my head in a weird position which left me feeling wonky for the rest of the day.

My weekend in Paris was fantastic. I love that no matter how many times you go somewhere, it’s always somehow different. This time it was different in a kind of random way. I’ll start from the beginning.

Food. So much pressure to eat the right thing. We even consulted the likes of Time Out and The Guardian for guidance. Consulted in vain might I add. All that printing of options, discussing and marking on maps was for nothing but a bit of deep fried duck and a fat, lazy eyed pirate. Perhaps more detail is needed. Let me set the scene briefly: 12 hours of walking, getting lost maybe four times (mostly my fault), rain, non reading of gallery opening times and a free Starbucks cappuccino. And back to the story. It was about 1030 at night, somewhere past the Bastille and we were in the middle of walking the long way to get there. My legs were heavy, toes slightly blistered by my Assassin shoes and I was close to giving up. It got to the point that if the next street wasn’t the right one, we were going to turn back. But as luck had it, the next street was what we were after. And can I add, the street set up the randomness that turned out to be the night. It was probably the only restaurant on the street/motorway and it was next door to an iron clad police station.

‘Les Dingues’ was a one man show. I think the maitre-de/barman/chef/waiter/DJ’s name might have been Pascale. At least, that’s what he’s going to be called for the sake of this story. So, Pascale was on the morbid side of obese, kind of looked like the fat guy from Lost and held his curly locks back with a headband – because, you know, for a man who looked like he suffered from the meat sweats, hygiene would have been a top priority. He was the kind of dude that made babies cry, dogs bark and old ladies clutch their handbags. He scared us into eating everything on our plates without a single threat. But he was that type of man. Throughout the meal, we felt like uninvited guests, as it seemed like everyone (4 people) there knew Pascale. Some guy was even getting up every two minutes to change the tunes playing from the computer on the bar. Then, a party of five, a dog and some random guy on his own came in and started a party. Old Pascal was LOVING it. He was smoking at the bar as he poured drinks and wandered in and out of the kitchen, no doubt to scratch his arse. The highlight would definitely have been after we’d finished our mains and I spotted a mouse run over the plates. Pesky food standards. So after, we made a hasty exit amid a floury of ‘tres bien’ and ‘super’ compliments about our meal and left feeling kind of disturbed and sick from a plate of what was essentially meat grizzle and burnt frozen wedges. God it was random.

Wow, that ended up being longer than I intended. If you want to keep on reading, there’s more.

We also went to Versailles. The day had gone quite well so far because we hadn’t got lost. It went a little downhill when we somehow joined an Italian 50+ tour group as soon as we got through the gates. We realised too late and backed away slowly after getting some weird looks as the nonnas knew we were misplaced before we did. As we laughed our way down to the ground floor at the silliness of it all, we stopped in our tracks as another group of 50+’s were grouped at the bottom of the stairs. They were listening very intently and quietly as old people do and seemed unamused at us interrupting what was no doubt a very interesting spiel. The only way to escape was to walk down the stairs, past the guide and through the crowd. It was like we were celebrities, except of course we weren’t and it was kind of embarrassing.

The final thing, which may not be the last, but I’ve had a mental blank, were some markets we visited near the Sacre Coeur. Note, when Time Out says ‘must see’ and ‘prepare yourself’ they are both lying and telling the truth. It was like stepping out into ghetto sales hell. Imagine some of the most gangster looking hoodies mixed with local tramps, then add every piece of crap you've even thrown away. Voila! You’ve got yourself a market. The funniest bit was walking around the corner from the main market and seeing rows of mini stalls the homeless had set up. Used towel? Sure, someone would definitely up for that. One shoe? Discarded socks? The perfect gift for all! It was hilarious.

Add a shit load of cheese, wine, crepes, pastries and a boy, and that was Paris.