Paris
November '22
This here stream of consciousness accounts for a long Parisian weekend and does in advance admission a great disservice to its general and detailed splendour. Then again so does all writing. What an optimistic start, in a funny roundabout T junction cul-de-sac kinda way. Cul-de-sac is French. Paris is French.
Well 4am is too early and despite all the punctuating consonants of the bus announcer I almost drifted on the short ride up the hill. Imagine the most crisply enunciated ‘next stop’ and then add a tinge of hyperbolic absurdity to it and you’ll be close to her westcountry tones. I think we both fell asleep — Georgie and I — and twitched a touch on the flight; out the window, above the veil of morning night, blazed this thick ribbon thibbon of furnacey orangey red, and it blasted light in all the windows of the winged starboard side and onto the roof when we turned, and before we knew it we were down in Paree, succulent blue skies greeting us into their beret bearing embrace. Infuriatingly imbalanced influencers sat out the front of Café de Flore and took repeated goes at videoing their spooning cream into a coffee or some shit, and we sat round the corner by a stagnant crane truck and determined that this wasn’t precisely the start we were after, so walked round the way to this quaint spot with an old couple huddled up under blankets scranning some flakey numbers, and on another table was a young guy with these flowing curtain locks smoking a cigarette opposite his grandma, must’ve been, herself indulging in a flakey number and cradling her core with a big ol’ puffer. We drank and ate and watched people exist. The architecture in Paris is stunning isn’t it? Take a breather to answer that to yourself, cos this is a one way dialogue. Those balconies on countless apartment buildings with little plants sat on metal railings, all punctuated by the richest of blues beyond, this particular Friday, and others I’ve no doubt, as we mooched merrily from tourist spot to tourist spot, inland, round some busy streets, down quieter ones, pointing upwards at places we’d like to reside or otherwise just feeling small and contented amidst the mazey wintry city of love. How idyllic many moments felt. Somewhat spent, the remainder of the evening’s energy went on eating cheese and then cream (a brulee! Not a Kool Aid) avec vino of the rouge variety. All of this of course becoming a giant motif for the days that chased this one’s gorgeous tail.
Saturday morning there was a semi-thick, clingy fog kissing Christmassy air. We didn’t rouse with any particular urgency, nor did we feel compelled to. I went and got us a coffee and some pastries and we really rather languored through the early, shnippy, waking numbers in perfect harmony. When the furniture’s folded away to permit space in the rather twee room you could only on certain close days swing a small cat, but be careful with it. Just down the way — we’re staying in the eastern reaches of Paris — through the mist and in the mist is a big meandering, beautiful park called Bois de Vincennes, not just feu de bois but for both of us, the second largest ‘green lung’ in the delectable capital. There’s a lake and runners pootling about and these two large dogs frantically to-ing and fro-ing — one of the owners is scrambling to get theirs out the park, cos he or she or they has lept in amidst the excitement but can’t seem to back himself or herself or themself to reverse the motion, and alas once out plunges into the cold water and flaps about — and all the while your only worry isn’t even a worry; it’s which of the parks’ few arteries are best to flow through and meander around for the next minutes.
In the ethereal atmos whenceforth came a collective of 12-or-so middle-to-upper-aged-bracket souls, of the French variety, presumably, all moving their limbs slowly in unison and standing in powerful stances amidst the thick fallen sog of orange, red and brown leaves. That’s a really convoluted way of saying there were some cold people doing tai chi in the park and it warmed ones cockles to see it. Maybe if and when I grow old I’ll live in Vincennes and go down there with Pierre and Lucille or Marc and Gwein or all four plus others that I know a little less but am still happy to stretch and zen alongside. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be an actual rabid rodent by then, scuttling up the trees and watching over the aforementioned scene rather than keeping my blood flowing in their proximity.
So anyway there were heaps of doggos bounding around and we walked arm-in-arm revelling in the simple beauty of the park, before walking out the other side, buying a lighter with an aperol spritz recipe on it, and happening upon a giant chateau — de Vincennes — that we admired from without and within for over an hour. You know the royal sanctuary stonehaven drill: watchtowers and courtyards and flamboyant, grand chapels alongside smaller dwellings that line the fortress. It were eerily quiet and rather stunning, all things considered, which of course they haven’t been in their entirety as that is absurd comprehensive consideration. George and I both commented on the fact that it felt a little like an old camp of incarceration, which I guess aligns with my retrospective understanding of it as a place of refuge during revolution or unrest, once it had fallen somewhat out of favour as a prominent royal residence.
From here we got the tube into the city, stopped just shy of Montmartre, and walked up the tourist and tout laden steps to the spectacle of the Sacré Coeur. Some comment or another about the juxtaposition of getting manhandled by someone trying to put a little bit of thread around my wrist and rather forcefully encouraging me to ‘respect tradition’ vs. the peace and tranquillity and extraordinary architectural beauty of the church itself. Nice stained glass windows. Only time you can really start a sentence with ‘nice stain’ and it not get weird fast am I rite? Simply must be. There’s a giant silver Jesus in there n all, which we thought for some short seconds about extracting and selling on the dark web in order to fund a permanent move to somewhere tropical, remote, or maybe cosmopolitan and bustling, like Paris??? I don’t know — some other such location of refreshing splendour in which we live perfect peaceful saturatey lives and need not work. But we left the giant silver Jesus precisely where it was and walked out to join the well-dressed patchwork of masses swaying hither and thither, taking photos and wrapping up warm etc etc. Shortly after this I encountered my first personal fuzzy feeling of festiveness as we brought a mulled wine and sat on stools in Montmartre village, watching on as other patrons came in for a baguette glooped full of melted raclette. Lights were twinkling and the Sacré Coeur sat chilly but steadfast down the end of the cobbled street.
That whole area is just really fucking beautiful really isn’t it really? Really is. Come to think of it, I think I’d actually penned ‘most aesthetically pleasing street in Paris’ into the Google search bar some hour prior and up sprouted rue de l’Abreuvoir, which we meandered to, down and around thereafter. Those internetters weren’t wrong. Stunning case of the old trailing ivy and refinery, from the pink house on the corner down the cobbles to the bronze, touch-blushed bust of Dalida. Some sculptured man did a mangled stroll out a brick wall.
We stopped for lunch at a quaint and quite delightful brasserie called Chez Eugene lining Place du Tertre — that bustling square of artists and sightseers that I’d sat in to scran a few years prior. This was something else. There’s something in the romance. There’s something in the onion soup. It’s bread. It’s loads of delicious cheesy bread that combines with the salty, fragrant tang of the broth and the red wine slipping gloriously down your gullet, and, and, and, and the blanket on your thighs, and the warmth of the wonderful woman by your side, and the unrelenting unfolding of homosapiens flicking by your eyes as you swoop the goodness off the spoon, and the all-men’s choir that stands just there to serenade passers by and dwellers for a short time, and the talented painter who sits behind his easel and plays chess with another fellow. There’s something in it, and it is absurdly titled ‘life’. Alas, Amelie got there first, and it’s clear to see how Jean-Pierre Jeunet settled on its setting. We ended up at a cafe bar for a good few hours after this, sipping beer and wine, watching France play in the World Cup, admiring the docility of the dog beside us, and watching as animated fans glanced at the scenes on the projector. Merry, we strolled inland from Moulin Rouge (which proved too expensive a commitment, despite our best intentions), via a sex shop, and thence to a really Christmassy looking joint beside a cobbled roundabout, where we utilised the facilities and had a small frothy boi. It was turning into one of those where neither of us could decide on the desired food scenario, but George came through with some conviction, and we jumped on the Metro…..
…to a really rather distant station from where we’d decided to dine. That’s on me. We crossed streets of softcore pedestrian chaos in a state of semi-stupor, and both our bladders filled gradually once more. Past those hectic Christmas markets on Rue de Rivoli, and painstakingly towards Les Halles, bladder nearly full now, past very many establishments that looked altogether ripe with content patrons, munching and slurping and chortling something nasty. That’s something nasty in your lower left abdomen — why’s it so distended? — but alas we bypassed them all to get to a restaurant I of course don’t know the name of, for a meal of flavour and wonk and love. I had foie gras and mushroom in a delicious rich jous with bread as a starter. We also had a cheese board, because. End of sentence. George had a seared duck breast or something some such. She claimed the mash potato to be the best ever, but this is all of course happened having arrived almost doubled over, and asking the woman in the queue for that single cubicle if I could please (in a weird French accent, or broken English despite my fluency, it’s funny what we do), please use it first out of sheer desperation. Great meal great meal, would do again. The place emptied out nicely given the lateness of our arrival, for this is, in fact, not Malaysia, but the capital of Francais, and all that meant that afore the sidelined, tall walled bottles — no doubt vivacious vin — we held eachother and slow-danced.
From here we rushed to a rather hilarious anticlimax, sat on the wall between the Louvre and the Jardin de Tuileries, hoping for some blurry, bleary view of the ‘sparkly’ Eiffel at least a mile and a half away, only for it to not to sparkle at all, or perhaps for us to miss it by looking at another quite tall building instead. Anyone’s guess. So too is where we’re going. For this reason and a multitude of other character-based ones, we walked in circles trying to find a Metro for about half hour after this, both of us fine pickled eggs on the dark and eerie streets on the other side of the Seine. Made it though. Legends, the pair of us. Georgie fell asleep ever so briefly standing up on the train, which was and still is a remarkable new development for the sleeper of sleepers. Feel like it’s not talked about enough, frankly.
God it’s another absolute doozy isn’t it.
Let’s try and tackle Sunday with brevity.
We woke up in no sort of a hurry, a little dusty from it all, and headed a few stops down the way to Bastille, where there was a market on. Treaaaaaat. Treat me, tease me, tickle me, and trounce me underfoot. Vegetables, flowers, cheeses, meats, fabrics, spices, charcuterie, tidbits, antiques, TARTIFLETTE FOR OUR WITHERING SOULS, scarfs, baskets, bread, wine, fresh fruits, olives, pate, ROTISSERIE CHICKEN SPINNING, SLIPPING AND SLIDING. And there you have a really vivid really imaginative account of it. These few hours brought us both forth from a touch of trouble and landed us in a pretty place. Anyway, that latter capitalised segment (the chicken we bought) got itself eaten alongside the glasswork pyramid of perhaps the world’s most famous museum, and as others huddled under umbrellas and captured overcast snaps of the scene, we chowed down hard on these juicy legs and thighs, covering ourselves in the goodness of grease, a pair of forlorn savages giggling away and basking in the simple but powerful flavours of the affair.
Now, here’s a semi-onomatopoeic account of our time in The Louvre.
Patter, pattter, pause, beep, schhhtm (that’s the escalator descending to the labyrinth’s hub), thit thit thit (these are footsteps), sigh, thit, sigh, thit, bop, bop, bop, beep (this is us pressing the screens at the ticket office, one of four was working?!?!?! Can you Adam n eve it, I might write a slight Google review or just carry on living my life), shhhiiyyyee (the ticket printing), thit thit pause blink ah gasp comment ah nah alright now I’m getting bored this was a flawed exercise, the world doesn’t work solely in onomatopeias.
We rounded the antiquity of Greece and Rome, complete with large mummification pods and goatmen mengoat, little trinkets of practicality, from grooming accessories to agrarian tools, and on already weary legs walked up to the art of the renaissance, which just never disappoints on the topic of talking points, does it? So so much going on in these milieu medleys. One of them that really stood out was a painting depicting the banishment of vices from the garden of virtue. I think. The eye drifts from half-human forms and deformities to one guy in the bottom right who’s just wholeheartedly pickled. Poleaxed. But such vivid colouration. Really rather remarkable artworks, even if we did just walk and gape and titter at many of them. Walked into that room where Mona resides and just walked around it, opting for a side view of the incomplete masterpiece rather than wrestle with the masses queuing to get a front on snap, and yes I am well aware that my desire to keep Sunday somewhat briefer has fallen on insubordinate fingers.
Alright snapshots only Sam you silly sod.
Brass band wonderment in front of the opera house before another metro-assisted-amble by way of the Eiffel. Pastries and twinkles and a mutual wish appeased by two folk the shape of us stood on the bridge staring in awe and noshing on some good stuff, but alas we must keep moving, and that’s a fast stroll down the way to the Arc de Triomphe, and it’s a shame we can’t stop for a vin in any of these cafes, and why are there so many horns?, and well, Morocco have done well to win that game in the World Cup haven’t they, and honk honk honk (we’re back to onomatopoeias niiiiice) around the spectacular arch, and all the way down the magical Champs Elysees, but we move forth nonetheless to the reason for our being here. That’s a selfish remark, I’m sticking to it, no words to waste, just spent a whole line on it.
We went to see Nils Frahm at Salle Pleyel. I fucking love Nils Frahm. If you click here and search for ‘Nils Frahm’, you can read my thoughts on going to see Nils Frahm — whose music I fucking love — at the Salle Pleyel in Paris.
So there we have it.
Sunday passed the baton to a clear, crisp Monday, but only after the semi-ceremonial lifting of the clouds — a temporary lampshade for our lifegiving star. That’s all well and good, but where the tuppeny fudge are we gonna find us a fromagerie? We to’d and we fro’d and we huffed and we puffed and we never came close to blowing down houses, cos they’re all so damn aesthetically marvellous, don’t you think? Don’t answer that. Listen to me. I’m going to wind it up. We ended up having a crepe brekkie looking up the road at the Pantheon, and taking a short but satisfying stroll in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the last of the wintry Parisian air kissing our cheeks. Everything and everyone is doused in bright light from our lifegiving star but the birds float in and down and up and off, impervious to it all.
At the airport, we sat on stools and drank a couple of cans like Brits abroad, thankful for the whole spectacular affair. Thanks for coming, and thanks for having us.