The French railway system and I seem to have a troubled relationship. Just when I think I've got it sussed, it throws another curve ball at me. My first train-related mishap was entirely my fault. (I was late). My second, I'm not quite sure about. How was I to know that "coach 8" means "carriage 8"? There are way too many words and numbers on those tickets.
On my first trip, nobody seemed to really bother with seat numbers or ticket checking. I was traveling first class so I didn't really care what the rif raf were up to (in reality I was just stoked to be on the bloody thing after the Parisian traffic).
Next time round my focus was largely around being ON TIME. Given that I was staying next door to the station, this wasn't difficult. I was way early, and rather pleased with myself. My seat number seemed like a minor detail at this point.
I managed to haul all my luggage on board and got myself settled. Too easy. Then I thought... hang on, this looks exactly like first class. And I have a second class ticket. Oh ok, well I'll just need to move up a few carriages.
Just a few? Try EIGHT. Try THE LENGTH OF THE ENTIRE TRAIN. OMG. I should not be allowed out of Australia on my own! Mon dieu! My seat in this packed train was as far away as possible. Literally.
Unperturbed however, I set off with alacrity. I'd like to add here that I have no less than four pieces of luggage. A big suitcase, a little suitcase, a duffel bag of shopping and a giant "handbag". Oh and my little le Sportsac.
As it turns out, the aisle of a second class carriage on the TGV is only JUST wide enough to accommodate a large Samsonite. Good to know. I carried / dragged one piece at a time, stashing everything in the luggage compartments at the end of each "coach" as I went.
To my disgust, only one person offered any form of help on my journey. This dude in first class opened the door for me as I did the walk of second class shame. In fact, I got so many dirty looks I started to crack it slightly.
Oh, I'm sorry Mr Narky Frenchman. I'm SO very sorry you have to move your foot all of two inches so I can haul a bag that is bigger than me from one end of the train to the other. Vraimant! Gah! People annoy me!
By carriage six, I was sweating profusely but had found my stride. Instead of apologising for my inconvenient existence, I was strutting down those aisles like I was in a walk-off with Derek Zoolander himself. Deal with it kids, pardonez moi, but do suck it up. I can't tell you how satisfying it was to reach the end, and I did make it eventually. Plus, the whole scenario still makes me giggle.
Can I note (in my defense) that generally, announcements in stations and on trains here are in French only? My French is still improving; usually I can understand enough to know that the announcement is about my train. Just not enough to know what the announcement actually is. Hmph.
Also, the whole carriage thing is a bit unclear at first, but very easy once you know what you're doing. I have it sorted now.
Today I'm about to catch a train to Aix-en-Provence and I've already jumped the first hurdle (random / nonsensical destinations on ticket). I think dealing with this stuff is good though. There is a solution to most problems, it's just a question of finding it. Being on your own, and trying to learn a foreign language at the same time ups the ante. It's kind of fun, and it does increase your confidence.
The train carriage mix-up is a great metaphor really; life is full of surprises, you just keep going until you find your place. If people frown at you along the way, screw 'em! You're leaving them behind anyway.
All this time to myself in the Old World has got me thinking about the things we leave behind. Seeing gold earrings in the Roman museum in Lyon made me wonder what will remain of me in 2000 years time. I have gold earrings too... but they don't really encapsulate me. If I am very lucky, perhaps a photo I took, or some of my writing?
I've seen a lot of Impressionist paintings here... it's important to remember that while we consider them masterpieces today, at the time of painting they were not. In fact, they were even mocked at times. My point is, you don't really know what you'll leave behind, if anything, or how it will be perceived.
Sitting on top of the ancient Palace des Papes in Avignon, clutching a bag of goodies from H&M, I decided that life is rather ephemeral. My new dress and stockings certainly weren't going to be around in two millenniums' time. (Unless purple stockings make a massive comeback in 4011.)
It's just the whole "life is a series of moments" theory that I keep on coming back to. We try so desperately to hold onto these moments, taking photos, writing about them, daydreaming. Conversely, in trying to capture the moment, we actually slip out of it a little. We start to observe it.
I've actually found I remember things better when I've been deeply invested in a moment. Rather than thinking about the context of that moment. It's really hard to do, but amazing when it happens.
I really loved Avignon. I think it epitomises the dichotomy between old and new quite perfectly. It is a charming, compact little town, surrounded by a Medieval wall. But within all of this ancient splendor, you have every chain store you like, wifi and uni students playing dance music.
Overall, I think France does the whole thing rather well. There is a lot of contrast here, which I love. And I think the French never hesitate to be French. They really do eat croissants for breakfast! But while you're getting your dose of the Old World, you're never disconnected from the New x
Friday 6 May 2011
Sunday 1 May 2011
French Twisties actually taste like cheese (and other observations)
Confession: I very nearly missed the train I'm on, which is currently speeding out of Paris. But who wants to sit around in train stations anyway? Three minutes is more than enough time to overpay a cabbie, grab your 47kg worth of luggage and haul arse to platform 21. Meh. Piece of cake.
Speaking of cake, I've been eating a lot of it lately. Well, more precisely: tarts, macarons, choc-chip brioche, pain au chocolat, croissants and pretty much anything that has a raspberry on it or in it. Or even near it is good.
All this has made me wonder how the French manage to stay so thin. My friend Bec and I discussed this online and agreed it's partly due to portion size. Which brings me to my point: as per previous blogs, it's all about savouring the moment. Although rich, there is also a delicacy to French food. It isn't actually so much about scoffing as about tasting. Every last bit.
Paris itself has a way of being utterly awesome in the most casual manner possible. An example of this was during a picnic I decided to throw for myself underneath the Eiffel Tower. There I was in front of the world's most-visited monument, delicious food spread out before me. Birds were singing, the sky was blue, the breeze was breezy and it was 25 degrees.
Just when I thought things couldnt be any more idyllic, a freaking LADYBIRD FLEW PAST ME. Seriously. She landed on the grass and I had her crawl onto my finger. If I wasn't sitting down I would have fallen over. Paris, you're killing me! And I just love you for it.
It's this casual elegance that really sums Paris up. It's not a city that wants anything out of you (unless you listen to beggars). It doesn't really care whether you like it or not, it's Paris. It can turn it on just as easily as it can shut you down.
One minute you're gagging at the stench of male urine in a Metro tunnel. The next you're standing in front of a view so beautiful it takes your breath away. It's a great place to just "be" in because you can never predict what will happen next. It was exactly what I needed.
And now for a word on the men of Paris. It's rather amusing how they operate. They don't crack onto you so much as they observe you. It is sort of like an appraisal. You strut past and they tell you what they think. I've had words thrown at me like "charmante", "mignon" and something about a chicken. Or sometimes it's just an extra-hearty "bonne soir" or "ça va" from a stranger on the street. Again, they don't want anything from you, they don't care how you respond to them. It's just their two cents.
Parisiens have a bit of a bad reputation. But so do Sydneysiders so we won't hold that against them. I like them. I think they're actually quite reserved and genteel. Away from the crowds, they're helpful, friendly, merry, charming, delightful.
Most of the grumpy ones are those who work at tourist sites. I'd be grumpy too if I had to put up with that. What is it about being in a tour group that turns people into vacuous zombies with no sense of direction, style, decency or humanity in general? The frenzied photo-taking in galleries alone is more than enough to make me wish I had a gun. Oh, that's a bit harsh. Maybe just a taser.
I will say some of the things you overhear when travelling are hilarious. The other day (the Eiffel Tower picnic day actually), I overheard a British teenager whining at her father. She was moaning, "Quick Dad, give me the keys to the car, so I can put the AC on!". Dad wasn't overly moved by her request; he was willing to tough it out. Panicking, the girl cried, "But it's SO HOT!".
For heaven's sake girl, it's 25 degrees! Get a grip! I mean, I still had leggings on; it was cool enough in the shade. Crazy poms.
Speaking of whom (like my segue?) I did catch a bit of the royal wedding today at the pub. The French aren't overly interested but the English pubs were full. I thought Kate looked beautiful and I hope it all goes well for them. Seeing her face as she looked out over Westminster Abbey made me feel for her though. For me, to live life under such scrutiny would be unbearable.
Once I'd had enough of it all, I left. Walking away, I definitely relished my anonymity, and most of all, my freedom. Being overseas alone is both thrilling and liberating. And I intend to keep making the most of it.
Oh - I nearly forgot about the Twisties. Yep. They actually taste like cheese. It's sort of... weird actually. They were home-brand ones from Carrefour, but still, someone had made the effort to put real cheese in 'em. Bless the French!
I'm in the Loire Valley for three nights; this post will be a few days old by the time it goes live I think. But better late than never. Au revoir mes petite puces x
Speaking of cake, I've been eating a lot of it lately. Well, more precisely: tarts, macarons, choc-chip brioche, pain au chocolat, croissants and pretty much anything that has a raspberry on it or in it. Or even near it is good.
All this has made me wonder how the French manage to stay so thin. My friend Bec and I discussed this online and agreed it's partly due to portion size. Which brings me to my point: as per previous blogs, it's all about savouring the moment. Although rich, there is also a delicacy to French food. It isn't actually so much about scoffing as about tasting. Every last bit.
Paris itself has a way of being utterly awesome in the most casual manner possible. An example of this was during a picnic I decided to throw for myself underneath the Eiffel Tower. There I was in front of the world's most-visited monument, delicious food spread out before me. Birds were singing, the sky was blue, the breeze was breezy and it was 25 degrees.
Just when I thought things couldnt be any more idyllic, a freaking LADYBIRD FLEW PAST ME. Seriously. She landed on the grass and I had her crawl onto my finger. If I wasn't sitting down I would have fallen over. Paris, you're killing me! And I just love you for it.
It's this casual elegance that really sums Paris up. It's not a city that wants anything out of you (unless you listen to beggars). It doesn't really care whether you like it or not, it's Paris. It can turn it on just as easily as it can shut you down.
One minute you're gagging at the stench of male urine in a Metro tunnel. The next you're standing in front of a view so beautiful it takes your breath away. It's a great place to just "be" in because you can never predict what will happen next. It was exactly what I needed.
And now for a word on the men of Paris. It's rather amusing how they operate. They don't crack onto you so much as they observe you. It is sort of like an appraisal. You strut past and they tell you what they think. I've had words thrown at me like "charmante", "mignon" and something about a chicken. Or sometimes it's just an extra-hearty "bonne soir" or "ça va" from a stranger on the street. Again, they don't want anything from you, they don't care how you respond to them. It's just their two cents.
Parisiens have a bit of a bad reputation. But so do Sydneysiders so we won't hold that against them. I like them. I think they're actually quite reserved and genteel. Away from the crowds, they're helpful, friendly, merry, charming, delightful.
Most of the grumpy ones are those who work at tourist sites. I'd be grumpy too if I had to put up with that. What is it about being in a tour group that turns people into vacuous zombies with no sense of direction, style, decency or humanity in general? The frenzied photo-taking in galleries alone is more than enough to make me wish I had a gun. Oh, that's a bit harsh. Maybe just a taser.
I will say some of the things you overhear when travelling are hilarious. The other day (the Eiffel Tower picnic day actually), I overheard a British teenager whining at her father. She was moaning, "Quick Dad, give me the keys to the car, so I can put the AC on!". Dad wasn't overly moved by her request; he was willing to tough it out. Panicking, the girl cried, "But it's SO HOT!".
For heaven's sake girl, it's 25 degrees! Get a grip! I mean, I still had leggings on; it was cool enough in the shade. Crazy poms.
Speaking of whom (like my segue?) I did catch a bit of the royal wedding today at the pub. The French aren't overly interested but the English pubs were full. I thought Kate looked beautiful and I hope it all goes well for them. Seeing her face as she looked out over Westminster Abbey made me feel for her though. For me, to live life under such scrutiny would be unbearable.
Once I'd had enough of it all, I left. Walking away, I definitely relished my anonymity, and most of all, my freedom. Being overseas alone is both thrilling and liberating. And I intend to keep making the most of it.
Oh - I nearly forgot about the Twisties. Yep. They actually taste like cheese. It's sort of... weird actually. They were home-brand ones from Carrefour, but still, someone had made the effort to put real cheese in 'em. Bless the French!
I'm in the Loire Valley for three nights; this post will be a few days old by the time it goes live I think. But better late than never. Au revoir mes petite puces x
Sunday 24 April 2011
Lente! Allez! Brave!
I think I need to rename my blog. "Vite" ("quick") was possibly a mistake. All week, I've done nothing but tell myself to slow down. I forgot how tiring traveling can be... and I was sick before so I'm not very fit. Instead of racing around town, I've been listening to my somewhat startled body and taking it easy.
And it has been divine. This is a holiday, after all. The idea is simply to live in the moment, and to cherish it. Most psychologists will tell you this is an excellent plan for happiness. They will also tell you that it is rather hard to do.
In Paris, it's an absolute pleasure. First you have to turn off your Sydney brain that tells you to hurry no matter how little you have on that day. Then you take a deep breath... and then you just meander down whatever avenue you're on... and see what's at the end of it. Sometimes it's a man selling raspberries. Sometimes it's la tour Eiffel.
It's funny how you actually have to tell yourself NOT to rush. And resting is a conscious decision too. Resting is GOOD. It means stopping to eat at gorgeous places. It means long stints in beautiful parks.
And once you slow down a bit, it runs deeper than just going through the motions. You savour each and every flake of pastry on your pain au chocolat. You notice the little girl in the park who stops her parents, picks up a stone, dusts it off, and puts it in her pocket.
In doing less, I am actually doing more. Rather than thinking about what I should have done earlier, or what I'm going to do next, I'm trying to think about what I'm doing now.
The French are pretty good at this. They turn their chairs and sit and look at their city. They eat ridiculous breakfasts that are far less about fast-breaking than the sheer pleasure of the morning. When the sun comes out, they flock to sit in it. Just sit. Not necessarily read, not check their BlackBerries or update Facebook, just sit. I tried this today myself. Being Australian, I was somewhat nervous... but the sun here is different. It's not as strong and it's tempered by the breeze. (Yes, Mum, I had sunscreen on.) It was insanely relaxing.
So overall I'm having a great time just soaking it all in. In terms of more active things, I've also revisited the Louvre, done d'Orsay, been to H&M three times, been to a flea market, seen the Eiffel tower (by night and day), the Arc de Triomphe and Notre Dame. Today I stumbled on a lovely square in the 6th with an amazing old church in it (St Sulpice).
I'm staying in the 15th now rather than Montmartre. This is a bit sad cos Montmartre was just so beautiful, and much more lively. It's a bit dead here and nowhere near as pretty. It has a bit of Berlin-type feel to it.
But the Metro is not far away and being here has led me to some fabulous local sites such as the antique book market I found yesterday. Also, there are less annoying tourists and the Parisians are much friendlier.
I do miss my little studio flat (apart from the whole toxic mould situation). It was definitely fun to live like a real French girl. My new room is tiny, very clean, newly renovated, largely without character (except for a pretty view into the neighbouring courtyard)... and has the world's smallest shower. Bear in mind people, that I just stayed in JAPAN and then a 30m square Parisian studio.
It's so small that doing anything other than standing upright under the water requires intense yogic movements and balance. Sometimes I have to leave the curtain open to avoid feelings of claustrophobia and general angst. When I stand with my back to the water, my nose is approximately two centimetres from the shower caddy. BUT, as I said, it's brand spanking new and entirely without fungal infestation.
My French is coming along well. I think being on my own helps with that... you end up chatting to people and taking linguistic risks you wouldn't bother with if you had a mate. I also totally get the whole "immersion" theory with languages. If you "must" speak a different language (and I'm not speaking a whole lotta English lately) it's like your brain gives it a higher priority or something.
Twelve years after I last learnt French, and ten years after my first trip here, I'm suddenly better at it than I was at school or uni. I have been revising with an iPhone app but still... it's pretty amazing what your mind can do in a new context.
I'm only talking about really basic stuff, but it's more than I've ever managed before. I went on a date with a French dude a few months ago and barely muttered two words to him in French. Now I can order my breakfast, haggle with flea market vendors and tell my cabbie where I live here and where I'm from.
My cabbie that brought me here (to the 15th) was pretty cool. I had a great moment driving through the middle of town. I asked him "what's that?" and he answered and told me that Napoleon was buried there. (It was the Hôtel des Invalides.) All in French, and I understood, and the sun was shining, and I was crazily, dizzily happy to be here : )
And that's it from me for now. Bonne nuit! x
P.S. My favourite TV show here is "Paris C'est Fou". I'm not too sure what it's about, other than Paris being fun and all, but the host is so pretty and I love her eye make-up.
And it has been divine. This is a holiday, after all. The idea is simply to live in the moment, and to cherish it. Most psychologists will tell you this is an excellent plan for happiness. They will also tell you that it is rather hard to do.
In Paris, it's an absolute pleasure. First you have to turn off your Sydney brain that tells you to hurry no matter how little you have on that day. Then you take a deep breath... and then you just meander down whatever avenue you're on... and see what's at the end of it. Sometimes it's a man selling raspberries. Sometimes it's la tour Eiffel.
It's funny how you actually have to tell yourself NOT to rush. And resting is a conscious decision too. Resting is GOOD. It means stopping to eat at gorgeous places. It means long stints in beautiful parks.
And once you slow down a bit, it runs deeper than just going through the motions. You savour each and every flake of pastry on your pain au chocolat. You notice the little girl in the park who stops her parents, picks up a stone, dusts it off, and puts it in her pocket.
In doing less, I am actually doing more. Rather than thinking about what I should have done earlier, or what I'm going to do next, I'm trying to think about what I'm doing now.
The French are pretty good at this. They turn their chairs and sit and look at their city. They eat ridiculous breakfasts that are far less about fast-breaking than the sheer pleasure of the morning. When the sun comes out, they flock to sit in it. Just sit. Not necessarily read, not check their BlackBerries or update Facebook, just sit. I tried this today myself. Being Australian, I was somewhat nervous... but the sun here is different. It's not as strong and it's tempered by the breeze. (Yes, Mum, I had sunscreen on.) It was insanely relaxing.
So overall I'm having a great time just soaking it all in. In terms of more active things, I've also revisited the Louvre, done d'Orsay, been to H&M three times, been to a flea market, seen the Eiffel tower (by night and day), the Arc de Triomphe and Notre Dame. Today I stumbled on a lovely square in the 6th with an amazing old church in it (St Sulpice).
I'm staying in the 15th now rather than Montmartre. This is a bit sad cos Montmartre was just so beautiful, and much more lively. It's a bit dead here and nowhere near as pretty. It has a bit of Berlin-type feel to it.
But the Metro is not far away and being here has led me to some fabulous local sites such as the antique book market I found yesterday. Also, there are less annoying tourists and the Parisians are much friendlier.
I do miss my little studio flat (apart from the whole toxic mould situation). It was definitely fun to live like a real French girl. My new room is tiny, very clean, newly renovated, largely without character (except for a pretty view into the neighbouring courtyard)... and has the world's smallest shower. Bear in mind people, that I just stayed in JAPAN and then a 30m square Parisian studio.
It's so small that doing anything other than standing upright under the water requires intense yogic movements and balance. Sometimes I have to leave the curtain open to avoid feelings of claustrophobia and general angst. When I stand with my back to the water, my nose is approximately two centimetres from the shower caddy. BUT, as I said, it's brand spanking new and entirely without fungal infestation.
My French is coming along well. I think being on my own helps with that... you end up chatting to people and taking linguistic risks you wouldn't bother with if you had a mate. I also totally get the whole "immersion" theory with languages. If you "must" speak a different language (and I'm not speaking a whole lotta English lately) it's like your brain gives it a higher priority or something.
Twelve years after I last learnt French, and ten years after my first trip here, I'm suddenly better at it than I was at school or uni. I have been revising with an iPhone app but still... it's pretty amazing what your mind can do in a new context.
I'm only talking about really basic stuff, but it's more than I've ever managed before. I went on a date with a French dude a few months ago and barely muttered two words to him in French. Now I can order my breakfast, haggle with flea market vendors and tell my cabbie where I live here and where I'm from.
My cabbie that brought me here (to the 15th) was pretty cool. I had a great moment driving through the middle of town. I asked him "what's that?" and he answered and told me that Napoleon was buried there. (It was the Hôtel des Invalides.) All in French, and I understood, and the sun was shining, and I was crazily, dizzily happy to be here : )
And that's it from me for now. Bonne nuit! x
P.S. My favourite TV show here is "Paris C'est Fou". I'm not too sure what it's about, other than Paris being fun and all, but the host is so pretty and I love her eye make-up.
Wednesday 20 April 2011
This isn't your hotel / Find the ninth box
I am in Paris! As I'm sure you're all quite aware due to my extensive Facebooking. Must be like I never left. Well, before you all block me from your newsfeeds, my next hotel does not have wifi so you may actually miss me next week ; )
So, me + Paris. My bodyclock is slowly adjusting and I am loving it here. I could spend months in this city and still not see it all.
I had another good flight and a lovely cabbie from the airport who was quite chatty and spoke slowly for me. We had a great old chat about Paris, boys, pickpockets and real estate prices in Sydney.
I got dropped off at the address that Expedia provided, only to be told that it was not in fact my hotel. Which made sense since I'm actually staying in a studio apartment this week. Damn you Expedia! Oh, and the key for my studio is at yet another hotel down the road. Grrrrr! With all my luggage with me, mysterious agonies in my stomach due to unfamiliar foods, and my body clock being set to well-past-midnight, I was SOMEWHAT unamused.
C'est la vie though, right? I hauled my bags down la rue and claimed my key and felt rather pleased with myself. A kind lady even asked me if I was lost. So far, so good. But then I arrive on Rue Constance and I'm about to lose my mind again.
I buzz through the street door but then my hard-earned key does not turn the second communal door. Moreover, there is no indication of which apartment is actually mine. None. What. So. Ever. There is only a panel of rather cryptic numeric information which makes no sense (and still doesn't).
Honestly, I could have cried. Instead, I decided I had to find a helpful resident and get them to assist me. I was NOT going to drag my luggage back down the street again.
But luckily, I was rescued. A lovely French girl came in from the street at the exact moment that my head (and possibly my stomach) was about to explode. She patiently showed me that you BUZZ the second door, and pointed out which apartment was mine. Ground floor - no steps. Woo hoo!
So I made it into my little home. Apart from a rancid miasma of black mould, it is adorable. Honestly... you don't notice the stench when you're in it. It just hits you when you open the door like some sort of fungal tsunami.
After I'd settled in I found a sign telling me I had free wifi, and the code was on the "neufbox". Hmm. Neuf means "nine". Thinking I was in some kind of thriller novel... (I finished reading 'The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo' on the plane. Oh, and about 20 mins after I finished it we flew over Uppsala and Stockholm, cool!)... I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what exactly this ninth box was (ok so I hadn't had much sleep). I was counting paintings and plants, everything.
Finally I re-read the sign and realised that "neufbox" is a brand of modem. Of course it is. The neufbox IS the modem, and it has a code on it, and it's under the bedside table in case anyone needs it. Phew! Et voila, mon blog!
In other news, my French lesson iPhone app is paying off and I'm having fun trying to converse with people. Generally, I do not understand what is being said to me but on the odd occasion that I do, I am absolutely stoked. Talking is easier. I have found that overthinking it and mumbling shyly doesn't work. It is better to just blurt it out. To my complete and utter astonishment, this seems to work 90% of the time. I got exactly what I asked for at breakfast today. That doesn't even happen in Sydney.
Something really cool happened today too. I was all ready to tackle the rather long line for the Musée d'Orsay in the heat. I'd been there for two minutes when a girl approached me and asked if I wanted to buy one of her tickets. She had three freebies as she was a student. I said, YES. I mean, OUI, and within about eight nanoseconds I was DANS la musée. Yay.
I loved the museum; I saw Van Gogh, Degas, Monet, Cézanne and Renoir. It wasn't too crowded either so you had time to really see each painting. I bought one of the catalogue books after and read it in the park. It was interesting to learn that when painters like Manet and Courbet started to paint 'real' looking nudes with normal skin and dimples and cellulite, it was highly controversial. Critics wanted smooth, pearly, glowing bodies (think Boticelli).
I've always found it interesting to see what is considered as ideal in women throughout time; I'd never known this subtelty before. I thought all pale naked ladies were kinda cool (cos sometimes I'm a pale naked lady too). It seems that the concept of airbrushing has been around for quite a while! And the ideal female body type has long been a controversial topic.
Why is it that we so rarely see these depictions / images / arguments re: men? You don't usually see a painting of a nude male sprawling on the lawn covered in cherubs / flowers / long hair / other men. What's up with that? As I said, I'm all for pale naked ladies but it seems there is a fine line between glorification and objectification.
And on that far-too-serious note, I am going to bed. Bonne nuit mes amies x
So, me + Paris. My bodyclock is slowly adjusting and I am loving it here. I could spend months in this city and still not see it all.
I had another good flight and a lovely cabbie from the airport who was quite chatty and spoke slowly for me. We had a great old chat about Paris, boys, pickpockets and real estate prices in Sydney.
I got dropped off at the address that Expedia provided, only to be told that it was not in fact my hotel. Which made sense since I'm actually staying in a studio apartment this week. Damn you Expedia! Oh, and the key for my studio is at yet another hotel down the road. Grrrrr! With all my luggage with me, mysterious agonies in my stomach due to unfamiliar foods, and my body clock being set to well-past-midnight, I was SOMEWHAT unamused.
C'est la vie though, right? I hauled my bags down la rue and claimed my key and felt rather pleased with myself. A kind lady even asked me if I was lost. So far, so good. But then I arrive on Rue Constance and I'm about to lose my mind again.
I buzz through the street door but then my hard-earned key does not turn the second communal door. Moreover, there is no indication of which apartment is actually mine. None. What. So. Ever. There is only a panel of rather cryptic numeric information which makes no sense (and still doesn't).
Honestly, I could have cried. Instead, I decided I had to find a helpful resident and get them to assist me. I was NOT going to drag my luggage back down the street again.
But luckily, I was rescued. A lovely French girl came in from the street at the exact moment that my head (and possibly my stomach) was about to explode. She patiently showed me that you BUZZ the second door, and pointed out which apartment was mine. Ground floor - no steps. Woo hoo!
So I made it into my little home. Apart from a rancid miasma of black mould, it is adorable. Honestly... you don't notice the stench when you're in it. It just hits you when you open the door like some sort of fungal tsunami.
After I'd settled in I found a sign telling me I had free wifi, and the code was on the "neufbox". Hmm. Neuf means "nine". Thinking I was in some kind of thriller novel... (I finished reading 'The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo' on the plane. Oh, and about 20 mins after I finished it we flew over Uppsala and Stockholm, cool!)... I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what exactly this ninth box was (ok so I hadn't had much sleep). I was counting paintings and plants, everything.
Finally I re-read the sign and realised that "neufbox" is a brand of modem. Of course it is. The neufbox IS the modem, and it has a code on it, and it's under the bedside table in case anyone needs it. Phew! Et voila, mon blog!
In other news, my French lesson iPhone app is paying off and I'm having fun trying to converse with people. Generally, I do not understand what is being said to me but on the odd occasion that I do, I am absolutely stoked. Talking is easier. I have found that overthinking it and mumbling shyly doesn't work. It is better to just blurt it out. To my complete and utter astonishment, this seems to work 90% of the time. I got exactly what I asked for at breakfast today. That doesn't even happen in Sydney.
Something really cool happened today too. I was all ready to tackle the rather long line for the Musée d'Orsay in the heat. I'd been there for two minutes when a girl approached me and asked if I wanted to buy one of her tickets. She had three freebies as she was a student. I said, YES. I mean, OUI, and within about eight nanoseconds I was DANS la musée. Yay.
I loved the museum; I saw Van Gogh, Degas, Monet, Cézanne and Renoir. It wasn't too crowded either so you had time to really see each painting. I bought one of the catalogue books after and read it in the park. It was interesting to learn that when painters like Manet and Courbet started to paint 'real' looking nudes with normal skin and dimples and cellulite, it was highly controversial. Critics wanted smooth, pearly, glowing bodies (think Boticelli).
I've always found it interesting to see what is considered as ideal in women throughout time; I'd never known this subtelty before. I thought all pale naked ladies were kinda cool (cos sometimes I'm a pale naked lady too). It seems that the concept of airbrushing has been around for quite a while! And the ideal female body type has long been a controversial topic.
Why is it that we so rarely see these depictions / images / arguments re: men? You don't usually see a painting of a nude male sprawling on the lawn covered in cherubs / flowers / long hair / other men. What's up with that? As I said, I'm all for pale naked ladies but it seems there is a fine line between glorification and objectification.
And on that far-too-serious note, I am going to bed. Bonne nuit mes amies x
Monday 18 April 2011
Mission: lemon cheesecake Kit Kat
Daniel only asked me for one thing from this trip: a lemon cheesecake flavoured Kit Kat from Japan. I was like, really? (1) they exist? (2) that's all you want? He said I'd get one from the 7 Eleven, which would be nearby. I told him not to get too excited since I was going to be staying in the middle of nowhere (the airport hotel). Thanks to the wonders of Wikipedia and Google Maps respectively, I learnt that he was correct on both counts. They do exist and I was in fact staying next door to a 7 Eleven.
So the very first thing I did after checking in here was to set off for the Quik-e-Mart. Which I promptly found, even though a lot of its lights were off (power shortages I guess). But that is where my luck ended. Not a Kit Kat in sight! I tried the next Quik-e-Mart on the block and managed to scrounge up a couple. I think one is crème brûlée flavoured. I'm really not sure. Sorry D.
I did get some awesome slash 'interesting' treats myself though. These included a banana sealed in a plastic bag (in case he escapes to Australia in order to double his net value), peach and mint flavoured gum and black cotton tips. Yeah. Those things you clean your ears with. In black. Should I save them for when I have been listening to emo music?
I have had a few other Japanese experiences. Let's use bullets; I'm tired.
- Managed to see and smell some cherry blossoms.
- Am wearing a kimono as we speak.
- Got into a lift full of Japanese schoolgirls in matching uniforms who all agreed I was, "totemo kirei desu". Thanks girls!
- Had dinner at the Japanese equivalent of a roadside diner. Got a few looks. Managed to spill rice everywhere. V graceful.
- Green tea, hot or cold, is the best drink ever on a plane trip.
While I'm on that note, I think my flight was maybe the best ever...? I had a whole row to myself, the food was nice, the plane was new, the flighties were LOVELY. Like, old school air hostesses with beautiful make-up and perfect hair. I told one I was hungry and within three seconds I had a tray in front of me with a warm bread roll, Lurpak butter and a Tim Tam, of all things. Hooray! I love JAL.
So that's about it from me. Hopefully I can find some WiFi and post this tomorrow. Sorry for spelling mistakes. I'm on my phone and it's set to French so spellcheck is turned off.
Speaking of French... every time I try to think of how to say something in Japanese my brain comes back with the phrase in French instead. Which bodes well for tomorrow onwards but it has been a bit frustrating today. I did Japanese for three or four years at school and all I can manage is an enthusiastic yet largely moronic "doomo arigato" every three minutes. Oh well. Pas de quoi. Thanks brain... you'd better be this fluent demain.
Luv me x
Wait... it's Sunday night... why were those girls in school uniforms??!
So the very first thing I did after checking in here was to set off for the Quik-e-Mart. Which I promptly found, even though a lot of its lights were off (power shortages I guess). But that is where my luck ended. Not a Kit Kat in sight! I tried the next Quik-e-Mart on the block and managed to scrounge up a couple. I think one is crème brûlée flavoured. I'm really not sure. Sorry D.
I did get some awesome slash 'interesting' treats myself though. These included a banana sealed in a plastic bag (in case he escapes to Australia in order to double his net value), peach and mint flavoured gum and black cotton tips. Yeah. Those things you clean your ears with. In black. Should I save them for when I have been listening to emo music?
I have had a few other Japanese experiences. Let's use bullets; I'm tired.
- Managed to see and smell some cherry blossoms.
- Am wearing a kimono as we speak.
- Got into a lift full of Japanese schoolgirls in matching uniforms who all agreed I was, "totemo kirei desu". Thanks girls!
- Had dinner at the Japanese equivalent of a roadside diner. Got a few looks. Managed to spill rice everywhere. V graceful.
- Green tea, hot or cold, is the best drink ever on a plane trip.
While I'm on that note, I think my flight was maybe the best ever...? I had a whole row to myself, the food was nice, the plane was new, the flighties were LOVELY. Like, old school air hostesses with beautiful make-up and perfect hair. I told one I was hungry and within three seconds I had a tray in front of me with a warm bread roll, Lurpak butter and a Tim Tam, of all things. Hooray! I love JAL.
So that's about it from me. Hopefully I can find some WiFi and post this tomorrow. Sorry for spelling mistakes. I'm on my phone and it's set to French so spellcheck is turned off.
Speaking of French... every time I try to think of how to say something in Japanese my brain comes back with the phrase in French instead. Which bodes well for tomorrow onwards but it has been a bit frustrating today. I did Japanese for three or four years at school and all I can manage is an enthusiastic yet largely moronic "doomo arigato" every three minutes. Oh well. Pas de quoi. Thanks brain... you'd better be this fluent demain.
Luv me x
Wait... it's Sunday night... why were those girls in school uniforms??!
Saturday 16 April 2011
So I'm off and stuff
Hello. I don't have much to say other than I'm off early tomorrow morning. I'm now only spending one night in Japan and then going straight on to Paris. Am v excited and am all packed and ready to go. I hope I can update this while I'm away; I downloaded an app that lets me log into Blogger. So far it has proved fairly useless but perhaps it'll start working for me. If not there, are always internet cafes.
x
x
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Note to self: you’re married.
I realised last night that I forgot to mention the most important lesson of all. It’s this: don’t tell people you are on your own, you silly girl. In my normal life I tend to attract wildly inappropriate men. This includes taxi drivers, 25-year-olds, the unhappily partnered and the homeless. (Clearly, some of these are more salubrious than others.) I found on holidays that this wasn’t any different. Apart from my encounter with the overly-eager welcome dude, I also had numerous inquiries from taxi drivers and resort staff as to my status. Initially these went something like this:
Wildly inappropriate man: Do you have a husband?
Stupidly accurate over-sharing me: Oh no, I’m here on my own.
Eventually, the penny dropped. Telling people that I am alone is a BAD IDEA. For some reason, men seem to take this as a signal that you are therefore eager to be acquired in some manner. I had one cabbie ask if I’ve move to Vanuatu
The other issue to do with this is that people tend to vastly underestimate my age / intellect / earning capacity / general worth as a person. This is not ideal when one is trying to appear as a Fiercely Independent Slash Totally Competent Female Traveller Who Shall Be Taken Very Seriously Indeed. Rah! Case in point: in Vanuatu
I think for the purposes of my next trip I need to invent an imaginary husband. One who is lurking conveniently around the nearest corner, wherever I may be. I will be perpetually on the cusp of meeting this fine and phantasmagorical fellow. How tremendously exciting!
In my mind, I’ll use my dear friend Daniel as the model for this phantom spouse. That way, I can answer questions about him readily. For instance:
Hypothetical wildly inappropriate man: What colour eyes does your husband have?
Happily married me: Blue.
Hypothetical wildly inappropriate man: What kind of music does your husband like?
Happily married me: Muse is one of his favourite bands.
Hypothetical wildly inappropriate man: Which flavour of Twisties does he prefer, chicken or cheese?
Happily married me: Neither. Daniel enjoys Twisties Zig Zags best of all. As do I. It’s a match made in heaven really. *Contented sigh*
All I need to do now is try to remember the word for ‘husband’ in French. Wish me luck kids x
Monday 14 March 2011
What exactly am I doing?
Ok so. I’ve decided to start a bit of a blog because last time I travelled I had a whole lot of interesting thoughts in my head, and none of them actually made it out of there (my head, that is). Also, when travelling on your own, it’s especially good to have somewhere to deposit such thoughts.
So what’s with the blog name? Well. I’m reading Eat Pray Love at the moment. Of course I am, I’m a single 30-something woman about to head off on a solo journey of self-discovery. If you pronounce the words in French, they actually (kinda) rhyme with Eat Pray Love. (Yeah ok, I’m trying to be clever. And to brush up on my French whilst blogging. Two birds, one stone right? Or should I say, deux oiseaux, une… what’s the French word for stone? Ok, I digress…).
Vite, allez and brave translate as “quick, go and brave”. I’m going to take some liberties here and paraphrase this into something slightly more meaningful. I’ve always liked the word “vite,” (veet) ever since Miss Smith used to yell it at us in class when we were dawdling. It’s snappy and crisp and conveys urgency.
“Allez” (al-lay) is equally upbeat and forward-moving (plus it totally rhymes with ‘pray’). “Brave,” (braaaa-ve) of course, simply means “brave”. Courage is one of my values and also something that’s required for solo voyages. So my (somewhat loose) interpretation of this phrase is to say, go forth bravely, and do it now! There’s no time like the present.
“Allez” (al-lay) is equally upbeat and forward-moving (plus it totally rhymes with ‘pray’). “Brave,” (braaaa-ve) of course, simply means “brave”. Courage is one of my values and also something that’s required for solo voyages. So my (somewhat loose) interpretation of this phrase is to say, go forth bravely, and do it now! There’s no time like the present.
Where am I going?
I am going to Japan and France Japan Tokyo
Then it’s off toParis Loire Valley London , I shall board an early morning train to Lyon, followed by Avignon , Aix-en-Provence
Then it’s off to
I chose France Paris Versailles
I chose to go via Japan Singapore and Hong Kong before, I thought it would make a more interesting stopover. I did Japanese for about four years at school as well, not that you’d know it by my very limited vocabulary right now.
Where have I been?
I had a bit of a trial-run at travelling solo back in January. I learnt a lot on that trip so I think now would be a good time to review some of these points (and finally get them out of my head). Prior to this, I had not travelled on my own, and had not, in fact, travelled for a couple of years so the lessons learned were rather vital. Here we go:
1) It’s hard to pee when you have your luggage with you
Urination must be carefully planned at the best of times when travelling. When you’re on your own and burdened with half your bodyweight in luggage, it’s virtually impossible. Just something to factor in before airport stops. And when you’re slurping away at that seemingly innocuous looking bottle of water.
2) You need a pen to fill in those green card thingies
Seems obvious, doesn’t it? But there I was in the Air Pacific line sans stylo. Quel dommage! Not one of my brighter moments but quickly amended thanks to the Newsagency nearby. C’est facile.
3) It is excessively boring waiting in line for customs on your own but you can’t use that as an excuse for using your phone as it’s banned and you should actually pay attention to the signs on the walls because nobody else is going to do that for you
Patience is a virtue. One that I’m still cultivating. I’d forgotten quite how onerous the travel part of travelling actually is. For my next trip, I really need to be prepared to approach these arduous times with calm resolve. Perhaps I can meditate my way through various borders?
Or perhaps not. My tendency to tune out is why I got told off for using my phone in the first place. Well, what on earth am I supposed to do mister? This line is going to take at least fifteen minutes. Dear god. The Gen Y in me recoils in horror at the notion of such stretches of unoccupied time.
Or perhaps not. My tendency to tune out is why I got told off for using my phone in the first place. Well, what on earth am I supposed to do mister? This line is going to take at least fifteen minutes. Dear god. The Gen Y in me recoils in horror at the notion of such stretches of unoccupied time.
4) Everyone wants what they can’t have
I met this one family at the resort, the mother of which saw me as some sort of reincarnation of her own past life. She wistfully told me how she too once travelled alone, but now her husband “won’t let her”. I’m sure she didn’t really want to trade in her kids and spouse so that she could go tearing off on her own to tropical islands, but it did make me think. I may envy some people their family life (probably not actually anyone in that resort though as they were a rather uninspiring lot), but they in turn may envy my freedom. Whatever your situation, it’s important to make the most of things.
5) Groups of Australians from cruise ships are an army of bogans
There were about nine million or so Australians who’d docked in Port Vila the day I went into town. OMG. The hair plaits. The pink lycra. The ill-fitting footwear. I’ve never seen anything like this sprout-headed, be-spandexed, ill-shod lot. And then they opened their mouths. Egads!
It was even worse than the time when I stood in the middle of Tiananmen Square ten years ago and heard an Australian tourist yell, “move your head, you drongo,” so that she could include Chairman Mao’s venerable visage in her frame. And that was certainly cause enough for alarm. I’m sorry to say that in Port Vila, I switched from English into French. And no, I am absolutely not from the cruise ship, thank you very much.
There were about nine million or so Australians who’d docked in Port Vila the day I went into town. OMG. The hair plaits. The pink lycra. The ill-fitting footwear. I’ve never seen anything like this sprout-headed, be-spandexed, ill-shod lot. And then they opened their mouths. Egads!
It was even worse than the time when I stood in the middle of Tiananmen Square ten years ago and heard an Australian tourist yell, “move your head, you drongo,” so that she could include Chairman Mao’s venerable visage in her frame. And that was certainly cause enough for alarm. I’m sorry to say that in Port Vila, I switched from English into French. And no, I am absolutely not from the cruise ship, thank you very much.
6) You can do anything and everything on your own
I had a bit of a rocky start in Vanuatu
Which I did. By the end of my trip I was eating, snorkelling, swimming, taking photos and generally doing exactly what I liked, on my own. I never saw my grass-clad friend again either, although I was informed by a reliable source that he was part of a group of bored guests who’d decided to form a somewhat alarming sort of impromptu greeting party. Good for him. It’s funny now.
Which I did. By the end of my trip I was eating, snorkelling, swimming, taking photos and generally doing exactly what I liked, on my own. I never saw my grass-clad friend again either, although I was informed by a reliable source that he was part of a group of bored guests who’d decided to form a somewhat alarming sort of impromptu greeting party. Good for him. It’s funny now.
So that’s where I’m up to at the moment. I’ll update this once I’m a bit closer to actually leaving (I still have a month). My train tickets arrived in the mail yesterday and my hotels are all booked so things are finally starting to feel real. Hooray.
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