With the crowd that populated the room as it darkened, it would have been easy to think someone had just urinated on a fuse box. This theory was quickly dashed when they immediately went silent, as if in some kind of Pavlov Dog response cultivated by weeks of attendance, and it was obvious something was about to happen. That something was a regular-sized man tearing out onto the stage on a Scott-sized motorcycle.
'Hellllooooooo, Church!' The greeting bounced around the room, a voice that sounded as though it was struggling its way out of a maze of senility and alcoholism. I don't know who this man was supposed to be, nor am I sure if anyone else did, but the fact that he was on stage and wielding a microphone seemed enough for them.
For the next fifteen minutes, the crowd was entertained by the mystery man yelling “Do we have any (insert nationality) here!?!' followed by the collective delayed cheering of a bunch of drunks realising that, holy crap, they were that nationality, and this man was acknowledging it. How awesome!
Not content with that, and obviously having been storing them up since his own family stopped inviting him to Christmas dinner after causing one too many scenes, Mystery Stage Man launched into a series of shop-worn jokes that have been kicking around since 1974. There was the typical 'New Zealanders have sex with sheep' variety, and really, the rest mostly consisted of him referring to a country, then going 'What a bunch of fuuuckwits!', leaving the crowd endlessly amused – not exactly a difficult task – and me entertaining the thought of sticking my head into the plastic bag that was currently occupied by cans of drink.
After finishing his...well, let's be generous and call it a performance, with some sort of repetitive drinking song that would take up residence in my head for several days to follow, one could only begin to wonder what sort of act could follow. Thankfully the wondering was short lived, because the baited breath I was waiting with couldn't hold out for long. Mystery Stage Man decided it was time he introduced, and thus confirmed, the one part of the Church myth that I was sceptical about. The one thing that completed its descent into outright seediness.
Oh yes, it was time for the stripper. And I warn anyone with a fragile constitution to turn away now and save yourself, because from here on in things get a little unsavoury.
The first thing you noticed when she – and I'm going to dub her Brandy, as I can't remember her name – made her way onstage was her age, which ranged from being anywhere between 40 and a member of the undead. With a face and boobs that spent their time comparing which had underwent more cosmetic surgery and skin that shared an uncanny similarity to leather, there was the faintest evidence showing that this woman may have actually been attractive once upon a time. It was just a shame that time was before calendars existed.
Inviting a man who appeared to be a more flamboyant member of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on stage, she began her performance, dancing and bending in a fashion that made her skin crease like a Mad Magazine fold-in. After taking his glasses, putting them down the front of her g-string and generally doing things with them I'm sure his optometrist hadn't intended, she sat the man down, where he – I'm sure living out a lifelong dream – got to serve as her human pommel horse. As she writhed and flipped over him, legs wrapped around his face and head resting on his crotch, I was very thankful for standing as far away from the stage as I was, yet still wishing I'd had more to drink. I exchanged glances with Brendan and Laureen to confirm that this was actually happening. Their eyes were begging the exact same questions I was.
With the stage strip spectacular ending in what I call Car Crash Nudity, in that I didn't want to look yet couldn't turn away, I turned to my only option to shake what I had just witnessed. It was time to funk.
Yet The Church was not going to be so generous to me just yet, with the Mystery Stage Man – having managed to not yet succumbed to the heart attack he looked constantly on the verge of having – returning to host a drinking competition, a group of New Zealander guys dressed as fairies emerging victorious.
Then it was revealed that Mystery Stage Man had a 'special guest' who just wanted to say a few words. It turned out he was referring to the guy standing to his left, drunk and dressed as a Dalmatian. I guessed he appeared special in a particular sense of the word.
The Drunk Dalmatian wasted no time, immediately addressing his girlfriend, 'I just wanted to say that I love you and–'
I took a drink. I blinked. I blinked again. Suddenly I realised what was about to happen.
No way. No. Fucking. Way. He was going to propose.
I turned to Laureen and shared my realisation. She stared at me, her eyes opening wide in a futile attempt to capture all the madness that was about to unfold.
'No! No, he wouldn't!' Considering he was on stage, drunk and dressed as a dog, I felt Laureen was being far too generous with her disbelief.
He called her on stage, he got down on one wobbly knee and with complete disregard for the story they may one day tell their grandchildren, he asked her to marry him.
She cried, the crowd cheered, Mystery Stage Man rambled something incomprehensible into the microphone and I tried to wrap my head around what I had just witnessed. My head didn't have that much give. Preceded by the stripper equivalent of one of the Golden Girls and moderated by a prime case for an intervention, there was no possible way this proposal could have been more ridiculous.
Turns out I was wrong.
After spending an extended period of time trying to devour each other's faces at the side of the stage while several drunken people fell over on stage attempting to step over a stick – part of a competition – they happy couple made their way into the crowd. Pats on the back and enthusiastic hugs from strangers overcome by the emotion, not to mention a bathtub's worth of beer, ensued. I congratulated them as they passed, having now had enough to drink to make my faux politeness seem almost sincere. Laureen took up the typical female line of questioning and asked the blushing bride-to-be to show off her ring.
'Oh, I don't have one yet.' She showed the ring finger, adorned with nothing but spilt alcohol.
Holy shit. This was almost too good to be true. He had not planned this whatsoever. He had put more thought into hiring his Dalmatian costume than he had his proposal. It was a decision fuelled by drunken logic and several plastic bags’ worth of canned beer.
At this point, with a mouthful of drink, it took every ounce of self control I had to not do a spit take. I turned away and prayed they moved along quickly, because I was waging a losing battle with my desperate need to burst out laughing. Then, as if to punctuate the romance of the moment, Brandy, the stripper made of cow hide, returned to the stage.
This was unexpected and unplanned for. While I'd had more to drink by this point, I'd also moved much closer to the stage. Such proximity did my eyesight no favours, with the leather of her skin looking like it had been left out in the rain too long and the creases in it slowly eroding into crevices.
Proving that she was an equal opportunist, this time Brandy dragged herself up a female from the crowd, sat her down and began to divide her time between dancing around the girl and fondling her in a way that in any other situation would have ended in a lengthy prison sentence. In the back of my mind I began planning what I'd wear to court if I was later called as a witness.
After leading the girl off stage, having left her with a series of mental scars and a delightful story to tell her parents as they shipped her off the therapy, Brandy invited another male on stage. It was soon to become glaringly apparent that she must have specified that his dignity wasn't welcome.
I was now growing increasingly suspicious that this stripper possessed some sort of mind control powers, because within minutes she had this guy lying on his back on stage, handcuffed, stripped to his underwear and wearing a gimp mask. She sat on his face; I became very grateful for not having eaten much that day.
But this was just the beginning of the systematic breaking down of any self respect this man may have claimed to once have, the existence of which having already been called into doubt as serious as the case of STDs he was soon sure to contract. Now having tired of using his face as a cushion, Brandy brought him to his feet, shuffled him – his pants were around his ankles – over to the chair that I was beginning to feel very sorry for and bent him over it. Lighting up a cigarette, she took a few drags before pulling down the man's underpants, gifting the crowd with a faceful of hairy ass, and placed the cigarette between his cheeks. A perfect anti-smoking campaign if ever I'd seen one. Then – because why stop there? - she proceeded to pull his underpants back up and let a hole be burnt through the back of them. Poor underpants, they never signed up for any of this.
Because it was readily apparent that everyone was now ready for dessert, Brandy produced a can of whipped cream. I was not sure exactly where she pulled it from and was doing my best not to dwell on the puzzle, fearing any solution I may come to. Stretching open the back of the man's underpants – as if they hadn't suffered enough – she began spraying whipped cream into them, proving she had a limited future in the catering business. Then, as the grand finale of one man's shame, she pressed on his ass and we all watched as the cream began to snake its way out of the hole left by the cigarette; a tiny, creamy worm making its break for freedom. Meanwhile, I was rapidly feeling the onset of lactose intolerance.
Done with the man and leaving him shamble his way off stage, as I hoped that he had a girlfriend he had to go home and explain an ass full of whipped cream to, it was time for Brandy to finish off her own performance. Tearing off what little clothing she was left wearing – literally tearing, it looked uncomfortable – she took a handful of whipped cream and slapped it between her legs with such force that you would be able to subsequently churn butter in her uterus. And with a bow and what I'm sure was the beginnings of some kind of infection, she was gone.
Looking around at Laureen, Brendan and Rob – he'd appeared at some stage – it was clear that none of us could quite comprehend everything we'd just witnessed. My thoughts were coming out as nothing more than babbled syllables and my mind was taking a time out due to an overload of madness. Sensing it was time to step in, my body took charge, leading me into and episode of funk now that the normal music had resumed.
I let my legs take the funky lead until the music stopped, informing us it was time to go. We hung back, waiting for the more intoxicated patrons to shuffle out, amused by the number that fell over attempting to navigate the obstacle course of empty cans and bottles that littered the floor.
That had been The Church. I couldn't figure out if my expectations had been met, or beaten into submission with a plastic bag full of Fosters cans. Nor could I be sure if I had just enjoyed myself or not. All I could safely say was that I had been entertained, and, as I said, it was an experience. If somewhat of a harrowing one.
Something told me I'd be back one day.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Religious Experience, Part One
We interrupt this coverage of France to chronicle an event which simply won't allow me to type any further without detailing. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my experience at The Church.
And “experience” is certainly the only proper way for me to categorise it. Not traumatic, not necessarily enjoyable and absolutely mind boggling, The Church is a beast unto itself, a product seemingly born out of the collective drunken mind power of the race of backpackers that Flood the London streets.
We'd heard rumours of not so much a bar, but a weekly event. Nothing but a figment during the week, something spoken of as if the hazy recollection people have of it was only a hallucination, The Church only shows itself in reality for four hours on a Sunday afternoon. From midday to 4:00pm, the story was that the inside of a former church – in what may well have been an attempt to see what happened when you combined blasphemy with sacrilege – was turned into a hovel of drunkenness, debauchery and dereliction. Where drinks had to be purchased in numbers of three - bartenders generous enough to provide patrons with -plastic bags to carry them in – people dressed in costume for no good reason and the floor was covered in hay.
In other words, it was something we had to witness for ourselves.
Dragging myself out of bed far too early Sunday morning for a man who had only befriended his mattress at 4:00am that same morning, my mind and body questioned what they had to make me hate them so much. In the hallway, Laureen and Brendan shambled past me in the manner of people defeated by their own morbid curiosity. All we could do was dedicate ourselves to the self-deception that we were doing this as some kind of social experiment.
Sitting on the Tube as it rocked me back and forth to ensure I didn't forget that I was hungover, I stared at the coffee in my hand, wishing it was at least ten times stronger and possibly made from Speed. My mind was spinning with ideas of what exactly I was to expect from this place. Though, admittedly, that may not have been the only reason for the spinning.
At any other time, disembarking a train to be greeted by the sight of a number of loud, obnoxious, costumed and drunken – impressively so, considering it was only 11:30 in the morning – would be cause to retreat back onto the train and ride it straight back into the world of self respect. Fortunately, this morning, like most others, I hadn't been burdened with such minor things as dignity, so all it meant was that we were heading in the right direction. And considering we'd arrived sporting a healthy lack of ideas in regard to where we were supposed to go, having people to follow came as somewhat of a relief, assuming they didn't decide to pass out in traffic on the way.
As we saw the line snaking around the building, it became hard to deny – not to mention far too late – that this was our destination, despite the depressing things it suggested about humanity. Scanning my eyes across its foundations, the building seemed to be doing its best to deny any knowledge that it was once a church, trying to avoid the shame that I had no sense of whatsoever. Nowadays it was disguising itself as a theatre, a venue for concerts and other stage shows during the week.
Finding ourselves at the back of a line that was longer than it had any right to rationally be, working itself around several corners and decorated with empty beer cans and morons, I engaged in the fool's errand of convincing myself I was much better than these people, despite the fact that I was following them into this black hole of a building. The results I achieved were less than spectacular.
Finally, a deep breath and in we went, my mind accompanied by the last fleeting thought that maybe I should have had all my shots before leaving Australia.
Would you look at that, I'd walked into the Twisted Arm megastore. I'd walked into a sea of multinational boganism, although from what I could gather it was primarily dominated by Australians. It was disturbingly familiar. But the Kiwis, South Africans and the vastly outnumbered nations of the UK were all making a show, drinking until they were all speaking one universal language – the intoxicated slur. And the rumoured plastic bags were making no attempt to conceal themselves, dangling from the wrists and belts of every other person, a small family of cider or beer cans contained within.
Disappointingly, one of the first things I had noticed – and I'd consulted the soles of my shoes to ensure I wasn't mistaken – was that the floor was completely devoid of hay. I ventured a guess that it was to avoid having the place likened to somewhat of a retard farm. I still made the comparison.
In the centre of the room, on the large expanse of floor that found its home in front of the stage, there was a sea of bodies. Some were dancing, some were swaying unsteadily and trying to pass it off as a dance, and some had abandoned the concept of rhythm altogether, instead choosing to jump up and down and yell at the ceiling. All manner of costumes peppered this sweaty, possibly syphilitic ocean – pirates, nurses, Indians, police, Ghostbusters, Jokers, gladiators – with a large number of them able to be prefaced with the adjectives 'douchebag' or 'slutty'. A video camera swept across the crowd, the images captured projected onto large monitors on the wall and proving that the one way to turn an idiot into an even bigger idiot is to put them on a screen. The camera also spent a lot of its leisure time zooming in on girls' boobs, as they turned away under the unconvincing guise of coy embarrassment, which, when taking into account they were armed with enough cleavage to demand your attention under threat of suffocation, seemed a little contradictory. As did the fact that the body behind the camera also belonged to a female.
Now sporting our own bag of canned booze – after all, if we were doing The Church, we were doing it right, regardless of the opinions of our stomachs, heads and livers – we stood and spectated the crowd. And for a good while, apart from it seeming like the womb from which every dodgy bogan pub I had been to was spawned, there seemed nothing special to the place. All these expectations of horrified awe had gone unfounded.
But then, with the dimming of lights and the revving of a small motorcycle engine, everything began to change.
To be continued...
And “experience” is certainly the only proper way for me to categorise it. Not traumatic, not necessarily enjoyable and absolutely mind boggling, The Church is a beast unto itself, a product seemingly born out of the collective drunken mind power of the race of backpackers that Flood the London streets.
We'd heard rumours of not so much a bar, but a weekly event. Nothing but a figment during the week, something spoken of as if the hazy recollection people have of it was only a hallucination, The Church only shows itself in reality for four hours on a Sunday afternoon. From midday to 4:00pm, the story was that the inside of a former church – in what may well have been an attempt to see what happened when you combined blasphemy with sacrilege – was turned into a hovel of drunkenness, debauchery and dereliction. Where drinks had to be purchased in numbers of three - bartenders generous enough to provide patrons with -plastic bags to carry them in – people dressed in costume for no good reason and the floor was covered in hay.
In other words, it was something we had to witness for ourselves.
Dragging myself out of bed far too early Sunday morning for a man who had only befriended his mattress at 4:00am that same morning, my mind and body questioned what they had to make me hate them so much. In the hallway, Laureen and Brendan shambled past me in the manner of people defeated by their own morbid curiosity. All we could do was dedicate ourselves to the self-deception that we were doing this as some kind of social experiment.
Sitting on the Tube as it rocked me back and forth to ensure I didn't forget that I was hungover, I stared at the coffee in my hand, wishing it was at least ten times stronger and possibly made from Speed. My mind was spinning with ideas of what exactly I was to expect from this place. Though, admittedly, that may not have been the only reason for the spinning.
At any other time, disembarking a train to be greeted by the sight of a number of loud, obnoxious, costumed and drunken – impressively so, considering it was only 11:30 in the morning – would be cause to retreat back onto the train and ride it straight back into the world of self respect. Fortunately, this morning, like most others, I hadn't been burdened with such minor things as dignity, so all it meant was that we were heading in the right direction. And considering we'd arrived sporting a healthy lack of ideas in regard to where we were supposed to go, having people to follow came as somewhat of a relief, assuming they didn't decide to pass out in traffic on the way.
As we saw the line snaking around the building, it became hard to deny – not to mention far too late – that this was our destination, despite the depressing things it suggested about humanity. Scanning my eyes across its foundations, the building seemed to be doing its best to deny any knowledge that it was once a church, trying to avoid the shame that I had no sense of whatsoever. Nowadays it was disguising itself as a theatre, a venue for concerts and other stage shows during the week.
Finding ourselves at the back of a line that was longer than it had any right to rationally be, working itself around several corners and decorated with empty beer cans and morons, I engaged in the fool's errand of convincing myself I was much better than these people, despite the fact that I was following them into this black hole of a building. The results I achieved were less than spectacular.
Finally, a deep breath and in we went, my mind accompanied by the last fleeting thought that maybe I should have had all my shots before leaving Australia.
Would you look at that, I'd walked into the Twisted Arm megastore. I'd walked into a sea of multinational boganism, although from what I could gather it was primarily dominated by Australians. It was disturbingly familiar. But the Kiwis, South Africans and the vastly outnumbered nations of the UK were all making a show, drinking until they were all speaking one universal language – the intoxicated slur. And the rumoured plastic bags were making no attempt to conceal themselves, dangling from the wrists and belts of every other person, a small family of cider or beer cans contained within.
Disappointingly, one of the first things I had noticed – and I'd consulted the soles of my shoes to ensure I wasn't mistaken – was that the floor was completely devoid of hay. I ventured a guess that it was to avoid having the place likened to somewhat of a retard farm. I still made the comparison.
In the centre of the room, on the large expanse of floor that found its home in front of the stage, there was a sea of bodies. Some were dancing, some were swaying unsteadily and trying to pass it off as a dance, and some had abandoned the concept of rhythm altogether, instead choosing to jump up and down and yell at the ceiling. All manner of costumes peppered this sweaty, possibly syphilitic ocean – pirates, nurses, Indians, police, Ghostbusters, Jokers, gladiators – with a large number of them able to be prefaced with the adjectives 'douchebag' or 'slutty'. A video camera swept across the crowd, the images captured projected onto large monitors on the wall and proving that the one way to turn an idiot into an even bigger idiot is to put them on a screen. The camera also spent a lot of its leisure time zooming in on girls' boobs, as they turned away under the unconvincing guise of coy embarrassment, which, when taking into account they were armed with enough cleavage to demand your attention under threat of suffocation, seemed a little contradictory. As did the fact that the body behind the camera also belonged to a female.
Now sporting our own bag of canned booze – after all, if we were doing The Church, we were doing it right, regardless of the opinions of our stomachs, heads and livers – we stood and spectated the crowd. And for a good while, apart from it seeming like the womb from which every dodgy bogan pub I had been to was spawned, there seemed nothing special to the place. All these expectations of horrified awe had gone unfounded.
But then, with the dimming of lights and the revving of a small motorcycle engine, everything began to change.
To be continued...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Sacre Bleu! The Tour - Artistic Differences
Narrowly beating out his fiercest competitors – naked people and a series of terrifying cherubs – in the popularity stakes, Mr Christ (as he is known in more casual circles) adorns the walls in such numbers that one could be forgiven for thinking that there had been a glaring area in the recounting of the story, and he had actually been crucified several hundred times.
Scan your eyes across the many, many walls of this artistic epicentre and they tell you in manner that would render denial a rather embarrassing act of stupidity that art, and the continued existence of it, owes an insurmountable debt to the religious world. Undoubtedly this is a fact long clear to the incalculable number of people with more knowledge on the topic than me – hardly a difficult task – but still, such a concentrated dose of evidence would leave even the most glaring personification of the modern artist stereotype, as they pleasured themself over the ideas of their own self importance and asthetic atheism, no choice but to begrudgingly agree.
It was day two in Paris, and having bribed our bodies back into compliance with a solid night's rest we had returned to the streets to gift passers-by with our mixed looks of awe and directionlessness that can only be properly assembled by the features of a tourist.
As it turns out, Monday is a day that has no affection for tourists in Paris, with the Musee D'orsay continuing its campaign against me by being closed, also recruiting the Catacombs into the cause in an attempt to wear down my enthusiasm. But with a stubbornness that often flirts with the appearance of stupidity, I was hardly one to be dissuaded by a city conspiring against me, so, dressed up in our finest looks of faux-intellectualism, we set off for the Louvre, careful not to let it know it wasn't our first choice as to spare its feelings.
We arrived early in order to make the best effort of avoiding the plague known as tourist groups – a group which, yes, we may have technically belonged to, but I was determined to feel unjustifiably superior to. Making our way through the glass pyramid and descending into the tomb of art that lay below, the windows of the surrounding building eyed us suspiciously as we went, curious to see the newest batch of voyeurs wanting to cast their eyes over what was contained within its walls. It seemed a little judgemental for something that's willing to let anyone enter it for just 9 Euros.
The building itself is a vast, four-storey labyrinth of rooms, some spacious and making no attempt to downplay their sense of significance, some barely noticeable, seemingly birthing themselves out of spaces in walls where no room has a right to exist, all of them filled with paintings, sculptures and historical artifacts fighting for their piece of personal space. The sheer overwhelming size of the place demands more time from people than some would be willing to give.
Noblemen, women and a large number of people comfortable with nudity watched us from within their intricately detailed frames as our feet led us from room to room. Meanwhile, Jesus was too distracted by the alarming number of times he was being crucified in this building to make eye contact. The cherubs may have also been watching us, but I was doing my best not to dwell on this idea for too long as I still wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night. I will say this though, some of the cherubs I did notice – between closing my eyes and denying their existence – had appearances that hinted at mental disability, so I have to give credit to the Cherubian empire for their equal-opportunity employment.
With the museum rapidly devouring the hours we spent roaming its halls, and having spent enough time admiring the works of more obscure artists to assist with that speriority I was aiming for, it was time to walk in the footsteps of many art groupies before us and check out the big names. And I find it very amusing that in a museum where you can get close enough to lick – if you were in the mood to get arrested – many pieces of art that would feature a conga line of zeros trailing at the end of their value, there was a grand total of only two objects that held the esteem that warranted any sort of restrictions in proximity.
Ms Lisa and Ms de Milo, queens of the Louvre and two women I wouldn't throw our of bed. I mean, come on, think of the bragging rights. Or course there would then be the series of intrusive questions as to how you managed to get two priceless artifacts into your bed in the first place.
For something the size of a smallish window, the crowd of spectators for the Mona Lisa could quite comfortably be referred to as ridiculous. People pressed shoulder to shoulder, trying to edge themselves just that little bit closer to the area that was roped off so that they could say they got to stand only a scant five metres away from the 2-inch thick glass that encased the Mona Lisa. I won't deny the fact the I was interested in seeing it and I'm glad I did - for a painting so renowned, who wouldn't be? But such a spectacle for something that is still, at the end of the day, a painting of a woman, is something my brain simply does not possess the ability to understand. Evidence in itself that I will never be a connesuir of the art world.
Also not doing my standing in the art world any favours is that fact that, after four hours, museum fatigue was setting in. The sense repetition in the works had begun to dawn on me and, although my brain was struggling to come to terms with the idea, it seemed I was beginning to tire of looking at pictures that prominently featured naked women. Fearing irrepearable damage, the wisest course of action was clearly to bring an end to the day's romance with art.
Don't worry, we promised that we'd remain friends.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sacre Bleu! The Tour - A Parisian Waltz
Paris bleeds with history. The buildings, the roads and all the puzzle pieces that work together to form the skyline, they watch every single step that every single person takes between them, gleeful in the knowlegde that they have outlasted many generations before you, and will outlast many after, looking far more impressive than any of us will ever manage.
I considered this as I walked around the heart of the Paris for my first time, comfortable with being dwarfed by the ancestory of all that surrounded me, seeing as I do not make it a habit of getting into pissing contests with prominent European cities. This was a new world to me. The buildings – the colour of their old, stone walls dulled from a life spent watching and weathering – had obvious age in their appearance and architecture that housed any number of stories that I, due to my vast ignorance of history, had largely no idea about. Even the old, rundown buildings held some kind of diginity in their dilapidation.
The plan we had devised for tonight, after consulting our Lonely Planet book – the Bible which served as our only real source of touris information – to visit the Musee D'orsay. From my impressively limited degree of knowledge, I believed it to be some kind of art museum, one of the only things that the guide book seemed to suggest would still be open at the time of evening we were currently inhabiting and somewhere that had come highly recommended by Diamond and the plethora of graffiti she had donated to the pages of the Paris section of the Lonely Planet book. Surprisingly very little of these recommendations were for Bordellos, but one can only suppose she kept that information to herself.
After round two with Parisian public transport, which was a far less traumatic affair than what my arrival had gifted me with, we were now walking alongside the river – the name of which I am constantly successful in forgetting – that divided the city centre. The sun was setting as we walked – my legs momentarily distracted from their weariness of a day of too many footsteps and too much luggage – and as blue and pink fought for dominance of the sky, I couldn't help but feel, in my own narcissitic way, that Paris had gone and prettied herself up in her Sunday best just for me. The thousands of other people roaming the streets at the same time were nothing but voyeurs intruding upon our special moment. Perverts.
Without anymore buildings to hide behind, no more escape from the prying eyes of the new tourists who scoured the horizon looking for it, the Eiffel Tower edged its way into view, bringing with it the announcement that, yes, you were indeed in Paris. This was not some kind of imposter European city put together as some kind of elaborate hoax by what must have been quite an industrial group of con artists and gypsies.
Well, no shit, Eiffel Tower, but thanks for the reminder I suppose.
With the time taken up by me craning my neck in various directions and my camera whoring itself out to any view that would take it, we now found ourself at the museum that also doubled as our destination. Something was amiss though, in that it appeared suspiciously closed. So suspicious it was, that it was very quickly found guilty of the fact. It would seem that either deceit of idiocy was afoot surrounding the Lonely Planet book. It would later be found that the book did say that the museum was closed on a Sunday night, and my ability to read would be brought into question, but I still staunchly defend my position that someone broke into the hotel room and rewrote that portion of the book while we were out.
At this point though, with our plans dashed and the book still serving as a competent scapegoat, a continued walk around the city to see the sights became the newly amended plan. Bren and Rob had already been to Paris for a day during their Contiki tour, so their vague idea of where things were was a slight improvement upon my directional impulse of closing my eyes and pointing in a random direction.
So with some various buildings and a chance meeting with one of Rob's former Brisbane workmates – an indicent that would have made Karl proud – the only things in between, we made our way to the Champs Elysees, what basically amounts to the most expensive street in Paris. With shopfronts that screamed very loudly that I didn't belong there – Louis Vuitton, Versace and other small words worth far too much money – and restaurants that don't display their menus based on the idea that if you need to ask the prices, you can't afford them, this was an avenue of excess, a place for those who could afford the accessories to go with their $1,000-a-day drug habit and high class female escorts. Even the shitty souveneir store that had managed to snake its way in there was even more ridiculously overpriced than those stores tend to be.
At the end of the Champs Elysees, there was the Arc du Triomphe, a hulking archway surrounded by what can be described as nothing less than chaos moulded into the form of a traffic roundabout.
A cobblestone circle with a width that could range anywhere from six to eight cars, depending on how adventurous the drivers are feeling, it is traffic anomaly guided by no lines, rules or logic of any kind. People drive onto and off of it based entirely on their own whim, and it is simply a matter of fending for oneself in order to get out of the mess that you misguidedly decided to drive yourself into. Apparently insurers won't give you full converage if you drive on it because, well, they like to remain in business.
It's said that, on average, there's an accident on this roundabout every 45 seconds. Armed with this knowledge, and the same appetite for destruction that drived people to watch car racing, we decided to stand around and watch to see if we could witness the statistics in action. Sadly, the portion of time that we watched for left the statistics with a lot of catching up to do later that night. All we managed to witness was aggressive driving that bordered on a necessity for anger management, panicked tourist who has suddenly realised what they'd gotten themselves into and sat stationary in the middle, hazard lights flashing meekly, and finally, cyclists boldly pedalling their way into the madness, having obviously given up any will to live or sanity long ago.
Our disappointment in the lack of carnage motivated us to move forward, onward to what could be considered the main event. With the black of night long moved in, settling the battle for colour supremecy of the sky, the Eiffel Tower was popping out from behind entirely different sets of buildings, now illuminated blue and demanding the attention it was shying away from earlier. A spinning beam of light also stretched out from the Tower's peak, serving as a beacon to get us there and also the possible cause of numerous faraway shipwrecks as they mistook it for a lighthouse.
Approaching the Tower, glowing against the backdrop of the night sky, it looks almost exactly as one would expect, yet no less dimished in its granduer. As we lined up get to get some food – something we'd been meaning to do for several hours now – Brendan advised me to keep my eye on the Tower, for reasons I was not sure of. So I fixed my gaze, only occasionally distracted by purchasing my food and by the illegal street merchants brushing past me as they sprinted from the police. Just as I was beginning to think it was all a ploy by Brendan to see how long he could have me staring expectantly and looking like an idiot, thousands of flashing lights suddenly lit up the Eiffel Tower, a spectacle which at the same time sent all Parisian epileptics into simultaneous seizures.
Widespready medical calamities aside, it was quite a spectacle to behold, though once I realised exactly how extended the spectacle was, I decided to stop filming it with my camera, wanting to still have to space left on it to continue with the gratuitous amount of images I had been capturing.
Now standing at the base of the Tower and staring up, the effect was quite vertigo-inducing, which led one to wonder exactly what the sensation would be like looking down. I donated little time to this wondering attitude, seeing I would be finding that answer out for myself when I returned for part two of my Paris visit in a week a a half's time. Knowing the city would be hungry for more of me once I departed, I had scheduled a return stop after spreading my love and communicable diseases throughout various other destinations around the country.
My eyes now weary from losing themselves in the criss-crossing mazes of steel that collectively called itself the Eiffel Tower, my feet exhausted (and for all I knew, bleeding into my shoes) from a day of constant assault from the pathways beneath them, the general consensus of my body was that it was time for retreating to the hotel room. By this stages, the influence the rest of my body had over my brain was something I simply couldn't compete with, so with Bren, Rob and I sporting a set of three matching mindsets, we set our sights on the destination of our hotel room, and the promise of sleep within.
Now...which way was the hotel again?
I considered this as I walked around the heart of the Paris for my first time, comfortable with being dwarfed by the ancestory of all that surrounded me, seeing as I do not make it a habit of getting into pissing contests with prominent European cities. This was a new world to me. The buildings – the colour of their old, stone walls dulled from a life spent watching and weathering – had obvious age in their appearance and architecture that housed any number of stories that I, due to my vast ignorance of history, had largely no idea about. Even the old, rundown buildings held some kind of diginity in their dilapidation.
The plan we had devised for tonight, after consulting our Lonely Planet book – the Bible which served as our only real source of touris information – to visit the Musee D'orsay. From my impressively limited degree of knowledge, I believed it to be some kind of art museum, one of the only things that the guide book seemed to suggest would still be open at the time of evening we were currently inhabiting and somewhere that had come highly recommended by Diamond and the plethora of graffiti she had donated to the pages of the Paris section of the Lonely Planet book. Surprisingly very little of these recommendations were for Bordellos, but one can only suppose she kept that information to herself.
After round two with Parisian public transport, which was a far less traumatic affair than what my arrival had gifted me with, we were now walking alongside the river – the name of which I am constantly successful in forgetting – that divided the city centre. The sun was setting as we walked – my legs momentarily distracted from their weariness of a day of too many footsteps and too much luggage – and as blue and pink fought for dominance of the sky, I couldn't help but feel, in my own narcissitic way, that Paris had gone and prettied herself up in her Sunday best just for me. The thousands of other people roaming the streets at the same time were nothing but voyeurs intruding upon our special moment. Perverts.
Without anymore buildings to hide behind, no more escape from the prying eyes of the new tourists who scoured the horizon looking for it, the Eiffel Tower edged its way into view, bringing with it the announcement that, yes, you were indeed in Paris. This was not some kind of imposter European city put together as some kind of elaborate hoax by what must have been quite an industrial group of con artists and gypsies.
Well, no shit, Eiffel Tower, but thanks for the reminder I suppose.
With the time taken up by me craning my neck in various directions and my camera whoring itself out to any view that would take it, we now found ourself at the museum that also doubled as our destination. Something was amiss though, in that it appeared suspiciously closed. So suspicious it was, that it was very quickly found guilty of the fact. It would seem that either deceit of idiocy was afoot surrounding the Lonely Planet book. It would later be found that the book did say that the museum was closed on a Sunday night, and my ability to read would be brought into question, but I still staunchly defend my position that someone broke into the hotel room and rewrote that portion of the book while we were out.
At this point though, with our plans dashed and the book still serving as a competent scapegoat, a continued walk around the city to see the sights became the newly amended plan. Bren and Rob had already been to Paris for a day during their Contiki tour, so their vague idea of where things were was a slight improvement upon my directional impulse of closing my eyes and pointing in a random direction.
So with some various buildings and a chance meeting with one of Rob's former Brisbane workmates – an indicent that would have made Karl proud – the only things in between, we made our way to the Champs Elysees, what basically amounts to the most expensive street in Paris. With shopfronts that screamed very loudly that I didn't belong there – Louis Vuitton, Versace and other small words worth far too much money – and restaurants that don't display their menus based on the idea that if you need to ask the prices, you can't afford them, this was an avenue of excess, a place for those who could afford the accessories to go with their $1,000-a-day drug habit and high class female escorts. Even the shitty souveneir store that had managed to snake its way in there was even more ridiculously overpriced than those stores tend to be.
At the end of the Champs Elysees, there was the Arc du Triomphe, a hulking archway surrounded by what can be described as nothing less than chaos moulded into the form of a traffic roundabout.
A cobblestone circle with a width that could range anywhere from six to eight cars, depending on how adventurous the drivers are feeling, it is traffic anomaly guided by no lines, rules or logic of any kind. People drive onto and off of it based entirely on their own whim, and it is simply a matter of fending for oneself in order to get out of the mess that you misguidedly decided to drive yourself into. Apparently insurers won't give you full converage if you drive on it because, well, they like to remain in business.
It's said that, on average, there's an accident on this roundabout every 45 seconds. Armed with this knowledge, and the same appetite for destruction that drived people to watch car racing, we decided to stand around and watch to see if we could witness the statistics in action. Sadly, the portion of time that we watched for left the statistics with a lot of catching up to do later that night. All we managed to witness was aggressive driving that bordered on a necessity for anger management, panicked tourist who has suddenly realised what they'd gotten themselves into and sat stationary in the middle, hazard lights flashing meekly, and finally, cyclists boldly pedalling their way into the madness, having obviously given up any will to live or sanity long ago.
Our disappointment in the lack of carnage motivated us to move forward, onward to what could be considered the main event. With the black of night long moved in, settling the battle for colour supremecy of the sky, the Eiffel Tower was popping out from behind entirely different sets of buildings, now illuminated blue and demanding the attention it was shying away from earlier. A spinning beam of light also stretched out from the Tower's peak, serving as a beacon to get us there and also the possible cause of numerous faraway shipwrecks as they mistook it for a lighthouse.
Approaching the Tower, glowing against the backdrop of the night sky, it looks almost exactly as one would expect, yet no less dimished in its granduer. As we lined up get to get some food – something we'd been meaning to do for several hours now – Brendan advised me to keep my eye on the Tower, for reasons I was not sure of. So I fixed my gaze, only occasionally distracted by purchasing my food and by the illegal street merchants brushing past me as they sprinted from the police. Just as I was beginning to think it was all a ploy by Brendan to see how long he could have me staring expectantly and looking like an idiot, thousands of flashing lights suddenly lit up the Eiffel Tower, a spectacle which at the same time sent all Parisian epileptics into simultaneous seizures.
Widespready medical calamities aside, it was quite a spectacle to behold, though once I realised exactly how extended the spectacle was, I decided to stop filming it with my camera, wanting to still have to space left on it to continue with the gratuitous amount of images I had been capturing.
Now standing at the base of the Tower and staring up, the effect was quite vertigo-inducing, which led one to wonder exactly what the sensation would be like looking down. I donated little time to this wondering attitude, seeing I would be finding that answer out for myself when I returned for part two of my Paris visit in a week a a half's time. Knowing the city would be hungry for more of me once I departed, I had scheduled a return stop after spreading my love and communicable diseases throughout various other destinations around the country.
My eyes now weary from losing themselves in the criss-crossing mazes of steel that collectively called itself the Eiffel Tower, my feet exhausted (and for all I knew, bleeding into my shoes) from a day of constant assault from the pathways beneath them, the general consensus of my body was that it was time for retreating to the hotel room. By this stages, the influence the rest of my body had over my brain was something I simply couldn't compete with, so with Bren, Rob and I sporting a set of three matching mindsets, we set our sights on the destination of our hotel room, and the promise of sleep within.
Now...which way was the hotel again?
Friday, October 24, 2008
Sacre Bleu! The Tour - A Hotel Rendezvous
There I was, armed with a phrase book in one hand and an ignorance of foreign cultures in the other, about to engage in my first proper exchage with a French person. My intentions of looking through the phrase book in advance to learn some useful sentences had rapidly fallen by the wayside, so instead I was going with Plan B.
'Parlez-vous anglais?'
'No.'
Well, shit. Already this wasn't going to plan. She was supposed to speak English, we'd have a chat and a laugh, she'd be so impressed by my wit, charm and good looks that she'd discount the price of the room and introduce me to her beautiful daughter. She had yet to scream at or slap me yet though, so it wasn't all bad.
Negotiating the rest of the conversation in a way that mostly involved me pointing at a name on a piece of paper and saying 'Reservation.' I managed to get checked in, paying in cash because using a credit card seemed like it could involve more talking, which I'd already proved to not be a strong suit. I was elated enough that our booking was there at all, so remaining in the playground of low expectations seemed the comfortable choice for me.
Earlier I had received a message from Brendan requesting that, when I arrived at the hotel, I ask at the counter for directions from the train station he and Rob were arriving at. Judging by how the previous communication endeavour had just went, I figured this kind of question would end up going around in a circle that involved me mumbling something in badly pronounced, broken French, and her staring at me like an idiot. Personally I thought that could wait until my second day in the country.
Instead, in an act that most wise men, and a good number of morons, would have warned against, I decided to provide him with directions myself. These directions consisted of, 'Get Metro line 2 and get off at Juares,' which were the exact same directions I was working off of, only, in addition, theirs included my hopes that Metro 2 was easier to find from their arrival station than it was mine. After all, they owed me money for the room.
While waiting for their arrival, aware that, due to their reliance on my directions, this could be a wait that extended long into the evening, I decided to go for a brief sojourn outside, despite the protests of most of my functioning body parts. After convincing them that I had no intention of bringing the pack with me this time, we uniformly set off to see what delights Paris had in store.
Which, as it turns out, was a man cooking corn over a barrel of fire housed in a shopping trolley. For a city that tends to pride itself on its culinary offerings, it was something of a surprise for this to be the first possible food option that I should stumble across. And as tempting as it was, I figured it would be foolish of me to put the first thing I see into my mouth. That mindset could be saved for a future career as a Parisian gigolo.
Moments later, as my mouth and most of the front of my shirt dined on some kind of delicious chocolate-filled pastry, I wandered the streets and strolled alongside the canal near the hotel, managing to narrowly avoid being run over by the cyclists that almost outnumber the cars and marvelling at the fact that no one seemed to tell a large portion of the city's population that the roller blading craze died out in the '90s. The outdoor chairs and tables of the cafes spent their time making the aquaintence with the backsides of any number of people, who smoked away and drank afternoon beers out of glasses far fancier than anything beer rightly deserves. It would seem they all felt that I needed a reminder that, even at their most casual, they were far classier than I would ever manage to be.
Just as I was starting to realise that I may have underestimated exactly how cool it would be outside, lured into the false promise of warmth by the late afternoon sun, the Oompa Loompas in my pocket brought word that Brendan and Rob were almost there. It was time to return to the hotel room to set up an appropriate welcoming party. Nothing offers the promise of an enjoyable trip ahead quite like me sprawled seductively across a bed, reading the Paris section of my Lonely Planet guide that I'd sworn I would have already studied thoughroly by this point.
As I heard them in the hall, I briefly wondered what people's thoughts would be if I described my current position of 'Waiting for two guys to meet me in a cheap hotel room'. The thought quickly made way for the realisation that it sounded like the hallway had become something of a navigation quandry for them, and it was best for me to yell at them down the hall to save us from certain disaster.
With that crisis averted and manly greetings exchanged, I introduced them to our accomodation for the next two nights. The fact that it had beds and wasn't a hostel seemed to impress them enough, so I suppose I just came as a fortunate bonus. I worried a little that their minds may have been blown when they discovered that we had a balcony. It may have only been as wide as my foot and looked out to a breathtaking view of the train station across the road, but still, in the most fundamental architectural sense, it was a balcony.
But all was not rainbows and sunshine in Room 31 at Hotel la Comete though. You see, we found ourselves with two slight issues in the room.
Firstly, we had a shower that consisted of a handheld showerhead that came with the misguided selling point of no place on the wall to actually attach it to. Nor was there any kind of shower curtain or door. This meant that if we wanted to shower without covering the bathroom with enough water to have Noah seriously considering another ark, we were forced to sit on the floor of the bathtub, feeling like an invalid as we bathed. If there was some sort of attractive French nurse inlcluded with the room to assist with this process, all would be forgiven, but no health care professional of any nationality was to be found over the next two nights.
Secondly, we had the beds. Three people to a room, divided up between a double and a rather large single bed. The maths was simple – two of us would be getting rather cosy on the double. Through a decision-making process that somehow occurred without me being aware of it, me and Rob were nominated as the lucky newlyweds. Would love blossom, or would one of us just be deflowered? Only time would tell, even if none of us ever would.
Ah, Paris, the city of romance, the city of lights, the city of possible accidental spooning in the middle of the night. We had arrived.
'Parlez-vous anglais?'
'No.'
Well, shit. Already this wasn't going to plan. She was supposed to speak English, we'd have a chat and a laugh, she'd be so impressed by my wit, charm and good looks that she'd discount the price of the room and introduce me to her beautiful daughter. She had yet to scream at or slap me yet though, so it wasn't all bad.
Negotiating the rest of the conversation in a way that mostly involved me pointing at a name on a piece of paper and saying 'Reservation.' I managed to get checked in, paying in cash because using a credit card seemed like it could involve more talking, which I'd already proved to not be a strong suit. I was elated enough that our booking was there at all, so remaining in the playground of low expectations seemed the comfortable choice for me.
Earlier I had received a message from Brendan requesting that, when I arrived at the hotel, I ask at the counter for directions from the train station he and Rob were arriving at. Judging by how the previous communication endeavour had just went, I figured this kind of question would end up going around in a circle that involved me mumbling something in badly pronounced, broken French, and her staring at me like an idiot. Personally I thought that could wait until my second day in the country.
Instead, in an act that most wise men, and a good number of morons, would have warned against, I decided to provide him with directions myself. These directions consisted of, 'Get Metro line 2 and get off at Juares,' which were the exact same directions I was working off of, only, in addition, theirs included my hopes that Metro 2 was easier to find from their arrival station than it was mine. After all, they owed me money for the room.
While waiting for their arrival, aware that, due to their reliance on my directions, this could be a wait that extended long into the evening, I decided to go for a brief sojourn outside, despite the protests of most of my functioning body parts. After convincing them that I had no intention of bringing the pack with me this time, we uniformly set off to see what delights Paris had in store.
Which, as it turns out, was a man cooking corn over a barrel of fire housed in a shopping trolley. For a city that tends to pride itself on its culinary offerings, it was something of a surprise for this to be the first possible food option that I should stumble across. And as tempting as it was, I figured it would be foolish of me to put the first thing I see into my mouth. That mindset could be saved for a future career as a Parisian gigolo.
Moments later, as my mouth and most of the front of my shirt dined on some kind of delicious chocolate-filled pastry, I wandered the streets and strolled alongside the canal near the hotel, managing to narrowly avoid being run over by the cyclists that almost outnumber the cars and marvelling at the fact that no one seemed to tell a large portion of the city's population that the roller blading craze died out in the '90s. The outdoor chairs and tables of the cafes spent their time making the aquaintence with the backsides of any number of people, who smoked away and drank afternoon beers out of glasses far fancier than anything beer rightly deserves. It would seem they all felt that I needed a reminder that, even at their most casual, they were far classier than I would ever manage to be.
Just as I was starting to realise that I may have underestimated exactly how cool it would be outside, lured into the false promise of warmth by the late afternoon sun, the Oompa Loompas in my pocket brought word that Brendan and Rob were almost there. It was time to return to the hotel room to set up an appropriate welcoming party. Nothing offers the promise of an enjoyable trip ahead quite like me sprawled seductively across a bed, reading the Paris section of my Lonely Planet guide that I'd sworn I would have already studied thoughroly by this point.
As I heard them in the hall, I briefly wondered what people's thoughts would be if I described my current position of 'Waiting for two guys to meet me in a cheap hotel room'. The thought quickly made way for the realisation that it sounded like the hallway had become something of a navigation quandry for them, and it was best for me to yell at them down the hall to save us from certain disaster.
With that crisis averted and manly greetings exchanged, I introduced them to our accomodation for the next two nights. The fact that it had beds and wasn't a hostel seemed to impress them enough, so I suppose I just came as a fortunate bonus. I worried a little that their minds may have been blown when they discovered that we had a balcony. It may have only been as wide as my foot and looked out to a breathtaking view of the train station across the road, but still, in the most fundamental architectural sense, it was a balcony.
But all was not rainbows and sunshine in Room 31 at Hotel la Comete though. You see, we found ourselves with two slight issues in the room.
Firstly, we had a shower that consisted of a handheld showerhead that came with the misguided selling point of no place on the wall to actually attach it to. Nor was there any kind of shower curtain or door. This meant that if we wanted to shower without covering the bathroom with enough water to have Noah seriously considering another ark, we were forced to sit on the floor of the bathtub, feeling like an invalid as we bathed. If there was some sort of attractive French nurse inlcluded with the room to assist with this process, all would be forgiven, but no health care professional of any nationality was to be found over the next two nights.
Secondly, we had the beds. Three people to a room, divided up between a double and a rather large single bed. The maths was simple – two of us would be getting rather cosy on the double. Through a decision-making process that somehow occurred without me being aware of it, me and Rob were nominated as the lucky newlyweds. Would love blossom, or would one of us just be deflowered? Only time would tell, even if none of us ever would.
Ah, Paris, the city of romance, the city of lights, the city of possible accidental spooning in the middle of the night. We had arrived.
Sacre Bleu! The Tour - A Triumphant Arrival...Of Sorts
Can you think of a better way to start off your first official international holiday than almost missing you train?
I can. I can think of plenty of better ways. Of course, these ways and my paths were never to cross.
It can honestly be said that none of it was my fault though. Walking into San Pancras station in London I would have said that I had, as a rough estimate, all the time in the world. Or, conversely, at least an hour. 10:00am read the clock and 11:05 read the departure time on my ticket, plenty of time to check in and get the breakfast I'd deliberately skipped when leaving Laureen's house that morning.
'Excuse me, sir, do you mind just stepping over here for a quick, random security check?' The policeman and his dog were hardly going to be taxing on my time, but random? Really? Because numerous “random” explosives tests at Brisbane airport have left me suspicious about just how much chance there is in these checks. If the same amount of fortune followed me to a roulette table, I'd be a very rich man with a positively thriving gambling addiction.
So with time to spare and a keen sense for self preservation wanting to keep me out of prison, I let the man's English Springer Spaniel sniff away, only at my bag, never at my crotch. Not that I really wanted it too, it's just that it's nice to get the attention sometimes.
Then, over the loudspeaker, a cheery voice that seemed to believe what it was announcing was not a major inconvenience:
'Passengers for the 11:05am train, we would like you to note that your train has a new departure time of 10:23am. Check-in is about to close.'
Oh shit. It was 10:10am. I extricated myself from the security check, ensuring it was in a manner that indicated I was not a potential terrorist attempting escape, and dashed off, debating with myself the entire time as to whether I had overpacked my bag, as it and gravity joined forces in their attempts to introduce me to the floor in the most humiliating manner possible. After once again question the reason for the number of bags swinging uncomfortably from my body as I loaded them all onto the X-ray machine, I finally made it onto the train with minutes to spare, the fact of my carriage being located at the farthest end of the platform leaving me wondering if I had slighted the British rail sysytem in some way that I was yet to be aware of.
Now, my displeasure of being made to partake in physical exertion aside, for a train that was supposed to depart at 11:05am, with a ticket that said to arrive 30 minutes prior to departure, changing that departure to time that is before that 30 minute period, that's not a minor irritation, that's just plain rude. Exactly how many people would have arrived at the station what they thought was on time, only to find their train had already left? There would be chaos, anarchy, tea cosies and scones flying everywhere! Although, I shouldn't really complain, the now suspiciously empty carriages on the train allowed me to relocated myself from my booked seat to a far more ideally located window seat all to myself.
Two hours, several popped ear canals and endless amusement at passing signs in a foreign language later, I was once again loading myself up like an over-confident pack mule and exiting the train at Gare du Nord station, Paris. That's in France, in case you were curious. The cheery music that preceeded the train station announcements, and the French woman's voice that they were made in, reassured me – despite her incomprehensibility – left me with a feeling of entirely unwarranted confidence that I would have no trouble finding my hotel. A feeling that was only matched by the confidence that I was not so convincingly kidding myself.
Oh, and what a kidder I was.
Firstly, the ticket machines seemed to think it was a ludicrous suggestion that someone might want to pay with notes, and therefore did not afford me this option, leaving me no cnoice but to buy a bottle of Coke for 2.80 Euros (about AU$5.60) – something I would soon learn to be a common theme in Europe – just to get some change for a ticket to board a train that I still as yet had no idea how to locate.
The train obviously wasn't too keen on being found by me either, seeing as, while all the other Paris Metro stations that linked from where I was were perfectly content to be slutting themselves out on signs all over the place, Metro stop Number 2 was a shy little bastard with an aversion to publicity. Hand me a Where's Wally book and tell me he was standing on the platform and I would have more luck finding it.
Never mind, I could catch a bus! After staring intently at a public transport map for a number of minutes which I refused to count as a matter of self-respect, and doing my best impression of a person who was not at all lost or confused, I managed to figure out that I had the option of two different buses I could catch. With such choices, how could I go wrong? All I had to do was find the required bus stop. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?
In what I didn't see as too much of a stretch of logic, I follwed the sign and the arrow that said “Bus”. All the while my spine was beginning to get less and less happy with being forced to carry around a weight that it was not used to – that weight being any at all – and was expressing that displeasure with a steadily increasing level of pain. After walking out of that station and allowing my eyes a few minutes to take in what was around me and appreciate the fact that, holy shit, I was in Paris, I set back to work in my search, as my shoulders were beginning to sympathise with the plight of my spine. So I scoured the bus stops for my numbers in question, my own miniature game of Public Transport Bingo. A game I quickly realised I was losing. It seemed all of these bus stops contained the numbers for every single service apart from the ones I wanted. Merci beaucoup, you French bastards.
Back to the sign it was, despite how quickly I was losing faith in it, my eyes and the world in general. Around the corner from the train station seemed my next best bet - although all odds were swiftly making their way in the other direction of my favour – and I had to be quick, my legs were beginning to hear whispers of dissent coming from my spine and shoulders.
Aha! I discovered what appeared to multiple dedicated bus stops in one location. This could only be a good thing. Not according to the bus numbers that were presenting themselves to me. In fact, none of them were the ones that I wan...wait...there was suddenly a sign staring me. A direction arrow which I had to allow time to ensure wasn't a delusion induced from all my directionless wandering. But there it was, Metro stop Number 2! Out of a combination of idiocy and ineptitude I had managed to find the train station I had long since given up on finding. Who says a quitter's attitude gets you nowhere?
Two stations later – yes, that's right, I was only two measley stations away from where I had to be – and after undoubtedly irritating many public transport passengers for neither the first or last times with my cumbersome backpack, I was there. The hotel entrance was staring back at me, the fact that it was located next to a McDonalds leaving me no doubt as to it being real, as I'm certain my hallucinations would be far more interesting than that.
And in I went.
I can. I can think of plenty of better ways. Of course, these ways and my paths were never to cross.
It can honestly be said that none of it was my fault though. Walking into San Pancras station in London I would have said that I had, as a rough estimate, all the time in the world. Or, conversely, at least an hour. 10:00am read the clock and 11:05 read the departure time on my ticket, plenty of time to check in and get the breakfast I'd deliberately skipped when leaving Laureen's house that morning.
'Excuse me, sir, do you mind just stepping over here for a quick, random security check?' The policeman and his dog were hardly going to be taxing on my time, but random? Really? Because numerous “random” explosives tests at Brisbane airport have left me suspicious about just how much chance there is in these checks. If the same amount of fortune followed me to a roulette table, I'd be a very rich man with a positively thriving gambling addiction.
So with time to spare and a keen sense for self preservation wanting to keep me out of prison, I let the man's English Springer Spaniel sniff away, only at my bag, never at my crotch. Not that I really wanted it too, it's just that it's nice to get the attention sometimes.
Then, over the loudspeaker, a cheery voice that seemed to believe what it was announcing was not a major inconvenience:
'Passengers for the 11:05am train, we would like you to note that your train has a new departure time of 10:23am. Check-in is about to close.'
Oh shit. It was 10:10am. I extricated myself from the security check, ensuring it was in a manner that indicated I was not a potential terrorist attempting escape, and dashed off, debating with myself the entire time as to whether I had overpacked my bag, as it and gravity joined forces in their attempts to introduce me to the floor in the most humiliating manner possible. After once again question the reason for the number of bags swinging uncomfortably from my body as I loaded them all onto the X-ray machine, I finally made it onto the train with minutes to spare, the fact of my carriage being located at the farthest end of the platform leaving me wondering if I had slighted the British rail sysytem in some way that I was yet to be aware of.
Now, my displeasure of being made to partake in physical exertion aside, for a train that was supposed to depart at 11:05am, with a ticket that said to arrive 30 minutes prior to departure, changing that departure to time that is before that 30 minute period, that's not a minor irritation, that's just plain rude. Exactly how many people would have arrived at the station what they thought was on time, only to find their train had already left? There would be chaos, anarchy, tea cosies and scones flying everywhere! Although, I shouldn't really complain, the now suspiciously empty carriages on the train allowed me to relocated myself from my booked seat to a far more ideally located window seat all to myself.
Two hours, several popped ear canals and endless amusement at passing signs in a foreign language later, I was once again loading myself up like an over-confident pack mule and exiting the train at Gare du Nord station, Paris. That's in France, in case you were curious. The cheery music that preceeded the train station announcements, and the French woman's voice that they were made in, reassured me – despite her incomprehensibility – left me with a feeling of entirely unwarranted confidence that I would have no trouble finding my hotel. A feeling that was only matched by the confidence that I was not so convincingly kidding myself.
Oh, and what a kidder I was.
Firstly, the ticket machines seemed to think it was a ludicrous suggestion that someone might want to pay with notes, and therefore did not afford me this option, leaving me no cnoice but to buy a bottle of Coke for 2.80 Euros (about AU$5.60) – something I would soon learn to be a common theme in Europe – just to get some change for a ticket to board a train that I still as yet had no idea how to locate.
The train obviously wasn't too keen on being found by me either, seeing as, while all the other Paris Metro stations that linked from where I was were perfectly content to be slutting themselves out on signs all over the place, Metro stop Number 2 was a shy little bastard with an aversion to publicity. Hand me a Where's Wally book and tell me he was standing on the platform and I would have more luck finding it.
Never mind, I could catch a bus! After staring intently at a public transport map for a number of minutes which I refused to count as a matter of self-respect, and doing my best impression of a person who was not at all lost or confused, I managed to figure out that I had the option of two different buses I could catch. With such choices, how could I go wrong? All I had to do was find the required bus stop. It sounds so simple, doesn't it?
In what I didn't see as too much of a stretch of logic, I follwed the sign and the arrow that said “Bus”. All the while my spine was beginning to get less and less happy with being forced to carry around a weight that it was not used to – that weight being any at all – and was expressing that displeasure with a steadily increasing level of pain. After walking out of that station and allowing my eyes a few minutes to take in what was around me and appreciate the fact that, holy shit, I was in Paris, I set back to work in my search, as my shoulders were beginning to sympathise with the plight of my spine. So I scoured the bus stops for my numbers in question, my own miniature game of Public Transport Bingo. A game I quickly realised I was losing. It seemed all of these bus stops contained the numbers for every single service apart from the ones I wanted. Merci beaucoup, you French bastards.
Back to the sign it was, despite how quickly I was losing faith in it, my eyes and the world in general. Around the corner from the train station seemed my next best bet - although all odds were swiftly making their way in the other direction of my favour – and I had to be quick, my legs were beginning to hear whispers of dissent coming from my spine and shoulders.
Aha! I discovered what appeared to multiple dedicated bus stops in one location. This could only be a good thing. Not according to the bus numbers that were presenting themselves to me. In fact, none of them were the ones that I wan...wait...there was suddenly a sign staring me. A direction arrow which I had to allow time to ensure wasn't a delusion induced from all my directionless wandering. But there it was, Metro stop Number 2! Out of a combination of idiocy and ineptitude I had managed to find the train station I had long since given up on finding. Who says a quitter's attitude gets you nowhere?
Two stations later – yes, that's right, I was only two measley stations away from where I had to be – and after undoubtedly irritating many public transport passengers for neither the first or last times with my cumbersome backpack, I was there. The hotel entrance was staring back at me, the fact that it was located next to a McDonalds leaving me no doubt as to it being real, as I'm certain my hallucinations would be far more interesting than that.
And in I went.
You'll Have To Get Back To Me
What am I doing?
It's certainly the question of the moment, and several other similar moments surrounding it. As vague as it is unanswerable, it's the query that encapsulates my current existence.
There's a tug-of-war that's been going on in my head for days now. One side of the rope, we have the idea, fully formed and frightened of itself, that this drastic and baseless relocation is a decision of such grandeur and genius that it will surely end in untold fame, riches and a flock of beautiful women waiting for me in every European country. And staring across from the other side, wrestling with the rope in one hand and self doubt in the other, we find every foolish choice I've ever made, colluding with each other and pooling their resources in an effort to dwarf their own significance by orchestrating my downfall in the most spectacular way possible. Honestly, how else do you label leaving behind everyone you love to disappear to the other side of the world brandishing something that looks suspiciously like a lack of a plan?
And there really is no plan. I sit here writing this on a train speeding through the French countryside, living out the only planned portion of this globe change (the global version of a sea change, for those of us just catching up). I have two weeks of to live a life of guaranteed accomodation, unabashedly touristy behavior and an immersion in incomprehensible gibberish passing itself off in the guise of a foreign language. Following that, it's time to affix the blindfold, thrust my arms out in the appropriate manner and start groping around wildly in the dark. In case of emergency, I've got an adopted attitude of denial and false confidence that should get me by.
For a moment though, before leaving, I thought it didn't have to be this way. As I said goodbye to my friends, and my guitar, at the airport, my face inexplicably wet from what I can only assume was a small storm front entirely localised to the area surrounding my eyes, I envisaged how easy it would be to drop all the plans I hadn't made. To steal a luggage cart, drive back to the house I no longer lived in and hide under the bed that I no longer had. It was a concept the fluttered by, taunting me with the simplicity of cowardice. But in the end, I'm far too cheap to throw away that kind of money.
So instead I let France comfort me with its scenery, affording me the luxury of thoughts that suggest that, yes, this might just have been a good idea. But never long enough for the moment to escape the question:
What the hell am I doing?
It's certainly the question of the moment, and several other similar moments surrounding it. As vague as it is unanswerable, it's the query that encapsulates my current existence.
There's a tug-of-war that's been going on in my head for days now. One side of the rope, we have the idea, fully formed and frightened of itself, that this drastic and baseless relocation is a decision of such grandeur and genius that it will surely end in untold fame, riches and a flock of beautiful women waiting for me in every European country. And staring across from the other side, wrestling with the rope in one hand and self doubt in the other, we find every foolish choice I've ever made, colluding with each other and pooling their resources in an effort to dwarf their own significance by orchestrating my downfall in the most spectacular way possible. Honestly, how else do you label leaving behind everyone you love to disappear to the other side of the world brandishing something that looks suspiciously like a lack of a plan?
And there really is no plan. I sit here writing this on a train speeding through the French countryside, living out the only planned portion of this globe change (the global version of a sea change, for those of us just catching up). I have two weeks of to live a life of guaranteed accomodation, unabashedly touristy behavior and an immersion in incomprehensible gibberish passing itself off in the guise of a foreign language. Following that, it's time to affix the blindfold, thrust my arms out in the appropriate manner and start groping around wildly in the dark. In case of emergency, I've got an adopted attitude of denial and false confidence that should get me by.
For a moment though, before leaving, I thought it didn't have to be this way. As I said goodbye to my friends, and my guitar, at the airport, my face inexplicably wet from what I can only assume was a small storm front entirely localised to the area surrounding my eyes, I envisaged how easy it would be to drop all the plans I hadn't made. To steal a luggage cart, drive back to the house I no longer lived in and hide under the bed that I no longer had. It was a concept the fluttered by, taunting me with the simplicity of cowardice. But in the end, I'm far too cheap to throw away that kind of money.
So instead I let France comfort me with its scenery, affording me the luxury of thoughts that suggest that, yes, this might just have been a good idea. But never long enough for the moment to escape the question:
What the hell am I doing?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)