X-mas Marks the Spot

T'was the morning of Christmas, and all through the flat
One of two was stirring, in pyjamas he sat
Disheveled and sleepy on his cushioned throne
Setting the scene for his first Christmas from home

This festive season was winter, the hemispheres having changed
And the purely decorative fireplace was absent of flame
The windows were frosted, or so he supposed
It was a bit hard to tell with the curtains being closed

The halls were not decked, his toes were not mistled
The floor was not covered in a fine layer of bristles
For the house was absent of gifts, decorations or tree
As these are all things which do not come for free

He had decided – and his bank account agreed –
That this year no presents were to be bought, thus received
The only gift was time, available to spend
Which he did, on the phone to family and friends

But they were all ten hours ahead, their days closing fast
Leaving our young squire as the ghost of their Christmas past
As they spoke to this specter about how their festivities had been
He told what was on the horizon as his yuletide came in

It was a somewhat brief outlook, concise and succinct
Even more uneventful that one could be lead to think
When detailing the plans for his day, as such
They could be covered quite nicely with two words – 'Not much'

Not entirely true, the afternoon held some maybes
The vague promise of roast meat, vegetables and gravy
There was a lunch, which we had been invited to share
With the only curiousity being how exactly we were to get there

The second member of this 'We' was yet to be seen
A mysterious figure by the name of Laureen
With the o'clock rounding two, she had not emerged from bed
Leaving, to be toyed with, the possibility she was dead

Had there been a late-night intruder, not fat, red and jolly
But vengeful, angry and bitter, with murder his folly?
An unpleasant thought, not to be cheered or clapped
But the body bag would mean at least one thing would be wrapped

As he wondered how long to wait before crashing through the door
There came the faint sound of footsteps on the floor
She was arising, or could there be a festive thief?
With no presents to steal, the visit would at least be brief

But open swung a door and Laureen stumbled out
He wished 'Merry Christmas' not in a whisper, nor shout
With greetings and well wishings done, no more to exchange
They returned to the living room fireplace, with its imaginary flames

With lunchtime slowly passing, they had places to be
But there was beginning to be a glaring flaw they could see
A distance needed covering, with no public transport
It seems this plan could have used a little forethought

They sat and the pondered, wondered and mulled
As did the wine as their options were culled
Ideas were scratched, genitals too
And a conclusion was reached – they were screwed

Without car, bus or sleigh, what once was a hunch
Turned into the unfortunate fact that they couldn't make lunch
What to do? Where to go? The plot had started to thicken
Thank God the refrigerator housed an emergency chicken

Christmas plans had changed, been slightly amended
And they'd re-evaluated exactly how they would spend it
It was a retreat to tradition, one that could not lose
With the winning combination of food and booze

So the Christmas was there, now time for the Merry
And what better way to find it than with a bottle of sherry?
The chicken was buttered, both arousing and healthy
And the seasoning of choice for those who aren't wealthy

Laureen did the cooking while he took the drinking
He offered his help but this wasn't sound thinking
For his culinary skills had been rendered quite stale
And they were doomed to starvation if one was to fail

Potatoes were crispy, the mulled wine was heated
It all smelt delicious and it was time to be seated
And to add some civility to this festive fable
They did the unheard of and sat at the table

Clinking their glasses and stuffing their faces
Taking time to forget to say their good graces
Their stomachs now full, but heads getting light
Time now to return to the lounge for the night

Now nicely toasted before the TV set
Watching a series of programs they would quickly forget
They waved to the neighbours living across the road
Who quickly thereafter had their curtains closed

They could have only been jealous from seeing such fun
Such entertaining times in the company of one
Is it so much better surrounded by those that you love?
Well, yes it is, when push comes to shove

But sometimes you make do with all that you've got
If just drink, food and TV, which isn't a lot
Still, it's enough, and no need for hindsight
It was to all a Merry Christmas, and to them a good night

Sacre Bleu! The Tour - Ain't Nothin' Like a Dame

Whether it was the fact that the hunchbacks we were beginning to develop from hauling our packs around left us with a certain affinity with the building, or because it was the only other place we were sure would be open, Notre Dame Cathedral became our next destination of choice.
For those who don't know already, I'll go ahead and spoil the surprise right off the bat – there was no Hunchback. Ever. I'm not suggesting people didn't suffer from spinal malformations or ugliness in French history, there just wasn't a particular case localised within the Notre Dame bell tower. He was nothing more than an author's work of fiction. No singing gargoyles either. Damn you, Disney.

Making our way into the courtyard, once again we found ourselves swimming in a sea of tourists, some of them looking like they were doing their best to convince me that maybe the Hunchback did exist, he just spent his wandering around the front of the cathedral staring vacantly at a map. I was starting to sense that these tourists were becoming a theme, and that Paris wasn't the secluded corner of the world that a lifetime of wishful thinking and travelling ignorance had led me to believe.

If the cathedral itself had set out to impress me – which I like to think it had – it was doing its job rather well. Being that it was a house of God, it would appear that God likes to live extravagantly. It was a stone bohemoth, accessorising itself with a number of statues and intricate carvings. The two towers rose up, ears listening to the sounds of the city, hearing nothing but the irritating twang of foreigners and the seductive arrogance of locals. Ah, Paris. Nestled in between the towers was a large, ornate glass window; a cyclopic eye staring out across the city, locked in a perpetual staring contest with the Eiffel Tower for monument superiority. I'm not sure who was winning, nor did I have the stature to risk getting involved.

Being that I was a gothic cathedral virgin, I was altogether impressed with the sheer stature of the building, considering most of the churches I'd seen back home bore a striking resemblance toa high school assembly hall. Having two and a half months of European travel on me, Brendan and Rob were a little less impressed, having traversed a continent where gothic cathedrals plagued the countryside like a far more visually appealing smallpox, but they still oohed, aahed and gained erections at the appropriate moments.

Entering the monument, and thereby breaking myself in – please be gentle, Notre Dame – I craned my neck to take in the expanse of space that God required to kick back and relax. It was quite the pad – a giant organ for music, enough seating to satisfy any religious or social engagement and spacious enough that sound would carry so you could have a conversation with someone on the other side of the building without having to move. Around the walls there was a series a glass windows more stained than the bedsheets at a bordello; cross-sections of a kaleidoscope that someone had decided to insert into the architecture.

I wandered the pews, stared up at the ceiling that was so far above me that I could only assume it existed and – ever the peer pressure victim – eventually joined everyone else in flagrantly disregarding the no photography signs. I feel a bonded with several hundred strangers in our act of rebellion.

Without Jesus and his Apostles performing some kind of cabaret musical up front – Hunchback on percussion, a chorus line of nuns providing entertainment during the intermission – there was only so much of the inside of the cathedral that you could see before you got the idea and began to wish some of the sculptures were little more crude. It was time to head outside, to the top of the towers. Maybe that's where all the dirty carvings would be, where they couldn't corrupt young choir boys and girls. After all, that was a job for members of the clergy.
Just as I'm sure history had intended, access to the top of the Notre Damn towers was overseen by the time-honoured traditions of lines and admission fees. So we took up our rightful place in the queue, making sure we took the time every five minutes to shuffle forward a few feet. With a line hardly being the best vantage point for sightseeing, I could instead spend my time being slightly unnerved by the the 10-year-old kids next to me who appeared to be toying with a flick knife. Turns out it was a flick comb. Seems you can't walk down the street at night in Paris without fear of having your hair styled by a gang of wayward youths. Sure, they may leave you with all your money, but say goodbye to all of your toiletries.

After managing to get away with paying student entry prices by using the cunning ruse of saying, 'Yes, I am a student,' while providing absolutely no evidence, we made our way up the the spiral staircase. Undeniable proof that tourism is not a pastime intended for the obese, the staircase was determined to never end and narrow enough to create quite the human landslide if the person at the front decided that keeping there balance was a thing of the past. If I had been the person at the front, with a crowd of people behind me who would love nothing more than to cushion my fall, I wouldn't have been so concerned about this. Unfortunately I was much closer to the back, and I didn't want the last thing I saw before I died to be Rob's ass hurtling towards my face.

Just in time for my legs not to give out on me, we found ourselves ourselves at the top. This discovery was hardly a revelation, considering it's where we were heading the entire time. Despite my relative unfamiliarity with 17th Century architecture, I was fairly certain that the criss-crossing metal wires that barricaded the tower railings were not part of the original design. Exactly how many instances of people falling off had there been before they decided that a shield to prevent human stupidity was required? There was no tally etched into the stone walls, I checked.

The view itself was rather spectacular. The stone gargoyles-that-technically-weren't-gargoyles may have been sick of staring out at it over several hundred years – honestly they weren't that forthcoming with their opinions – but considering I was new to all of this, I believe I was filled with the appropriate sense of wonder. The Eiffel Tower was pointing up at the sun, which in turn was shining back down to reflect off the solid gold roof of Napoleon's tomb – I really wish I could overcompensate for lack of height in the same extravagant manner he enjoyed. Somehow, over the years, some modern buildings had managed to insert themselves into the scenery, grouping together to form there own clique. But as hard as they might have tried, they still couldn't tarnish the sight of this cultural metropolis sprawled out before me; an expanse of buildings that I already knew my legs would never find to time to carry me entirely through. The time I had was simply too little, as was the length of my steps. Curse these tiny, inefficient limbs.

My eyes were trying to make up for where my legs would inevitably let me down, traversing as much of the landscape as possible in the time that the tower guides seemed unwilling to be generous with. At the same time, staring out into the distance, no matter what that distance may contain. is a form of entertainment with something of a limited lifespan, so I had soon finished my grand production of Oohs and Ahs – soon to be a broadway musical – and impressing people with all of the buildings I couldn't name. It seems that 'Geoffry' doesn't count.

Making the way back down the stairs in the opposite tower I wondered if the guides would implement my suggestion of providing people with a toboggan to make the journey a whole lot more exhilarating. It was hard to tell which side of deranged genius they thought I was leaning more towards. They did appear to be backing away slowly though. In awe, I think it's safe to assume. Instead, I had to begrudgingly settle for the old-fashion way, one foot in front of the other and not remotely using gravity to its fullest advantage. Issac Newton would be spinning in his grave, albeit at the same speed and following the exact same path that the Earth seemed to be.

Hitting the bottom step, everyone in the group could all breathe a sigh of relief and let our minds wander from the incredible mental and physical strain of a vertical climb. After all, those stairs can be tough to navigate – up, down, the options are endless. There was now nothing left for me to do but start to ponder if there was anyone gullible enough to be coaxed into giving me a foot massage. Outside of my travelling companions that is. Brendan's hands didn't seem soft enough and I suspected Rob would enjoy it a little too much.

Though there was one final thing that intrigued me as I passed through a small cemetery to exit the grounds. Did these graves belong to significant figures in the cathedral's history, or tourists who had come to grief on the staircase I had just braved? Did my survival make me some kind of hero?

Yes, I believe it did.