Travel Chaos

After an eventful and very enjoyable venture home, it came to the time for me to come back to Paris. With a slightly heavy heart at again saying farewell to Wilmslow my sadness quickly turned to excitement, tiredness and eventually anger!

An empty flight again gave me the luxury of space on the aeroplane but on my arrival at Charles de Gaulle, and just as the fatigue of a non-stop 4 days hit me, I saw a sign saying the RER back into Paris wasn't running. Great. It transpired that there was a replacement bus I needed to take. I allowed an hour, thinking I'd be in bed by 11.30 but I was confused to see everyone getting off at the first stop, a train station seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I soon realised that it was the only stop and we were going to be getting a different RER line back.

We were ushered through and onto platform 5, I took up a tactical position a bit further down hoping that I may get a seat but before we knew it 4,5 and then 6 buses arrived and the platform was packed. Half an hour went by with nothing and then the announcer said it'd be here in 25-40 minutes. No kidding, what sort of time frame is that for a trains arrival?? Midnight came and went and I was becoming delirious. 15 minutes passed during which an empty train had pulled into a different platform. Sure enough the tanoy sprung into life telling us that we had to get on this train. A stampede ensued and despite being told it wouldn't leave until everyone was on board, after about half the people had got on (including me), it did.

So we left 100 or so very, very angry French people but I was too tired to feel any empathy. We'd initially been told this would be direct to Gare du Nord but 2 minutes in we were told it would be acting as a replacement service and would stop at every station on the way. Brilliant, I thought, bed at 2am. I managed to muster a small chuckle and I kid you not, I didn't see anyone get off at any of the stops between. Nevertheless I was glad to arrive back into the station and when I was asked to show my ticket (which I didn't have) I duly told them to piss off and let me through. Which they did. Some comfort there..

Love/Hate

I've witnessed pretty much everything I love and hate about Paris, or more generally France, in the last few days.

We start with the hate.

The smugness of the Rugby fans at their victory over Wales, acting as if they're worthy to be in the final. Their incessant cheering at even the slightest good thing that France did was so annoying and one idiot in particular from last weeks match kept shouting BOOM at every bloody tackle!
Then an area of sensitivity to me already, the Swimming Pool. Now, I took it on the chin that I had to wear a Swim hat (which admittedly now makes me feel like a pro) and I even wear some super sexy speedos but in France they have somehow drawn the conclusion that NOT having lanes for different speeds makes the most sense. Every time I go I get more and more frustrated as some 75 year old will slide into my lane and proceed to swim so slowly they're literally nearly going backwards! Then I get some look as if I've insulted their child when I try and overtake them! There are people doing Backstroke, stopping for a chat halfway down the lane. It's madness.

Having said that it brings us onto my love affair with Paris. On Sunday I forgot my student card so tried to execute a charm offensive on the lady at the desk to get my reduced tariff. She let me in for free although with hindsight I think I remember the machine being broken and she was letting everyone in free. Never mind.
To my great delight it was raining all day yesterday. I love a good miserable days weather but even I would not do what every Parisian and his wife were doing. On my route to Uni, outside every café I saw people sat on the outside tables, drinking an espresso, reading a book or having some lunch literally acting as if there was  no level 3 gale blowing. I mean yes, they were undercover but I think they were kidding themselves that they were comfortable. But still, I admire their determination to be "European".

Finally. Last night. It came so very close to being one of the best of my life, indeed had I seen the 1 person who turned out not be there, my year in Paris would've been worthwhile and I could've come home now, fulfilled. I am of course talking about Ryan Gosling. My Man Crush of the Year 2011.
I was meeting friends at the cinema on the Champs-Elysées and when I got there I quickly realised there was some sort of premiere, promotion thing to do with the Ides of March. When it set in that some of the actors may actually be there I pelted it to the front of the small crowd (it was chucking it down) and sure enough I was confronted with.... GEORGE CLOONEY!! I was in disbelief at how casually he was 10 feet away from me. Phillip Seymour Hoffman was there too and the whole thing was very surreal. Like I said though, no Gosling. But I'll take George Clooney as a more than adequate reserve prize....

Midnight in Paris

With my new bff Moritz firmly on board we both decided it was essential to go to a Boat Party on Saturday night. It's basically a river cruise along le Seine, and then the boat docks and there's a "disco" until the early hours.

He'd met a French girl in one of his classes and she duly invited us to her house beforehand. I was excited when her address was avenue Victor Hugo and I wasn't let down as we were beckoned into a 5 roomed, classic Parisian apartment. It even had a grand piano! We felt a bit like intruders as most of the others were French masters student in droit privé, pretty flash, but slowly but surely a few more of the Erasmus bunch arrived and we settled into a lively conversation with a Spanish guy called Alvaro, whose French accent was so Hispanic and so hard to understand I'm pretty sure he may have been talking Spanish. Then 2 Polish guys came and despite my initial hatred for them when they said they were from Warsaw (see Passport error circa 2009), they were both pretty cool and we formed a 5-way Bromance. Alvaro was particularly enjoying himself as he got a chance to speak to a girl he'd known only as l'Argentinienne until now, the Argentinian, but he soon returned safe in the knowledge that she had a boyfriend!

After much delay we finally arrived at the boat at 1.30 and to be honest I was ready to go home. However I pressed on and it was quite a novel experience. A few too many Vodka and jus de pomme's for me though and I decided to set about going home around 3. A search in vain for a night bus stop forced my hand and I thought right, I'll walk. Bad idea. 2 and a half hours later I arrive back at my door, frustrated and utterly exhausted, I'd traversed half of Paris. At one point I literally nearly walked into the Eiffel Tower without realising and then somehow ended up at l'Arc de Triomphe. I think maybe subconsciously I was taking myself on a walking tour or something.
But, unlike Woody Allen's film, I wasn't transported back to the early 20th century..

One Day

So I'm at the end of a brilliant first week at Uni. I went to the Stade de France to watch France v Bosnia, I've opened a bank account (nearly) and I've made my first non-British friend, a German lad called Moritz, wooo! Bonding over a mutual love for sport and European women my week also encompassed my first "night on the tiles".

We had planned to go to the Mix Club, a huge night every Thursday for the Erasmus bunch but we got there and the queue was monstrous so we opted to go around the corner to the Financier, an English Bar. Great, I thought, just what I didn't want but luckily it was Student's Night and full of young Francophones. It was a serile experience talking French with a bunch of Spanish, Italian and German guys, it felt almost like we were at the under25 UN or something, just with more slurring and less political chat. We couldn't turn down the €4 a pint offer (that's pretty cheap in Paris) so after a few of these, plus some inexplicable Vodka shots, Moritz and I are best friends. Yess.

The lectures so far have been 3 hour marathons and everyone seems unusually attentive. It's also like a fashion parade around Uni and it really couldn't be a bigger contrast to a British University. As I looked around, there wasn't a pair of Jack Wills joggers in sight. Neither was there anyone looking like they were being eaten from the inside out by an army of centipedes after the previous nights antics. A nice change and I was keeping up well. I enjoyed Marketing and Globalisation especially and it has a more intimate, school-like quality to it. I've eyed up this massive Dutch guy in the latter module to be my next friend too, Moritz and I are going to acost him on Monday.

I've set myself the challenge of reading 5 books before Christmas and I'm pleased to say I've already read one. I eased my way back into reading with One Day and despite finishing it in 3 days I thought it was a bit shit really, and I'm a sucker for romance so not sure what happened there. My next target is Alexandre Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo, raising the stakes a little and it will probably take significantly longer to get through! Finally I got fed up with my lame effort at growing a French beard and shaved it off. But not before I experimented....

What the hell kind of country is this?

So I set out today to go for a swim before I headed into Uni. I put my trunks, goggles and towel into my bag and went to Piscine Georges Drigny, about 3 minutes walk away. I paid my 3 Euros, oblivious to the fact that there was a student tariff and got changed. After trying and failing to work the fancy, pin code accessible lockers I settled for conventional methods and slotted my Euro coin in and went.

I was slightly worried that I didn't have a swimming cap as I'm well aware at some pools this is an absolute no-no. With this on my mind I sheepishly walked around the corner and quickly scanned of the pool, sure enough, everyone in hats. As I approached, the life-guard, who by the way was about 65 (creepy) came over and introduced himself. I thought, ah how nice, what a lovely man, wants to get know the people he's guarding.

Quickly enough I realised there was more to his visit than a welcome. I couldn't quite get what he was saying as he mumbled through his wrinkled face but I guessed and apologised for not having a cap. He was confused by my comment and shook his head. In actual fact, he told me that I couldn't come swimming because...wait for it.... I WAS WEARING SWIMMING SHORTS AND NOT TIGHT TRUNKS.

My first thought was, are you kidding? but he well and truly seemed insulted by my response of c'est vrai? How can this be? that wearing swim shorts is socially unacceptable or rude. They were completely black too, not even garish or offensive. He told me I could go and buy some from reception but to hurry as the pool was closing in 20 minutes. Dick.

I'd only brought change for the swim so I retreated home, 3 Euros less well off and nothing to show for it. Sure enough though, I went out and got myself some navy blue speedos and a cap later on. Safe to say when I tried them on at home I looked like a complete pillock. Cheers Jean, see you tomorrow.


On a more successful note, I've just come back from France vs Bosnia at the Stade de France. Average match but for 10 Euros it was a great experience, pretty awesome stadium and French football fans are just as crude as British ones with several people calling the Bosnian fans fils de put, meaning. Son's of bitch's (a much worse insult here than in the UK).

How I Lost My Flower....

With my first full weekend in France approaching I couldn't have asked for a better line-up really. England v Montenegro, Wales v Ireland and of course England v France were all on in a packed sporting schedule. It was pretty clear how my weekend would go.

Picking one of the many British bars around to watch the football proved quite tricky really but Oli and I settled for Corcoran's, a lively Irish pub and, after having a few beers beforehand, rocked up fairly drunk! After paying 6.50 for a pint we pretty quickly decided it would be our last and it'd have to last us the game!
The match itself was shit but it was an enjoyable warm-up to the losing of my French Party Virginity.

We made our way into le Marais and found out it was what is known as a cremaillére. A housewarming. Expecting to walk into an apartment with music blaring and people everywhere we were a bit let down as we entered to a fairly mellow room of people around a table, all smoking (no clichés here, literally everyone smokes). I had a good mixture of anticipation, nerves and self consciousness at testing, for the first real time, my "chit-chat" spoken French. Nevertheless, with several Koenigsbier in me I was confident.

I didn't do too badly. It quickly became apparent that most of them were dying to practice their English so I settled into a routine of speaking French and hearing English. It is slightly embarrassing to see that pretty much everyone can speak very good English which, compared to in England, would not be the case with French.
We were oblivious at the time but everyone was thrown out by the angry host (I've no idea why). I arrived at a second cremaillére with no alcohol and tiring so I settled into the corner and kept with the people who I'd come with. One thing that struck me straight away, about both parties, was that everyone greets everyone. My natural British sheepishness when entering a room full of strangers will be cast aside forever now. Even those that didn't get chance to say hi to us came over before they left and said bonsoiré. A very nice touch I think and I'll be taking that back to the UK with me.

I'd say I did fairly well overall and I had a great time to go with it. Between being taught various swear words by a couple of guys and "bantering" about the rugby, conversation flowed well. However, there were a handfull of moments where I spectacularly let myself down. When I was able to understand perfectly a group conversation, and these were scarce, I thought I should try to make the most of it and contribute. Unfortunately, either due to a suspect accent, terrible grammar or the Koenigsbier slurring my words, what I said was not understood. An initial repeat didn't do the trick and on one occasion it took me 4 goes and an explanation of what I was trying to say to get my joke across. Part of me died each time. As everyone knows, explaining a joke means it was shit. I will let myself off though, it being the first time and all and I will not be put off.

Lectures start tomorrow so I'll have loads more chances to practice my joke-making...

I've only gone and found it!

There are 3 things in life I love more than most;

1)- My Family(gaaayyy)

2)- Apple Juice

and maybe the most important 3)- Milk.

To tear myself away from Britain and it's glorious production of milk was one of the hardest things about my going away. Day in, day out, for nearly 22 years I have consumed milk like armageddon was coming. It goes with everything. Cereal? Yep. Biscuits? Sure. Tea? Classic. Casual thirst quenching beverage? Obviously. Fit for all occassions and unrivalled across the planet by its freshness and taste, British milk has been a huge part of my life. So, with my 9 month absence, it was looking like a long distance relationship I'd have to make work.

With this is mind, I thought I may, with the French love of all things agricultural, be able to find some sort of substitute, somewhere. On my first visit to the local Carrefour (French Tesco), my hopes were dented slightly as the shelves of long life milk took pride of place (I find these and other non-refrigerated milks deeply, deeply offensive). But to be honest, I was so excited at food shopping for myself again, my search for any fresh milk was fairly lacklustre. I ended up settling for some chocolate milk, CandyUp, to be precise, but it's just not the same.

Setting out for my second visit to the supermarket with a much reduced shopping list, I thought it the perfect time to go on a real hunt for some pasteurized milk. Coupled with an emptier shop and it being the first day under 20 degrees, I was also, for the first time, comfortable in my winter clothing (which mum so kindly forced me to pack in abundance, leaving me with no option but to operate my 5 t-shirts on a Rafa Benitez like rotation policy). 

I set out snaking my way through the isles, tinned veg isle, bread isle, the cereal isle (no Shreddies..my 4th love) until I approached the big one. With my back turned on the disgracefully large long-life section I used my MilkRay vision and homed in for the kill. A couple of dead-ends, luring me in with the word frais, only to be turned away when the expiry date is in 100 years time. And then came the moment, I saw it. Slightly left of centre, a couple of rows up, pasteurizé, frais, qualité. I went for it, Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Bottle of Milk I thought.

It was a punt. I've been to several French/European hotels and they all claim to serve fresh milk but it always ended up tasting like cold feet but I figured at 1.17 euros, it was worth a risk. So as I got home I unpacked my bag and unloaded my shopping. I took out the milk, placed it on the desk and opened it. Glug, glug, glug. I waited for any horrible after taste...but it never came. RESULT. It will never, of course, be able to beat British milk but for now, it feels like if British milk were my girlfriend, then this French milk would be Skype with a HD webcam so as to keep in touch her.

Some would say I'm the happiest man in Paris right now....

here she is!

Errr...pardon?...Desolé....

So. Here I am. A year later than expected thanks to an unmentionable fuck up on my part circa 2 years ago, sitting on my bed in my 16m sq studio apartment, or "studette", as they are affectionately referred to in France, with 9 months of a new city, new lifestyle and new(ish) language in front of me.

I'm interested to see whether I will be Born Again over this year in terms of any new interests or habits that I may pick up. The abundance of art galleries and museums here are sure to have the pleasure of my visit at some point and I'm hoping that, without a school teacher breathing down my neck, I'll be able to wander the corridors of le Louvre or le Gran Palais and enjoy what's on offer firmly in the knowledge that I won't have to bullshit my way through a 1,200 word essay on the brush techniques and use of light by the artist (yaaawwwnn).

I'm 4 days in now and have probably walked enough to have circumnavigated the Earth. To anyone that knows me well, this will come as a shock. I. Hate. Walking. However, between my reluctance to submit to the Metro, the ridiculously good weather and trying to "get to know Paris" I've actually quite enjoyed it. I already have a basic grasp of the various arrondissements and just 20 minutes I ago I was able to help someone find where they wanted to go. This was a huge moment for a few reasons;

Firstly because I obviously looked like I knew where I was going to this lady,

Secondly because I gave her precise directions and she didn't question that I was French

And thirdly, and most amazingly....SHE WAS FRENCH!! What a mug. I gave her directions in her own country. I don't know about anyone else but that made me feel bloody cool!!

Another momentous occasion was my first bit of French banter. It came at an ice-cream stand. It was Thursday afternoon and as I approached, the Ice-Creameur asked me what flavour I wanted and I confidently stated "Stracciatella si'il vous plait". He asked me if I'd like another. I said no, "juste Stracciatella". The man smiled and as he was making up my petit cornetto he asked me if I was German. I laughed and said no. I asked why. He replied that all Germans love Stracciatella. I took this on board. Let it sit for a few seconds and came out with word perfect French saying "sorry, does that mean I'm being boring then". Now for some, this may not seem overtly funny, however I'd remind those people that it was in a foreign language and almost instantaneous and it drew a laugh not only from the kind man but also from the lady behind me in the queue. French stand-up here I come???