Winter in Paris can not feel any further away from a sunny January Australia Day spent eating lamingtons and snags straight off the barbie...
But Australia Day anywhere in the world is about celebrating being Australian and that is what I did in an aussie bar near the Hotel de Ville on the right bank of the Seine with friends from all over the world.
The six of us started with a few drinks in Cafe Oz. My new friends from the french class come from all the corners of the world - USA, Brazil, Chile and Turkey...but all were Aussie at heart last night as they threw themselves into trying aussie beers (while i stuck to a slightly more european style cocktail - but then again i don't have to pretend to be aussie...)
A little metro ride took us next to the Theatre de la Main d'Or...a teeny tiny theatre showing a one-man play that had rave reviews...performing entirely in English (thankfully), Frenchman Olivier Giraud spent an hilarious hour teaching us 'How to Become a Parisian in One Hour'...with shameless digs at the french and even more at the americans his tongue-in-cheek performance had us in stitches....and perhaps we learnt a little something about how to be Parisian in the metro, in a nightclub...and even in the bedroom....!
Back to the ozzie bar we went, knowing the place would be pumping with a dj playing and a healthy mix of aussies and parisians thoroughly warmed up. The dj cranked up some latin tunes which had my brazilian buddies hitting their stride....
....as for me? I lifted my glass in the air and grinned....simply relishing being an Australian in Paris.
Till next time...
Friday, 28 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Paris Life
Now that I am two weeks into life in Paris I have settled into a routine which I happen to find very pleasant indeed. There is nothing, in fact, to complain about 'working' only 4 hours per day - even if those 4 hours are fairly full on and confusing. And, I do complain about the 9am start....I know I shouldn't...I don't exactly have it hard.
The hours following those long hours of morning study seem to meld into a Parisian life of sorts...visiting the supermarket for supplies...meeting friends for coffee (ok...wine....ok....cocktails)... and maybe popping into a museum here or going for a long walk somewhere new there.
I have a little group of friends from my class that I am getting to know. They are from all over the world and are all here for different reasons- but we are all in the same boat and on Friday, to celebrate the arrival of the weekend like every other Parisian, we decided to meet in the late afternoon and go for a few drinks. Technically the most local since I live closest to the school I suggested we meet at metro Odean, where I am, quite literally, a regular at a funky cocktail bar called 'Etage St Germain'...yes, they know my name and greet me by it when I arrive. and yes...they know my drink order - a large margarita. There is nothing that makes me feel more local.
The weekend bought the arrival of the friend who has...somehow....put up with me the longest of any of my friends - Alex. We have known eachother our whole lives.... Sharing a slightly obsessive adoration of paris I visited her when she lived here for a month several years ago and now it was time for the hospitality to be reversed. Meeting Aussie friends of hers who also happened to be in town for the weekend, the four of us started in a very civilised fashion with cake and coffee at a patisserie in St Germain before moving on to 'my' bar. (it's clearly not surpristing that they know me!) Margaritas were followed by moules and frites at a seafood restaurant nearby where the maitre-d' took great joy in making us practise our french (and correcting it sternly) before we completed the evening with fromage and wine at another bar I rather like - Le Pub St Germain. A little bit posh, a little bit fancy and with a Frenchly-flirty and handsome waiter...it was definitely an amazing place to finish off our evening.
Seedy Sunday was spent relatively quitetly. Amazingly there were two fairly touristy activities in paris which neither Alex or I had ever done. The first was a wonder around the Cimetere Pere Lachaise...the cemetetry which guards the bodies of such celebs as Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. Both of whom had graves quite badly defaced by fans. With Wilde's tomb covered in lipsticked kisses and Morrison's the inevitable graffiti, the tombs tell of men adored by fans even in death.
A quick cross back over the river took us to Musee d'Orsay...the magnificent museum/ex-train-station on the left bank boasting masterpieces including significant work by Van Gogh and Renoir and their followers (more men adored by fans in death...) We spend a speedy hour racing around the breathtaking building before closing time - taking in as much as possible - before heading to the Marais district for drinks and dinner.
Another of my favourite districts of paris (if I wasn't staying in St Germain I would be staying here), the Marais is hip and trendy, filled with bars, nightclubs, restaurants and boutiques - many of them aimed at the district's large gay community. Our mohitos were strong and our meals mouthwatering so we stayed in the one bar for hours before heading home in giggly moods via roadside nutella crepes.
It was lucky that we had an amazing night out that night since our exciting plans for my birthday had to be cancelled the next day...Poor Alex woke up feeling like she would die...with a (thankfully only...) 24 hour gastro bug ruining the day. While I raced off to the pharmacy for supplies (thank God the French are such hypercondriacs with a pharmacy on every corner...) poor alex stayed in bed for the day...Cancelling our amazing dinner plans I drank a small bottle of champagne instead in sorrow and celebration....
There will be other birthdays....
till next time...
The hours following those long hours of morning study seem to meld into a Parisian life of sorts...visiting the supermarket for supplies...meeting friends for coffee (ok...wine....ok....cocktails)... and maybe popping into a museum here or going for a long walk somewhere new there.
I have a little group of friends from my class that I am getting to know. They are from all over the world and are all here for different reasons- but we are all in the same boat and on Friday, to celebrate the arrival of the weekend like every other Parisian, we decided to meet in the late afternoon and go for a few drinks. Technically the most local since I live closest to the school I suggested we meet at metro Odean, where I am, quite literally, a regular at a funky cocktail bar called 'Etage St Germain'...yes, they know my name and greet me by it when I arrive. and yes...they know my drink order - a large margarita. There is nothing that makes me feel more local.
The weekend bought the arrival of the friend who has...somehow....put up with me the longest of any of my friends - Alex. We have known eachother our whole lives.... Sharing a slightly obsessive adoration of paris I visited her when she lived here for a month several years ago and now it was time for the hospitality to be reversed. Meeting Aussie friends of hers who also happened to be in town for the weekend, the four of us started in a very civilised fashion with cake and coffee at a patisserie in St Germain before moving on to 'my' bar. (it's clearly not surpristing that they know me!) Margaritas were followed by moules and frites at a seafood restaurant nearby where the maitre-d' took great joy in making us practise our french (and correcting it sternly) before we completed the evening with fromage and wine at another bar I rather like - Le Pub St Germain. A little bit posh, a little bit fancy and with a Frenchly-flirty and handsome waiter...it was definitely an amazing place to finish off our evening.
Seedy Sunday was spent relatively quitetly. Amazingly there were two fairly touristy activities in paris which neither Alex or I had ever done. The first was a wonder around the Cimetere Pere Lachaise...the cemetetry which guards the bodies of such celebs as Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. Both of whom had graves quite badly defaced by fans. With Wilde's tomb covered in lipsticked kisses and Morrison's the inevitable graffiti, the tombs tell of men adored by fans even in death.
A quick cross back over the river took us to Musee d'Orsay...the magnificent museum/ex-train-station on the left bank boasting masterpieces including significant work by Van Gogh and Renoir and their followers (more men adored by fans in death...) We spend a speedy hour racing around the breathtaking building before closing time - taking in as much as possible - before heading to the Marais district for drinks and dinner.
Another of my favourite districts of paris (if I wasn't staying in St Germain I would be staying here), the Marais is hip and trendy, filled with bars, nightclubs, restaurants and boutiques - many of them aimed at the district's large gay community. Our mohitos were strong and our meals mouthwatering so we stayed in the one bar for hours before heading home in giggly moods via roadside nutella crepes.
It was lucky that we had an amazing night out that night since our exciting plans for my birthday had to be cancelled the next day...Poor Alex woke up feeling like she would die...with a (thankfully only...) 24 hour gastro bug ruining the day. While I raced off to the pharmacy for supplies (thank God the French are such hypercondriacs with a pharmacy on every corner...) poor alex stayed in bed for the day...Cancelling our amazing dinner plans I drank a small bottle of champagne instead in sorrow and celebration....
There will be other birthdays....
till next time...
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Sexy bar for crazy night
When Heidi and I ventured into St Michel in the Latin Quarter last night in search of a late-opening bar after a few celebratory birthday cocktails in the Odeon area, we thought the one called 'Latin Bar' looked like it had a good crowd and a fun vibe....not until we sat down with a beer outside and saw the sign 'sexy bar for crazy night' and, seconds later, were served by a (very chisled and muscular!) man wearing only his underwear did we think we might have stumbled into an altogether different sort of bar....
St Michel, on the Seine's left bank in the Latin Quarter, is one of the uber touristy parts of Paris that I'm really not a huge fan of. One minute you're admiring a beautiful statue in the square surrounded by the most parisien of buildings and with the Seine flowing gently behind you, the next you have turned off the main street and found yourself in neon sign mania...tons of greek restaurants complete with tacky broken plates at the doors and touters trying to force you inside with the promise of some sort of freebie...you could be anywhere in the world but for somehow it reminds me a lot of Athens - it definitely doesn't feel like the beautiful Paris that I know. The bars and clubs are expensive and tacky and there's not a french bistro or brassarie to be seen...but on a monday night when you're looking to stay out and celebrate a 30th, it's the only place to go...and go we did....we weren't home till 2.30am....!
We have spent Heidi's time here eating lots of cheese and drinking quite a few cocktails. We have found a little bar in St Germain that we like and have been back there a couple of times...not often enough to know the waiter just yet but enough to know the menu...We have ventured into the Marais and visited the Pompidou centre - a museum for contemporary art...we have been lost so often that we have lost count and we have eaten pizza on the street swigging beer from the bottle and people watching in Les Halles. We've caught a boat down the seine and listened intently to our english speaking headphones, reveling in the history of the iconic buildings...and we have drunk a bottle of champagne while eating birthday gatauex - one milk chocolate with merange and one white chocolate - sweet and delicious little cakes bought from the patisserie down the road...it is 30 in style. It is the way to kick off the next decade of adventure and new experience. It is a sexy bar for a crazy night. It is a birthday spent in Paris...
Happy birhday gorgeous Heidi!
Till next time...
St Michel, on the Seine's left bank in the Latin Quarter, is one of the uber touristy parts of Paris that I'm really not a huge fan of. One minute you're admiring a beautiful statue in the square surrounded by the most parisien of buildings and with the Seine flowing gently behind you, the next you have turned off the main street and found yourself in neon sign mania...tons of greek restaurants complete with tacky broken plates at the doors and touters trying to force you inside with the promise of some sort of freebie...you could be anywhere in the world but for somehow it reminds me a lot of Athens - it definitely doesn't feel like the beautiful Paris that I know. The bars and clubs are expensive and tacky and there's not a french bistro or brassarie to be seen...but on a monday night when you're looking to stay out and celebrate a 30th, it's the only place to go...and go we did....we weren't home till 2.30am....!
We have spent Heidi's time here eating lots of cheese and drinking quite a few cocktails. We have found a little bar in St Germain that we like and have been back there a couple of times...not often enough to know the waiter just yet but enough to know the menu...We have ventured into the Marais and visited the Pompidou centre - a museum for contemporary art...we have been lost so often that we have lost count and we have eaten pizza on the street swigging beer from the bottle and people watching in Les Halles. We've caught a boat down the seine and listened intently to our english speaking headphones, reveling in the history of the iconic buildings...and we have drunk a bottle of champagne while eating birthday gatauex - one milk chocolate with merange and one white chocolate - sweet and delicious little cakes bought from the patisserie down the road...it is 30 in style. It is the way to kick off the next decade of adventure and new experience. It is a sexy bar for a crazy night. It is a birthday spent in Paris...
Happy birhday gorgeous Heidi!
Till next time...
Republic
With a couple of hours to kill before meeting Heidi at la Gare du Nord on Saturday afternoon I decided to seek out the Canal St Martin area, which I had heard was the latest hotspot for up and coming designers and artists, as well as a hip place to party come nightfall.
The Bastille area of Paris, of which the canal is a neighbour, has long been the centre of rowdy demonstrations of democratic strength by the french lower classes. The most famous of these, of course, being the french revolution....but the french are still known to regularly throw their weight around in protestation...there are regular strikes of postal workers and train drivers which tend to disrupt the country somewhat.
So when I arrived above ground at the Place de la Republique metro station to dozens of police wearing full riot gear and heard the sounds of chanting and yelling from the thousands of people clambering on the statue and milling around it waving Tunisian flags I wasn't necesarily surprised but I was definitely wary. Not particularly fancying a mouthful of tear gas, any sane little aussie chick on her own would have meekly turned around and moved on to the next metro stop....
Not me....
Curious to find out what was going on and drawn by the crowds I made my way to the square, closer to the statue and stood on the edges of the demonstration watching the flag waving chanters, trying to work out what they were protesting/celebrating. Of course I know of the troubles in Tunisia at the moment but the atmosphere was celebratory (I have since found out that France refused the Tunisian prime minister assylum that day and I believe the crowd was celebrating that decision...)
In the end the police seemed to be enjoying a nice day in the sun. The crowd seemed well behaved, if excited, and eventually I moved on to a lovely walk along the canal and my excited visitor watiing at the train station...
till next time.
The Bastille area of Paris, of which the canal is a neighbour, has long been the centre of rowdy demonstrations of democratic strength by the french lower classes. The most famous of these, of course, being the french revolution....but the french are still known to regularly throw their weight around in protestation...there are regular strikes of postal workers and train drivers which tend to disrupt the country somewhat.
So when I arrived above ground at the Place de la Republique metro station to dozens of police wearing full riot gear and heard the sounds of chanting and yelling from the thousands of people clambering on the statue and milling around it waving Tunisian flags I wasn't necesarily surprised but I was definitely wary. Not particularly fancying a mouthful of tear gas, any sane little aussie chick on her own would have meekly turned around and moved on to the next metro stop....
Not me....
Curious to find out what was going on and drawn by the crowds I made my way to the square, closer to the statue and stood on the edges of the demonstration watching the flag waving chanters, trying to work out what they were protesting/celebrating. Of course I know of the troubles in Tunisia at the moment but the atmosphere was celebratory (I have since found out that France refused the Tunisian prime minister assylum that day and I believe the crowd was celebrating that decision...)
In the end the police seemed to be enjoying a nice day in the sun. The crowd seemed well behaved, if excited, and eventually I moved on to a lovely walk along the canal and my excited visitor watiing at the train station...
till next time.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Tres Macabre
What else could be a better activity to do on a sunny Friday afternoon in Paris than to decend into the cavernous underground and spend some time amongst 6 million dead bodies?
Below the metro, deep underground in disused quarries beneath the city of Paris, lie the Catacombs, damp and dark tunnels bounded by the bones of the city's 18th century residents.
The first of the bones were placed here in 1786 when decomposing bodies started seeping into the cellars of the market at Les Halles drawing swarms of rats and causing disease. A public outcry resulted in the bones being moved, carefully and with respect, by black robed priests and their helpers, into the Catacombs and stacked neatly by bone type - packs of tibias and piles of spinal disks, often with a tongue-in-cheek artful arrangments (skulls and their crossbones, skulls arranged in a heartshape, and more in a cross...)...
The walk takes about 45 minutes and is eerie and macabre...but for the odd soft light from lamps along the way it is dark and damp with drips that fall from the rocky ceiling and run down your back causing the odd unexpected shiver. Some of the tunnels are narrow and, with the low ceilings, you certainly wouldn't want to be clostrophobic or, as the sign warned at the front door, be of a 'nervous disposition'. I found the whole experience interesting and a little surreal...I was glad to have done it but perhaps wouldn't be rushing back in a hurry - especially not at halloween!
Thankfully, I was not alone. I was joined for this particular outing by Bethany, a New Yorker from my French class with whom I have spent some time over the past couple of days, watching french movies (in french with french subtitles...!) and enjoying several glasses of vin rouge at a couple of little bars nearby.
One week has already flown past and I am wishing that time would slow down. I am comfortable in my surroundings and feel like I know my neighbourhood (though there will be always be a little side street or another hidden little bar to discover...). I feel my french improving as understand more and more and it is less of a struggle to make myself understood.
I am looking forward to Heidi arriving this afternoon so I can indroduce her to my life here and maybe check out the Parisian night life in style.
Till next time...
Below the metro, deep underground in disused quarries beneath the city of Paris, lie the Catacombs, damp and dark tunnels bounded by the bones of the city's 18th century residents.
The first of the bones were placed here in 1786 when decomposing bodies started seeping into the cellars of the market at Les Halles drawing swarms of rats and causing disease. A public outcry resulted in the bones being moved, carefully and with respect, by black robed priests and their helpers, into the Catacombs and stacked neatly by bone type - packs of tibias and piles of spinal disks, often with a tongue-in-cheek artful arrangments (skulls and their crossbones, skulls arranged in a heartshape, and more in a cross...)...
The walk takes about 45 minutes and is eerie and macabre...but for the odd soft light from lamps along the way it is dark and damp with drips that fall from the rocky ceiling and run down your back causing the odd unexpected shiver. Some of the tunnels are narrow and, with the low ceilings, you certainly wouldn't want to be clostrophobic or, as the sign warned at the front door, be of a 'nervous disposition'. I found the whole experience interesting and a little surreal...I was glad to have done it but perhaps wouldn't be rushing back in a hurry - especially not at halloween!
Thankfully, I was not alone. I was joined for this particular outing by Bethany, a New Yorker from my French class with whom I have spent some time over the past couple of days, watching french movies (in french with french subtitles...!) and enjoying several glasses of vin rouge at a couple of little bars nearby.
One week has already flown past and I am wishing that time would slow down. I am comfortable in my surroundings and feel like I know my neighbourhood (though there will be always be a little side street or another hidden little bar to discover...). I feel my french improving as understand more and more and it is less of a struggle to make myself understood.
I am looking forward to Heidi arriving this afternoon so I can indroduce her to my life here and maybe check out the Parisian night life in style.
Till next time...
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Soldes a Paris
I am prepared for you to scoff at me...
If you read my blog from yesterday you will recall that I mentioned that every day that I am in Paris I aim to do something I've never done before...
Today I went shopping....
BUT!!! Hear me out!
With a mission in mind to track down something fabulously Parisien as a birthday gift for my equally fabulous friend, Heidi, I made my way, this afternoon, to Le Bon Marche...the chicest department store in a city chock full of chic department stores. A hop skip and jump down the road from my apartment, this is THE store in Paris, my guide book tells me, where celebs duck in for essentials while everyone else pretends not to recognise them. I had never been there before and, therefore, I'm sure you will agree, it counts...
Another reason for hitting the shops today is that Paris - the self confessed shopping capital of the world - began its January sales today. A couple of weeks later than the rest of the world perhaps - but who am I to complain?
And so with a mission and a cause, I shouldered into the department store alongside the rest of paris, pushing aside the odd bored male and tipping a few children out of their prams in my effort to reach the nearest bargain. Unfortunately I soon realised that even the most fabulous of bargain basement sale items were still a couple of hundred euros more than I could ever dream of affording (sorry Heidi) so once I considered Le Bon Marche well and truly ticked off my list of 'must dos' I followed my (well honed) nose past a few Louis Vuitton bags and a couple of Cartier rings to the slightly more affordable Parisien version of Britain's 'high street'.
I should have known my own nose a little better as it lead me next door instead, to La Grande Epicerie Paris, the haute couture of grocery stores sporting aisle after aisle of gourmet goodies...cheese (of course- this is paris), chocolate, desserts and meats from all over the world. Lost in my own little foodie world I refrained from purchasing even more cheese and bread for tonight's dinner (my jeans are starting to feel uncomfortably tight!) and dragged myself back to the mission at hand.
Eventually, I found just the gift I was looking for (no hints...) and realised I had also got myself a little bit lost (no surprises there) in the excitement of rushing from one sale-sign filled shop to another. I sunk into a chair outside a nearby bar for a cocktail and a furtive glance at my map.
There are two things I love about Parisien bars:-
1) they seem to have fully and wholeheartedly embraced the concept of 'la happy hour' - a 5 euro cocktail sure beats a 10 euro one between the hours of 7 and 9pm.
2) once you have ordered and paid you are welcome to sit and relax for as long as you would like without being hassled by any snooty waiters...doing like the french and sitting at outside tables facing the street, unashamedly people watching. The french, it seems, like to be seen and they like to be watched. They do it to others and they expect the same in return. They dress, I'm sure, especially for the people in the bars staring at them as they walk past. So, I'm happy to be la belle parisienne once more, staring, watching, listening in to unintelligible conversations....and sipping my 5 euro mojito
Happy shopping!
Till next time...
If you read my blog from yesterday you will recall that I mentioned that every day that I am in Paris I aim to do something I've never done before...
Today I went shopping....
BUT!!! Hear me out!
With a mission in mind to track down something fabulously Parisien as a birthday gift for my equally fabulous friend, Heidi, I made my way, this afternoon, to Le Bon Marche...the chicest department store in a city chock full of chic department stores. A hop skip and jump down the road from my apartment, this is THE store in Paris, my guide book tells me, where celebs duck in for essentials while everyone else pretends not to recognise them. I had never been there before and, therefore, I'm sure you will agree, it counts...
Another reason for hitting the shops today is that Paris - the self confessed shopping capital of the world - began its January sales today. A couple of weeks later than the rest of the world perhaps - but who am I to complain?
And so with a mission and a cause, I shouldered into the department store alongside the rest of paris, pushing aside the odd bored male and tipping a few children out of their prams in my effort to reach the nearest bargain. Unfortunately I soon realised that even the most fabulous of bargain basement sale items were still a couple of hundred euros more than I could ever dream of affording (sorry Heidi) so once I considered Le Bon Marche well and truly ticked off my list of 'must dos' I followed my (well honed) nose past a few Louis Vuitton bags and a couple of Cartier rings to the slightly more affordable Parisien version of Britain's 'high street'.
I should have known my own nose a little better as it lead me next door instead, to La Grande Epicerie Paris, the haute couture of grocery stores sporting aisle after aisle of gourmet goodies...cheese (of course- this is paris), chocolate, desserts and meats from all over the world. Lost in my own little foodie world I refrained from purchasing even more cheese and bread for tonight's dinner (my jeans are starting to feel uncomfortably tight!) and dragged myself back to the mission at hand.
Eventually, I found just the gift I was looking for (no hints...) and realised I had also got myself a little bit lost (no surprises there) in the excitement of rushing from one sale-sign filled shop to another. I sunk into a chair outside a nearby bar for a cocktail and a furtive glance at my map.
There are two things I love about Parisien bars:-
1) they seem to have fully and wholeheartedly embraced the concept of 'la happy hour' - a 5 euro cocktail sure beats a 10 euro one between the hours of 7 and 9pm.
2) once you have ordered and paid you are welcome to sit and relax for as long as you would like without being hassled by any snooty waiters...doing like the french and sitting at outside tables facing the street, unashamedly people watching. The french, it seems, like to be seen and they like to be watched. They do it to others and they expect the same in return. They dress, I'm sure, especially for the people in the bars staring at them as they walk past. So, I'm happy to be la belle parisienne once more, staring, watching, listening in to unintelligible conversations....and sipping my 5 euro mojito
Happy shopping!
Till next time...
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
A rabbit in headlights
The teacher stares me down and pegs the tennis ball at me at the same time as barking a subject and a verb in my direction...I'm supposed to turn this around into something french-sounding that makes sense and toss the ball back all in one smooth motion...
I'm like a rabbit in headlights...
For approximately 2 hours of every 4 hours (ok - for 3 of the 4) that I am in a little classroom with 15 others at the Alliance Francaise each morning I pretty much have no idea what is going on. Luckily, as I look around at my fellow classmates the vast majority of them are looking just as confused.
The lessons, of course, are conducted entirely in french. This is true immersion. Luckily the teacher is quite good at miming and acting out her instructions...she's obviously done this before. Sometimes I DO understand what she's asked of us - but that is usually 30mins later - and by then it's too late...
It's hard to concentrate on something you can't understand for four hours a day (and then go home and do an hour or so of homework - especially when you haven't really understood what you're supposed to do!) and by the end of each morning I'm exhausted....but, as the hours go by, surely I will begin to understand more and more and will finally begin to contribute the way I would like. My saving grace is that mistakes are expected here and the people around me are friendly and just as useless at french as me....
One day perhaps I'll not be such a rabbit...
My aim each day (after ducking the headlights each morning) is to do something that I have never done before. Today it was to head to Montparnasse - an area of Paris just south of my apartment. Climbing to the top of Tour Montparnasse - the highest building in Paris - I had the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower and the City of Lights as it turned on it's magnificent display...
My enthusiasm is dimmed by events in my home town...as Toowoomba lies in ruins because of flash flooding and my friends and family are left to clean up the debris I feel very far away. I have been watching the international news every day and watch images on French news channels where the only word I understand is 'Toowoomba', trying to grasp the true magnitude of the tragedy. Toowoomba, it seems, is finally on the map on an international scale - but for all the wrong reasons. I trail through facebook looking at the horrific photos uploaded by my friends to try and feel connected. Perhaps Paris is the best place to be...at least my feet are dry - but it's times like these when you like to pull together with the people you belong to and who belong to you and I feel like I'm missing the opportunity to do that. My thoughts are with you my soggy queensland readers.
Till next time...
I'm like a rabbit in headlights...
For approximately 2 hours of every 4 hours (ok - for 3 of the 4) that I am in a little classroom with 15 others at the Alliance Francaise each morning I pretty much have no idea what is going on. Luckily, as I look around at my fellow classmates the vast majority of them are looking just as confused.
The lessons, of course, are conducted entirely in french. This is true immersion. Luckily the teacher is quite good at miming and acting out her instructions...she's obviously done this before. Sometimes I DO understand what she's asked of us - but that is usually 30mins later - and by then it's too late...
It's hard to concentrate on something you can't understand for four hours a day (and then go home and do an hour or so of homework - especially when you haven't really understood what you're supposed to do!) and by the end of each morning I'm exhausted....but, as the hours go by, surely I will begin to understand more and more and will finally begin to contribute the way I would like. My saving grace is that mistakes are expected here and the people around me are friendly and just as useless at french as me....
One day perhaps I'll not be such a rabbit...
My aim each day (after ducking the headlights each morning) is to do something that I have never done before. Today it was to head to Montparnasse - an area of Paris just south of my apartment. Climbing to the top of Tour Montparnasse - the highest building in Paris - I had the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower and the City of Lights as it turned on it's magnificent display...
My enthusiasm is dimmed by events in my home town...as Toowoomba lies in ruins because of flash flooding and my friends and family are left to clean up the debris I feel very far away. I have been watching the international news every day and watch images on French news channels where the only word I understand is 'Toowoomba', trying to grasp the true magnitude of the tragedy. Toowoomba, it seems, is finally on the map on an international scale - but for all the wrong reasons. I trail through facebook looking at the horrific photos uploaded by my friends to try and feel connected. Perhaps Paris is the best place to be...at least my feet are dry - but it's times like these when you like to pull together with the people you belong to and who belong to you and I feel like I'm missing the opportunity to do that. My thoughts are with you my soggy queensland readers.
Till next time...
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Shakespeare & Co
Between you and me, there is another reason for my month spent wandering the streets of Paris (other than mangling the language and pretending to be la belle Parisienne that is)
Like countless Left Bank residents before me I am a tortured writer. Tortured in the sense that I have rarely written anything worth reading. Tortured in the sense that I can never seem to come up with any original or creative (or preferably both) ideas. And tortured in the sense that I wish to one day torture some sort of unsuspecting reader (much like you are being tortured now I suspect...).
And so I have come to the left bank of Paris, and in particular St Germain des Pres and its bohemian neighbour, the Latin Quarter, to be creatively inspired, hopefully, by the ghosts of artists and writers such as Picasso, Victor Hugo and Hemmingway....surely it is here that creative inspiration must simply float in the air.
In the shadow of the Notre Dame, tucked away in a corner beside the Seine lies a little English bookshop called 'Shakespeare and Co'. Eccentric and lovable the bookshop has been around (albeit in two different locations) for almost a century and the building that houses it now is surely centuries old.
The ceilings are low and rickety and the air is musty with the scent of old books and history. Books of all shapes and sizes, old and new of every genre are stacked high on the shelves and on the floor...to get past them is an effort - but if you do you're likely to find yourself in a little nook or cranny, perhaps with a tiny wooden bench where you can while away the hours with a story plucked from the shelves.
Once upon a time the bookshop housed the great literary names of our time...and perhaps the not so great...penniless authors who were housed here in exchange for a bit of help in the store.
Today, the bookshop houses a new generation of dreamers...walk up to the second floor (if you can get past the piles of books on the stairs) and you may stumble across travelling writers with laptops and sleeping bags...a hippie commune maybe - but a creative one.
Tonight, I went along to breath in some inspiration and perhaps to be inspired in a somewhat more literal sense. Though I had never heard of him I had read in the window on Sunday as I passed by that a young British novelist by the name of Adam Thirlwell would be reading sections of his latest work tonight, signing a few books and perhaps answering a few questions. Mr Thirlwell, the sign said, has been included in a list of Britain's 20 top young novelists...I figured I could do worse than try and learn something from him.
So along I went to perch on a stool in a ricketty old english bookshop in Paris, contentedly listening to a respected modern novelist read humourous pieces from his latest published book as well as some as yet unpublished work and then discuss them with modesty and intelligence (he was educated at Oxford after all...).
I realised two things - perhaps I will never be the novelist this man is...and perhaps that doesn't matter. But I'm sure my Parisian bookshop experience will find itself in a piece of my own one day...this is the stuff stories are made of and the inspiration simply floated on the air.
Till next time...
Like countless Left Bank residents before me I am a tortured writer. Tortured in the sense that I have rarely written anything worth reading. Tortured in the sense that I can never seem to come up with any original or creative (or preferably both) ideas. And tortured in the sense that I wish to one day torture some sort of unsuspecting reader (much like you are being tortured now I suspect...).
And so I have come to the left bank of Paris, and in particular St Germain des Pres and its bohemian neighbour, the Latin Quarter, to be creatively inspired, hopefully, by the ghosts of artists and writers such as Picasso, Victor Hugo and Hemmingway....surely it is here that creative inspiration must simply float in the air.
In the shadow of the Notre Dame, tucked away in a corner beside the Seine lies a little English bookshop called 'Shakespeare and Co'. Eccentric and lovable the bookshop has been around (albeit in two different locations) for almost a century and the building that houses it now is surely centuries old.
The ceilings are low and rickety and the air is musty with the scent of old books and history. Books of all shapes and sizes, old and new of every genre are stacked high on the shelves and on the floor...to get past them is an effort - but if you do you're likely to find yourself in a little nook or cranny, perhaps with a tiny wooden bench where you can while away the hours with a story plucked from the shelves.
Once upon a time the bookshop housed the great literary names of our time...and perhaps the not so great...penniless authors who were housed here in exchange for a bit of help in the store.
Today, the bookshop houses a new generation of dreamers...walk up to the second floor (if you can get past the piles of books on the stairs) and you may stumble across travelling writers with laptops and sleeping bags...a hippie commune maybe - but a creative one.
Tonight, I went along to breath in some inspiration and perhaps to be inspired in a somewhat more literal sense. Though I had never heard of him I had read in the window on Sunday as I passed by that a young British novelist by the name of Adam Thirlwell would be reading sections of his latest work tonight, signing a few books and perhaps answering a few questions. Mr Thirlwell, the sign said, has been included in a list of Britain's 20 top young novelists...I figured I could do worse than try and learn something from him.
So along I went to perch on a stool in a ricketty old english bookshop in Paris, contentedly listening to a respected modern novelist read humourous pieces from his latest published book as well as some as yet unpublished work and then discuss them with modesty and intelligence (he was educated at Oxford after all...).
I realised two things - perhaps I will never be the novelist this man is...and perhaps that doesn't matter. But I'm sure my Parisian bookshop experience will find itself in a piece of my own one day...this is the stuff stories are made of and the inspiration simply floated on the air.
Till next time...
How NOT to look like an aussie chick in Paris
Yesterday I was wondering down Rue Raspail minding my own business when I was approached by a guy trying to sell me something.
Im not sure what he was trying to sell - i didn't understand him nor did I care - but it seemed to me he was harmless and one of those greenie types - perhaps he wanted me to adopt a panda or something...
So, like I would anywhere in the world I simply muttered 'non' (the french way), shook my head and continued walking purposefully.
Immediately he was on to me and jumped to my side. "Miss, can I ask you a question?" he said in English.
MY question is this. What is it about me that informs the average greenie on the street that I (shock horror) parle anglaise. or, worse still, that I am ANGLO SAXON??!!
Was I not snooty enough to be Gallic? was it that i wasn't wearing the correct designer wear to be french (ok, you got me...i wasn't wearing any designer wear...)? Was my 'non' not 'non-y' enough?
My new mission is this...to become (...albeit an aussie rough-cut version of...) la belle Parisienne.
The first thing I must work out is how on earth said belle Parisienne stays so 'belle'. How they are all not the size of a house is beyond me. This place is carb and dairy central, what with la pain et la fromage et la omlettes (pretty much the extent of my diet over the past few days)...however I am yet to see an overweight Parisienne.
I know there are many books written on the subject, and perhaps I should have read them before I came, but the only solution I have come up with so far comes down to walking and stairs. Everyone walks. And why not when your surroundings consist of some of the most beautiful buildings to be found anywhere in the world. Plus, the metro system is such a mis-match and raggedy (not to mention smelly and with the odd muttering homeless man) that sometimes it just makes more sense to walk....and stairs - everywhere! the londoners have it easy with their fancy escalators out of the tube stations. In paris you hike out of the metro (another reason to stay up top!) If nothing else i'm finally getting some practise in for those mountains I'll be climbing in a month or two.
In short I do not yet have an answer to how to not so obviously resemble an aussie 'sheila' while in Paris...but God knows I plan to find out before I get hassled by any more greenies.
till next time...
Im not sure what he was trying to sell - i didn't understand him nor did I care - but it seemed to me he was harmless and one of those greenie types - perhaps he wanted me to adopt a panda or something...
So, like I would anywhere in the world I simply muttered 'non' (the french way), shook my head and continued walking purposefully.
Immediately he was on to me and jumped to my side. "Miss, can I ask you a question?" he said in English.
MY question is this. What is it about me that informs the average greenie on the street that I (shock horror) parle anglaise. or, worse still, that I am ANGLO SAXON??!!
Was I not snooty enough to be Gallic? was it that i wasn't wearing the correct designer wear to be french (ok, you got me...i wasn't wearing any designer wear...)? Was my 'non' not 'non-y' enough?
My new mission is this...to become (...albeit an aussie rough-cut version of...) la belle Parisienne.
The first thing I must work out is how on earth said belle Parisienne stays so 'belle'. How they are all not the size of a house is beyond me. This place is carb and dairy central, what with la pain et la fromage et la omlettes (pretty much the extent of my diet over the past few days)...however I am yet to see an overweight Parisienne.
I know there are many books written on the subject, and perhaps I should have read them before I came, but the only solution I have come up with so far comes down to walking and stairs. Everyone walks. And why not when your surroundings consist of some of the most beautiful buildings to be found anywhere in the world. Plus, the metro system is such a mis-match and raggedy (not to mention smelly and with the odd muttering homeless man) that sometimes it just makes more sense to walk....and stairs - everywhere! the londoners have it easy with their fancy escalators out of the tube stations. In paris you hike out of the metro (another reason to stay up top!) If nothing else i'm finally getting some practise in for those mountains I'll be climbing in a month or two.
In short I do not yet have an answer to how to not so obviously resemble an aussie 'sheila' while in Paris...but God knows I plan to find out before I get hassled by any more greenies.
till next time...
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Bienvenue a Paris
When I was a child I owned a picture book about France.
The photos were large and glossy. I had read every word of the text explaining the history and the culture of the country a million times. The pages were worn and dog-earred from the amount of times I had flipped through them dreaming of the day that I would be there...
France, and in particular Paris, have always been a source of magical inspiration to me. And, even before the first moment I stepped on French soil in 2004, I was passionately in love with this country, its culture, its language and, most importantly, its capital. Paris.
Since then I have lost count of how many times i have visited France....from England it is so easy - just jump on the train or the ferry and in a couple of hours there you are...sampling the cheese, tasting the wine, letting the melodic language wash over you.
From 'Booze Cruises' with friends (a day trip to france on the ferry to pick up cheap booze followed by moules, frites et vin rouge before the journey home...why not?) to weekends spend exploring one Parisian arrondissement at a time on my own and week long holidays in the Loire Valley visiting chateaus and vineyards, I have always jumped at every opportunity to come to France.
There is only one thing I have always struggled with - the language. My dream is to one day speak French with the same fluency and melody that you hear on the streets of Paris. My best friend who, as you know if you read this blog regularly, is French - and a frustratingly clever linguist - 'taught' me the language for a year before he gave up on account of my incredible lack of language prowess. Funnily enough - his lessons are the french conversations I remember the most - I associate numbers and directions and nationalities and greetings with laughter and fun. From there I have done years of more formal classes complete with verb lists and grammar and have never seemed to be able to progress past the basics to the point of being able to have some sort of relatively intelligent conversation....
So here I find myself - in Paris once more. This time I am determined. I have rented an apartment in beautiful St Germain des Pres, the 'Left Bank' of Paris - an area historically rich with artists and writers and inspiration. For one whole, glorious month I am ready to become Parisian in every way possible. I will study french every weekday morning at the Alliance Francais - the famous language school just down the road from here. I will immerse myself in the language, the food and the people. I will, if only for a month, live a lifelong dream...to BE French.
There will be challenges of course. I know the Parisian metro system quite well from my many visits...but once i was outside of that today I was lost (if you know me at all you know that being lost is an everyday part of life for me and therefore not too concerning). My french gets me by, and I was even able to give directions to the metro station to an equally lost semi-french speaker tonight...but when it comes to meeting new people and trying to make normal conversation I will be confused and speechless.
All things to worry about later - for now I am esconced in my cute little Left Bank apartment with appropriate supplies of wine and cheese...For now I am content to begin my Parisian life with a hot shower and early night...
Till next time...
The photos were large and glossy. I had read every word of the text explaining the history and the culture of the country a million times. The pages were worn and dog-earred from the amount of times I had flipped through them dreaming of the day that I would be there...
France, and in particular Paris, have always been a source of magical inspiration to me. And, even before the first moment I stepped on French soil in 2004, I was passionately in love with this country, its culture, its language and, most importantly, its capital. Paris.
Since then I have lost count of how many times i have visited France....from England it is so easy - just jump on the train or the ferry and in a couple of hours there you are...sampling the cheese, tasting the wine, letting the melodic language wash over you.
From 'Booze Cruises' with friends (a day trip to france on the ferry to pick up cheap booze followed by moules, frites et vin rouge before the journey home...why not?) to weekends spend exploring one Parisian arrondissement at a time on my own and week long holidays in the Loire Valley visiting chateaus and vineyards, I have always jumped at every opportunity to come to France.
There is only one thing I have always struggled with - the language. My dream is to one day speak French with the same fluency and melody that you hear on the streets of Paris. My best friend who, as you know if you read this blog regularly, is French - and a frustratingly clever linguist - 'taught' me the language for a year before he gave up on account of my incredible lack of language prowess. Funnily enough - his lessons are the french conversations I remember the most - I associate numbers and directions and nationalities and greetings with laughter and fun. From there I have done years of more formal classes complete with verb lists and grammar and have never seemed to be able to progress past the basics to the point of being able to have some sort of relatively intelligent conversation....
So here I find myself - in Paris once more. This time I am determined. I have rented an apartment in beautiful St Germain des Pres, the 'Left Bank' of Paris - an area historically rich with artists and writers and inspiration. For one whole, glorious month I am ready to become Parisian in every way possible. I will study french every weekday morning at the Alliance Francais - the famous language school just down the road from here. I will immerse myself in the language, the food and the people. I will, if only for a month, live a lifelong dream...to BE French.
There will be challenges of course. I know the Parisian metro system quite well from my many visits...but once i was outside of that today I was lost (if you know me at all you know that being lost is an everyday part of life for me and therefore not too concerning). My french gets me by, and I was even able to give directions to the metro station to an equally lost semi-french speaker tonight...but when it comes to meeting new people and trying to make normal conversation I will be confused and speechless.
All things to worry about later - for now I am esconced in my cute little Left Bank apartment with appropriate supplies of wine and cheese...For now I am content to begin my Parisian life with a hot shower and early night...
Till next time...
Friday, 7 January 2011
London's Calling
With a day up my sleeve before meeting Elaine for drinks and dinner after work in London yesterday I decided to head to the big smoke early and fit in a few of my favourite things.
A perfect day in London, for me, mixes a bit of culture with some shopping...maybe a pub lunch in between and always followed by a glass of something delicious...so I headed first to the V&A museum in Kensington.
Wondering slowly through the various exhibitions in the vast building - European sculpture, Japanese samuris, modern photography - i breathed in the history and, when my feet were sore and I'd had enough culture for one day, I made my way up the road to Harrods, in Knightsbridge.
A visit to Harrods is about as classic as classic London outings go and I have been here many times before. The store prides itself on its historic claim that it sells everything "from a pin to an elephant". And it remains largely true, even though lions and seal pups are no longer for sale on the fourth floor of the world's most famous store.
When I visit Harrods I like to follow the same itinerary...I make my way through the beauty and perfume section quickly so as not to be tempted and head straight for the food halls.
Harrod's food halls are a foodies paradise. I'm not sure that I have ever bought any food item from Harrods but as I wonder around looking at the array of exotic goodies I like to daydream that I live nearby. Of course, if I live close to posh Knightsbridge I can afford to do my grocery shopping at Harrods and I imagine I am throwing a lovely dinner party at my posh flat. I'll start with some beluga caviar perhaps? Maybe i'll grab a few of those oysters and of course a bottle of Harrod's most expensive French champagne. I stand to watch the chefs in the pizzeria tossing their dough and, back in the real world, I always end my food hall experience with a coffee and original glazed donut from the Krispy Kreme store in the sweets department. I can easily spend an hour in Harrod's food halls, and it is truely one of my favourite things to do in London
After the food halls I head straight to the bling and wander past Tiffany's and Cartier before spending a bit of time in the bookshop and then the petshop. Buying my baby neice her very first Harrods teddy (perhaps one day she will love the food halls as much as I do) and myself a new Harrods bag, I made my way into the late afternoon for a well deserved glass of wine with Ellie at the Royal Exchange at Bank Station followed by dinner at Wagamamas in Victoria....The perfect London day...
Till next time...
A perfect day in London, for me, mixes a bit of culture with some shopping...maybe a pub lunch in between and always followed by a glass of something delicious...so I headed first to the V&A museum in Kensington.
Wondering slowly through the various exhibitions in the vast building - European sculpture, Japanese samuris, modern photography - i breathed in the history and, when my feet were sore and I'd had enough culture for one day, I made my way up the road to Harrods, in Knightsbridge.
A visit to Harrods is about as classic as classic London outings go and I have been here many times before. The store prides itself on its historic claim that it sells everything "from a pin to an elephant". And it remains largely true, even though lions and seal pups are no longer for sale on the fourth floor of the world's most famous store.
When I visit Harrods I like to follow the same itinerary...I make my way through the beauty and perfume section quickly so as not to be tempted and head straight for the food halls.
Harrod's food halls are a foodies paradise. I'm not sure that I have ever bought any food item from Harrods but as I wonder around looking at the array of exotic goodies I like to daydream that I live nearby. Of course, if I live close to posh Knightsbridge I can afford to do my grocery shopping at Harrods and I imagine I am throwing a lovely dinner party at my posh flat. I'll start with some beluga caviar perhaps? Maybe i'll grab a few of those oysters and of course a bottle of Harrod's most expensive French champagne. I stand to watch the chefs in the pizzeria tossing their dough and, back in the real world, I always end my food hall experience with a coffee and original glazed donut from the Krispy Kreme store in the sweets department. I can easily spend an hour in Harrod's food halls, and it is truely one of my favourite things to do in London
After the food halls I head straight to the bling and wander past Tiffany's and Cartier before spending a bit of time in the bookshop and then the petshop. Buying my baby neice her very first Harrods teddy (perhaps one day she will love the food halls as much as I do) and myself a new Harrods bag, I made my way into the late afternoon for a well deserved glass of wine with Ellie at the Royal Exchange at Bank Station followed by dinner at Wagamamas in Victoria....The perfect London day...
Till next time...
Monday, 3 January 2011
Adios Barcelona
The days have passed quietly here in Barcelona since New Years Eve…a relaxing medly of friends dropping round to finish off the NYE leftovers and try their luck at Playstation Buzz, churros with hot chocolate (or as someone described them – deep fried donuts dunked in thick chocolate soup…yum!) on coffee shop terraces, fishy paella for lunch in little tavernas, cozy nights in with a cup of tea and a movie and beer and fanta lemon (a surprisingly nice and very popular concoction here…) alongside gossip and laughter at friends’ flats.
I have met a few more people, and spent more time with those I met on my last trip here. But most importantly I have spent time just hanging out with my friends here, doing everyday, normal things...the perfect quality time that I have craved all year long.
Loving people all over the world means that saying goodbye is a much more regular part of life than I would like…but as my wise and precious friend said as I shed a few sad goodbye tears on his shoulder – leaving only means that I can soon come back…
Till next time.
I have met a few more people, and spent more time with those I met on my last trip here. But most importantly I have spent time just hanging out with my friends here, doing everyday, normal things...the perfect quality time that I have craved all year long.
Loving people all over the world means that saying goodbye is a much more regular part of life than I would like…but as my wise and precious friend said as I shed a few sad goodbye tears on his shoulder – leaving only means that I can soon come back…
Till next time.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
A very happy spanish new years eve
New Years Eve should be spent, I think, with the very best of friends...and if that means you have the opportunity to celebrate it in an fabulous Spanish city with a reputation for partying then all the better...
We spent the day picking up the few bits and pieces we still needed for the meal, browsing through the markets and picking the freshest salmon from the fishmonger and watching her fillet it in front of us...choosing lemons and vegies from the grocer and stopping for a coffee or two along the way.
Getting home we popped the first bottle of champagne at 3pm to toast in the Australian new year...the first of several toasts for this cosmopolitan bunch.
We set the table with plenty of festive candles and asked friends to bring around some extra chairs. the scene was set for a cozy dinner party for eight...
Our little dinner was made up of the french and the spanish and the chillian and the english, and the australian - with Richard and I making up the english speaking component. The boys had worked hard to put together the menu...little tapas morsels to start - croquettas, spanish omlette and an array of cheese - eaten the french way of course, with a torn off piece of french baguette...salmon with a creamy dill sauce, crispy roast potatoes and green beans made up the main and a choice of apple crepe cake or flan for dessert (i chose both of course). We drank, we spoke at least three different languages and at midnight we almost choked on grapes...
In Spain it is tradition to eat 12 grapes - one per second in the seconds immediately after midnight. The countdown is on tv telling you when to eat them. The whole country stops for grapes...and let me tell you...its a tricky little exercise. Still chewing the last of the pips I kissed my friends, the very best of them and the very newest of them...and welcomed in the new year before heading to a bar to dance the rest of the night away...
2011 has started with a bang with people I love and in a country foreign and wonderful...hopefully those spanish grapes will do the trick and will bring me all the luck in the world.
Till next time...
We spent the day picking up the few bits and pieces we still needed for the meal, browsing through the markets and picking the freshest salmon from the fishmonger and watching her fillet it in front of us...choosing lemons and vegies from the grocer and stopping for a coffee or two along the way.
Getting home we popped the first bottle of champagne at 3pm to toast in the Australian new year...the first of several toasts for this cosmopolitan bunch.
We set the table with plenty of festive candles and asked friends to bring around some extra chairs. the scene was set for a cozy dinner party for eight...
Our little dinner was made up of the french and the spanish and the chillian and the english, and the australian - with Richard and I making up the english speaking component. The boys had worked hard to put together the menu...little tapas morsels to start - croquettas, spanish omlette and an array of cheese - eaten the french way of course, with a torn off piece of french baguette...salmon with a creamy dill sauce, crispy roast potatoes and green beans made up the main and a choice of apple crepe cake or flan for dessert (i chose both of course). We drank, we spoke at least three different languages and at midnight we almost choked on grapes...
In Spain it is tradition to eat 12 grapes - one per second in the seconds immediately after midnight. The countdown is on tv telling you when to eat them. The whole country stops for grapes...and let me tell you...its a tricky little exercise. Still chewing the last of the pips I kissed my friends, the very best of them and the very newest of them...and welcomed in the new year before heading to a bar to dance the rest of the night away...
2011 has started with a bang with people I love and in a country foreign and wonderful...hopefully those spanish grapes will do the trick and will bring me all the luck in the world.
Till next time...
Rabbit food
My life seems constantly affected by interrupted travel arrangements at the moment.
I have returned to Barcelona to bring in 2011 with Nico, my French friend who now lives here.
With heavy fog causing flights from western France to be cancelled Nico arrived in Barcelona a day later than planned. Lucky for me his friend Richard, who I met many times in England, is also visiting for new years eve and we were set loose on the town together...two English speakers with barely a word of spanish between us...
A catch-up coffee was followed by a grocery shopping expedition led expertly by two of our Spanish friends...the chefs for our delicous 3 course nye feast for 8. That done, and all the food and alcohol lugged up the 7 flight of steps (a killer at the best of times!) Richard and I decided to go out for some dinner.
First we aimed for a Mexican restaraunt he knew of...and the promise of cheap mojitos was enticing...but the restaraunt was packed so across the road we went and settled down to decipher our menus. Some words are international, so we happily decided on guacamole followed by burritos. You know what to expect with those choices right? Wrong. When the burritos came they contained spinach and onions...
...and that was it.
We waited...thinking that perhaps the meat was still coming...but no such luck..people around us had meat...but the waiter spoke no english so we couldn't even ask what we had ordered and whether we could have a little bit of chicken or beef...
Sometimes, it seems, a lack of Spanish can mean dinner is rabbit food...we were so hungry we needed to order dessert to make up for it...such a shame!
Luckily the company was a laugh and the beer was cold...and soon enough Nico was home and we could start the new year celebrations...
till next time...
I have returned to Barcelona to bring in 2011 with Nico, my French friend who now lives here.
With heavy fog causing flights from western France to be cancelled Nico arrived in Barcelona a day later than planned. Lucky for me his friend Richard, who I met many times in England, is also visiting for new years eve and we were set loose on the town together...two English speakers with barely a word of spanish between us...
A catch-up coffee was followed by a grocery shopping expedition led expertly by two of our Spanish friends...the chefs for our delicous 3 course nye feast for 8. That done, and all the food and alcohol lugged up the 7 flight of steps (a killer at the best of times!) Richard and I decided to go out for some dinner.
First we aimed for a Mexican restaraunt he knew of...and the promise of cheap mojitos was enticing...but the restaraunt was packed so across the road we went and settled down to decipher our menus. Some words are international, so we happily decided on guacamole followed by burritos. You know what to expect with those choices right? Wrong. When the burritos came they contained spinach and onions...
...and that was it.
We waited...thinking that perhaps the meat was still coming...but no such luck..people around us had meat...but the waiter spoke no english so we couldn't even ask what we had ordered and whether we could have a little bit of chicken or beef...
Sometimes, it seems, a lack of Spanish can mean dinner is rabbit food...we were so hungry we needed to order dessert to make up for it...such a shame!
Luckily the company was a laugh and the beer was cold...and soon enough Nico was home and we could start the new year celebrations...
till next time...
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