Three nights in Paris

We look at each other’s suitcases. There’s quite a difference in size. ‘I’ve been minimalist in my packing this time’, I say. V looks at me in amazement. ‘But it’s Val, ‘I sometimes change three times a day’, how have you got enough?’

I explain that I’d taken far too much to Provence, and had brought back things I hadn’t worn, so had gone for the minimal approach this time. What I don’t add is just how much of it is new stuff, for I have had a bit of a pre-Paris spending spree.

As it turns out, I have enough outfits, though I don’t have the hot weather outfits that I really need, as Paris turns out to be roasting hot. After my day of rain in Edinburgh, this turns out to be something of a shock. When you’ve travelled somewhere by train, it doesn’t feel that far away from home, yet even the air feels so much warmer. It’s the best weather I’ve ever known here.

We last went to Paris together 5 years ago. Every summer, we try and have a ‘culture’ break. For the last few years it’s been Edinburgh, so after two consecutive summers of pretty grim weather, this is a welcome change.

We’ve done most of the main tourist sights in the past, except the Louvre*, which is most definitely on the list this time, along with the Musee Rodin. We always go up to Montmartre, and walk by the river.

This time we’re staying just off the Champs Elysees, which turns out to be a perfect, if expensive, location.

My experiences of French food, after the struggles of Provence, are still a bit mixed. Breakfasts in the hotel are great – fabulous French bread, smoked salmon, ham, and preserves. Crepes make a great lunch, even though I have to avoid the ones with cream (I also have to avoid most of the squidgy cakes, as they almost all have cream). Dinner still proves more of a struggle, though I eat very well in Montmartre. A couple of other meals prove distinctly average, given the price of them. We do, however, find a fabulous little cocktail bar, so I make the most of the French wine and the Happy Hour cocktails.

We do find a fabulous little restaurant in the Palais Royale gardens for our last lunch. It’s full of Parisienne ‘ladies who lunch’, all immaculately groomed, rather than tourists. It suits us well.

*I once stood on a bench, and saw the Venus de Milo through a window. It’s not quite the same!

Like Edinburgh, with sun (or, shame about the language barrier)

We spent a few nights in Avignon, home of the famous ‘Pont’, (or demi-Pont, as there’s not much left). Turns out it has an Arts Festival every July, with a Fringe that’s almost as big as Edinburgh.

As a result, the town was heaving with tourists, primarily French, as most of the shows were in French. There were lots of groups performing in the streets, and plenty of fliers to be had (and I maintained my rule of ‘always accept fliers from cute boys’). Problem was, their marketing didn’t really work when they tried to explain to me what the show was about, and I just looked blank. My very basic French wasn’t up to explanations of experimental theatre productions. I nodded and smiled a lot, trying not to indicate that I didn’t have a clue what they were saying.

We did want to see something, just to say that we had. We’d probably have been safer going for a physical piece, trouble was it was all a bit clown/Marcel Marceau/mime based, and I’m not really into that. We toyed with the idea of Moliere, as those companies seemed to have the best costumes, and even Shakespeare in French, as at least I’d understand the story, though that seemed rather wrong.

Eventually we decided on a comedy Barbershop Quartet show, as they chatted nicely to us (in English), and J sings barbershop. They also sang a few songs in English.

The performers were slick, and very skilled, and there was quite a bit of physical comedy which I could follow. What I followed, I enjoyed. I guess I didn't realise until this holiday just how rubbish my French is. A few words, and brief sentences doesn't equip you to follow a performance. I could have done with surtitles! What I missed were a lot of the jokes in the French songs, or, if I didn’t miss them, I mis-interpreted the joke.

Afterwards:
J: you know that bit where they were singing about the different musicians you meet on the Tube...
Me: oh, is that what it was, I thought they were just parodying different song styles.

The result was a quite a bit of this, as I had the jokes explained to me!

Travels with a Mercedes*

This year, we hired a car. It was something of an experience, being, of course, left hand drive, and a diesel. I volunteered to drive it from the airport. There was a great deal of cursing and swearing and gnashing of teeth as I tried to find the gears.

It was fine on the motorways, but driving round some of the towns was a bit of a challenge, particularly as we seemed to go round Aix at least 3 times trying to find the hotel. After that, J drove, and got used to it, and quite enjoyed it, so I became the navigator, with my ‘super map’. This was also a challenge at times, as the French tend to be a bit sparing with their signage, and you have to work out where a road might be signed to, which probably isn’t the place you’re trying to get to. Again, towns were a bit of a problem.

Then of course, we had to work out how to put fuel in. We could find the fuel cap, that was obvious. But how did we open it? It didn’t help that all the instructions were in French.

‘What’s French for petrol, or petrol tank?’
‘Not sure’
‘There’s usually a little lever somewhere inside the car’
‘The one in my car has a little drawing of a petrol pump on it’

We looked at all the buttons and switches. There was a distinct lack of anything with a pump on it, though there was lots of other buttons.

After a few days, we’d got down to a quarter of a tank of fuel, so we really needed to work this out. Back to the instruction books. Finally, in the back, I found a picture of the fuel cap.

‘Right, where does it say the button is?’
‘It doesn’t, look’ (There was nothing on the diagram to indicate how you open it)

Once again, we searched the car looking for the elusive button. Suddenly, I had a brainwave.

‘Maybe it isn’t locked, and I should just try it’

I pushed at the fuel cap. It swung open so that you could get to the screw cap for the tank.

‘Oh!’

*this did say 'BMW', until it was pointed out that I was wrong!

**The picture is the Rest Stop which we found when we were looking for petrol near the airport. It seems not all French Rest Stops have petrol, some of them have Roman Theatres instead.