An account of my first proper night out in Paris
Last Thursday it was necessary to change my plans for that day, and so instead of going to the Theatre des Bouffes du Nord to see what later turned out to be one of the most phenomenal plays of my life, I ended up hiking my way to the top of the Sacre Coeur, which was an actual treck, so I decided to sit for about an hour in a garden at the bottom. So I’m just sitting there in the sunshine, under a tree, lovely. And three boys come and sit next to me. And they’re all speaking English – Score! Actually they were American, but anyway. There was also this adorable little kid who was secretly Satan – worse than crayon kid and Scary, who no doubt the Stirling people will remember – who attacked us all repeatedly with a water pistol. Ok, maybe he wasn’t that bad. But he definitely took a real kinda disturbing joy in shooting us all in the back of the head; even after I put my hands up and surrendered (“You’re a cold blooded killer!”)
Anyways, turns out they are all from new York, and none of them are fully American; one is American Italian, one is American Brazilian and one is American German. We decide to meet up that night at the Moulin Rouge.
(It should be pointed out right now that the Moulin Rouge is no where near so impressive in reallife. For a start, it’s much smaller, and whereas in the movie it stands totally independent in the middle of a field or whatever, it looks decidedly less striking when mashed between some random Casino and O’Sullivan’s Irish bar…)
Anyway, I arrive typically half an hour late and think that the Yanks have got bored and left. Actually they are on the other side of the road helping two American girls who have been separated from their school and were lucky enough to find some fellow New Yorkers. They know that they’re supposed to meet at a metro station. They just don’t know which one and their teacher is helpfully not answering her phone. All they know is the name of their Hotel, so we have to help them find out where that is and explain to them how to use to Metro to get there. I still have no idea where they ended up, but hopefully our numerous “Taken” jokes did not come to a reality.
After debating whether or not to attempt to crash the Moulin rouge and potentially get our heads kicked in by angry bouncers, we head to O’Sullivans where I have my first long island ice tea. Good Stuff! The guys are considerably more wasted than me having already drunk a bottle of wine, and are perfectly happy to buy all my drinks. At 11 O’clock we decide to go and look for a free club which is in my guide book called the Moloko.
We find that street where the Moloko should be. We walk up it. We walk down it. We go into other pubs. I drag the guys up and down this street 3 times, convinced that it has to be there.
It turns out that the reason my guidebook was reduced in price is because it’s about 5 years out of date, and the Moloko has now been turned into a tanning salon.
We decide to head back to the Bastille area, where there should be some good pubs and clubs, but on the train meet some celebrating football fans (I forget which country) and decide, quite rightly, to “Follow the man with the Antlers!”
As we get off the train, into the ever famous Pigalle area, my stalker from the Monday night is standing having a cigarette. I point him out to the other three, then stare straight ahead as they all indiscreetly spin round to take a closer look. “Ooooh, you’re getting glares”
We are nearly at the club when a man stops us.
“Where are you from?”
“Scotland”
“Scotland? Really? Excellent! And what is your religion?”
“….what?”
“Your religion. What is it?”
(Vartan (the Brazilian): “How did we get on to that?”)
“Er, I don’t have one?”
(Gasps) “Don’t have one?! What about th rest of you?”
(Backing away slowly)
“Don’t have one”
“Don’t have one”
“Muslim”.
Me: “…Seriously?”
Dennis (German): “Yep”
So we left Dennis arguing with the Christians and continued following the man with the antlers. Cold, I know, but he caught up with us eventually.
The club was fairly awesome, I got jumped on by quite a lot of people and the drinks were well cheap. We all left at different times, first to go was Dennis.
The next time I saw Dennis shortly before the boys left the next day his nose was still covered in dried blood.
Basically, having arrived back outside his hostel at two in the morning he’d got into a discussion with a drunken French man.
The discussion became an argument.
The argument ends with Dennis shouting (in French) “GO FUCK YOUR MOTHER”.
Dennis doesn’t really remember what happened after that, except that now his nose hurts A LOT. On the other hand, so does his fist so he figured he must have got the other guy pretty well too.
Dennis decided at this was a pretty good time for a kebab, and so made his way to the nearest late night kebab shop.
“I’d like a kebab please”
“What happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing. I want a kebab”
“But your face…it’s covered in blood”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I just want a kebab”
“Listen, should I maybe call the pol-“
“I’M HUNGRY! GIMME A KEBAB!”
Dennis not only got his kebab, but the guy gave him it for free on account of his nose. Nice man, that.
Carlos (the Italian one, who incidentally told me that Napoleon was in fact Italian (technically) so up yours Mathieu Chavey :P ) left the club at about two, and promptly fell asleep in a bush.
Vartan and I left at 3, with Vartan offering to walk me back to my hostel. Of course, we ended up hopelessly lost next to this beautiful bridge over a canal. We asked a drunk old French guy for direction, which was fine until he was Vartan’s face with wine.
“What’s that on your uhhh….you…” (points to face)
“My what? Ooh right yeah. That’s paint”
(Someone painted all over his chin and forehead in the club)
(To me, in French) “Tell him I’m going to wash his face with the wine”
(In French) “Ok” (In English) “He’s gonna use the wine to—“
(Guy attacks V’s face with a wine soaked cloth)
V: “…I feel kinda violated....if I pass out suddenly, run”
Happily the wine was wine and not chloroform. I eventually did make it back to my hostel at 6 in the morning and was absolutely dead for the rest of the day.
Friday, 2 July 2010
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
2 sheep, a cow and a tractor!
After last Friday’s quick update, I think it’s time to give a better account of the events of last week.
Last Tuesday brought an invasion of Dutch to the d’Artagnan. It turns out that the Dutch love the Scottish and hate the “British” (just like everyone else then) especially my accent. But they all think I am utterly mad for hating beer – though who can blame me, it’s weak, bitter and disgusting. Tvon tells me that the Dutch will dink pretty much anything – particularly if it is free or cheap. Even piss. They wouldn’t last 5 minutes in Scotland.
Tvon is about 6”5, sounds like Dylan Moran, and is about as cynical. Spending more than 30 seconds in his company without laughing is near enough impossible. On the first night I asked him where in Holland he was from:
“Basically, imagine a dot on a map in Holland. Then imagine three other tiny dots in the middle of the dot. One of those dots is where we live, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where pretty much everyone is expected to be a farmer. Do you want to know what the flag is? The regional Flag? 2 sheep! 2 sheep, a cow and a tractor! WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS IS A FUCKING FARM VILLAGE?”
He gave me his sunglasses to keep, and I’m quite gutted that I lost them because apparently he was pretty attached to them. On the other hand, I know they only cost about 4 Euros.
Meanwhile, Lars was continually offering me beer. The conversation would go something like this:
“Have some beer”
“Nah, I’m good”
“No.Have some beer!”
“I don’t like beer.”
“I don’t like beer! Just have some!”
“Fiiiine” (Has beer) “…Eugh…”
(Five minutes later)
“Have some beer”
“Awww ffs…”
(And so on, until)
“Have some beer”
“I told you, I don’t like beer!”
“I don’t like beer”
“You don’t like beer! You choose to drink it! I don’t like beer. I choose NOT to drink it! Simple!”
(I was late told by the Yanks (Who I’ll talk about later) that this was Lars trying to come on to me. Apparently the three of them held a (relatively short) moments silence in commemoration of my obliviousness. Sorry Lars, I'm a bit slow lol)
Tvon then completely owned my ass at pool “Prepare to win. Seriously.” Although I’m told I actually owned myself because I potter the black ball about 3 minutes in. Tvon’s friends told me that his nickname is FanFan. FanFan is a female clothes brand in Holland, and Tvon once turned up in PE wearing a FanFan shirt. Apparently it was his sisters…
Other fine Dutch offerings who I remember include Montags (Monday, as I call him) Tom (“like Tom out of Rage Against the Machine!”), Taz (“Guy with hair like the guy out of Rage Against the Machine”) Saunder (“French ‘n’ Saunders!”) Reen (“Rrrrrreen”) Lia (who was so pissed and loved me because I taught her how to say “Advertisement) and a few others, including Tvon’s best friend whose name I’ve forgotten but who was great banter. I was very gutted to see the Dutch leave on Friday morning and would love to see them all again :D
Last Tuesday brought an invasion of Dutch to the d’Artagnan. It turns out that the Dutch love the Scottish and hate the “British” (just like everyone else then) especially my accent. But they all think I am utterly mad for hating beer – though who can blame me, it’s weak, bitter and disgusting. Tvon tells me that the Dutch will dink pretty much anything – particularly if it is free or cheap. Even piss. They wouldn’t last 5 minutes in Scotland.
Tvon is about 6”5, sounds like Dylan Moran, and is about as cynical. Spending more than 30 seconds in his company without laughing is near enough impossible. On the first night I asked him where in Holland he was from:
“Basically, imagine a dot on a map in Holland. Then imagine three other tiny dots in the middle of the dot. One of those dots is where we live, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where pretty much everyone is expected to be a farmer. Do you want to know what the flag is? The regional Flag? 2 sheep! 2 sheep, a cow and a tractor! WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS IS A FUCKING FARM VILLAGE?”
He gave me his sunglasses to keep, and I’m quite gutted that I lost them because apparently he was pretty attached to them. On the other hand, I know they only cost about 4 Euros.
Meanwhile, Lars was continually offering me beer. The conversation would go something like this:
“Have some beer”
“Nah, I’m good”
“No.Have some beer!”
“I don’t like beer.”
“I don’t like beer! Just have some!”
“Fiiiine” (Has beer) “…Eugh…”
(Five minutes later)
“Have some beer”
“Awww ffs…”
(And so on, until)
“Have some beer”
“I told you, I don’t like beer!”
“I don’t like beer”
“You don’t like beer! You choose to drink it! I don’t like beer. I choose NOT to drink it! Simple!”
(I was late told by the Yanks (Who I’ll talk about later) that this was Lars trying to come on to me. Apparently the three of them held a (relatively short) moments silence in commemoration of my obliviousness. Sorry Lars, I'm a bit slow lol)
Tvon then completely owned my ass at pool “Prepare to win. Seriously.” Although I’m told I actually owned myself because I potter the black ball about 3 minutes in. Tvon’s friends told me that his nickname is FanFan. FanFan is a female clothes brand in Holland, and Tvon once turned up in PE wearing a FanFan shirt. Apparently it was his sisters…
Other fine Dutch offerings who I remember include Montags (Monday, as I call him) Tom (“like Tom out of Rage Against the Machine!”), Taz (“Guy with hair like the guy out of Rage Against the Machine”) Saunder (“French ‘n’ Saunders!”) Reen (“Rrrrrreen”) Lia (who was so pissed and loved me because I taught her how to say “Advertisement) and a few others, including Tvon’s best friend whose name I’ve forgotten but who was great banter. I was very gutted to see the Dutch leave on Friday morning and would love to see them all again :D
Friday, 25 June 2010
one week in
Everything's been up and down so far, so I'll go through the week.
Saturday I arrived exhausted to find that my hostel is one of the crappest areas of town. Missing home desperately I searched for an internet connection that couldn't be found, until eventually making it to a pub which had working wifi. Was also chatter up by a boy called Kevin, who was on a scooter. Not like a moped or anything, oh no. A scooter. As in, one that you push along with your feet when your a kid. Crazy times, but fairly normal in Paris. Women walking alone get used to the calls of "Bonjour" and winks from men on street corners, in bars, cafes, door entrances, everywhere.
After a fairly disasterous first night there has been an upturn. The first film I've seen here "Les Derniers jours du monde" was a bloody classic and halarious. A cross between a romcom and end of the world sci-fi drama. That evening I was introduced to "Papa Sean" (Or papa smurf as everyone calls him) a fairly creepy man who makes friends with all the youths of the youth hostel. The actual youths themselves are cool. Most of them have left now, apart from Laine, who has moved to Paris permanently, despite not speaking a word of French, to become a chef.
The majority are travellers and travelling alone. One, paul, from England, has been travelling for years, working music festivals. I haven't seen sean since last wednessday. The last thing he said to me was "I'm going to meet my friend at Republique (the metro station)". We assume he checked out without saying bye. But it's strange and unnerving how he dissappeared without a trace and we all accepted it.
Monday allowed me to do some of the touristy stuff - the Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triomphe, Louvre, Champs Eelyses. I saw street dancers and sat on top of the metro station facing l'arc, amazed by the peacfullness of the moment.
This was soon ruined as two disturbing experiences made me appreaciate what it's like being a single girl in paris. To begin with, a Sri Lankan man of about 40 began speaking to me, asking where I was from etc. All very normal and friendly. Then he started to ask my to go for a coffee with him - and offered me a place to stay with him in his house. I made excuses and left.
Instead I went to Rochefort, in the Pigalle area - the red light district, to join in the music festival. As I left the metro station several men attempted to sell me ciggarettes. I tried to do the dumb tourist thing, and one began to follow me down the road, talking to me. He began asking me to meet up with him, for my number, where I stayed...I kept saying to him "Non non non, je ne suis pas interessee" and he became more insistent and threatening. I then said that I was returning to my hostel and I was tired. He went with my to the metro station, putting his arm round me and referring to my as "Mon Cherie" ignoring me when I pushed him off. He followed me onto the bloody metro for chrissakes! So I completely paniced, especially since he didn't seem to understand at all why I didn't want to get to know this complete stranger in the middle of the paris red light district. So I phonedMatthieu (French assisstant. Luckilly the guy spoke very little english and didn't know what I was saying) I have absolutely no idea what I expected him to do, being several thousand miles awayin Metz, but I think I just needed to hear a familiar voice. So that sorta calmed me down and |I formed a plan involving me disguising myself with a hat and jacket I had in my bag, hair down, hood up. Next stop I jumped off and ran like hell. Like a scene out of a movie.
That and a near pickpocketing off a romanian man have been my most terrifying experiences in France so far. The thing which has really struck me the most is the extremity in Paris. Some areas, especially around the Latin Quater, and places like the La Pere Lachaise and Sacre Coeur, are indescribeably beautiful, like nothing I have ever seen. But at the same time there's so much poverty, dirt and homelessness, worse than in Glasgow. Beneath the scorching sunlight and high cost of living, it;s easy to see how people become homeless in paris. If you don;t have money then your broke. Out on the streets. And when a 50 cl bottle of water can cost up to 2 Euros, it's very easy to lose track.
The people so far have been pretty cool, but especially the Dutch, who left this morning. Halarious and souls of the party, and bloody good drinkers too! Yesterday I went on my first night out in paris, with 3 New York boys - one German American, one Italian American and one Brazilian American. They are increadibly funny and extremely nice guys. Oh, and Laine just came in and used my arms to dry his hands. Gotta love him. All and all the first week has been fairly good. Let's hope things are on the up.
x
Saturday I arrived exhausted to find that my hostel is one of the crappest areas of town. Missing home desperately I searched for an internet connection that couldn't be found, until eventually making it to a pub which had working wifi. Was also chatter up by a boy called Kevin, who was on a scooter. Not like a moped or anything, oh no. A scooter. As in, one that you push along with your feet when your a kid. Crazy times, but fairly normal in Paris. Women walking alone get used to the calls of "Bonjour" and winks from men on street corners, in bars, cafes, door entrances, everywhere.
After a fairly disasterous first night there has been an upturn. The first film I've seen here "Les Derniers jours du monde" was a bloody classic and halarious. A cross between a romcom and end of the world sci-fi drama. That evening I was introduced to "Papa Sean" (Or papa smurf as everyone calls him) a fairly creepy man who makes friends with all the youths of the youth hostel. The actual youths themselves are cool. Most of them have left now, apart from Laine, who has moved to Paris permanently, despite not speaking a word of French, to become a chef.
The majority are travellers and travelling alone. One, paul, from England, has been travelling for years, working music festivals. I haven't seen sean since last wednessday. The last thing he said to me was "I'm going to meet my friend at Republique (the metro station)". We assume he checked out without saying bye. But it's strange and unnerving how he dissappeared without a trace and we all accepted it.
Monday allowed me to do some of the touristy stuff - the Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triomphe, Louvre, Champs Eelyses. I saw street dancers and sat on top of the metro station facing l'arc, amazed by the peacfullness of the moment.
This was soon ruined as two disturbing experiences made me appreaciate what it's like being a single girl in paris. To begin with, a Sri Lankan man of about 40 began speaking to me, asking where I was from etc. All very normal and friendly. Then he started to ask my to go for a coffee with him - and offered me a place to stay with him in his house. I made excuses and left.
Instead I went to Rochefort, in the Pigalle area - the red light district, to join in the music festival. As I left the metro station several men attempted to sell me ciggarettes. I tried to do the dumb tourist thing, and one began to follow me down the road, talking to me. He began asking me to meet up with him, for my number, where I stayed...I kept saying to him "Non non non, je ne suis pas interessee" and he became more insistent and threatening. I then said that I was returning to my hostel and I was tired. He went with my to the metro station, putting his arm round me and referring to my as "Mon Cherie" ignoring me when I pushed him off. He followed me onto the bloody metro for chrissakes! So I completely paniced, especially since he didn't seem to understand at all why I didn't want to get to know this complete stranger in the middle of the paris red light district. So I phonedMatthieu (French assisstant. Luckilly the guy spoke very little english and didn't know what I was saying) I have absolutely no idea what I expected him to do, being several thousand miles awayin Metz, but I think I just needed to hear a familiar voice. So that sorta calmed me down and |I formed a plan involving me disguising myself with a hat and jacket I had in my bag, hair down, hood up. Next stop I jumped off and ran like hell. Like a scene out of a movie.
That and a near pickpocketing off a romanian man have been my most terrifying experiences in France so far. The thing which has really struck me the most is the extremity in Paris. Some areas, especially around the Latin Quater, and places like the La Pere Lachaise and Sacre Coeur, are indescribeably beautiful, like nothing I have ever seen. But at the same time there's so much poverty, dirt and homelessness, worse than in Glasgow. Beneath the scorching sunlight and high cost of living, it;s easy to see how people become homeless in paris. If you don;t have money then your broke. Out on the streets. And when a 50 cl bottle of water can cost up to 2 Euros, it's very easy to lose track.
The people so far have been pretty cool, but especially the Dutch, who left this morning. Halarious and souls of the party, and bloody good drinkers too! Yesterday I went on my first night out in paris, with 3 New York boys - one German American, one Italian American and one Brazilian American. They are increadibly funny and extremely nice guys. Oh, and Laine just came in and used my arms to dry his hands. Gotta love him. All and all the first week has been fairly good. Let's hope things are on the up.
x
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Testing/Intro
Pretty much because I proboably should have some kind of record of my projecgts written down somewhere. And who knows, maybe something interesting will happen?
So as of Saturday 19th of June 2010 I will be away in France for four weeks, traveling about, watching theatre and film including that of the (ahem) "fabulous" Peter Brook (The joys). Might actually update for Prom, Download and My 18th...if only for my own enjoyment :)
S'laters.
So as of Saturday 19th of June 2010 I will be away in France for four weeks, traveling about, watching theatre and film including that of the (ahem) "fabulous" Peter Brook (The joys). Might actually update for Prom, Download and My 18th...if only for my own enjoyment :)
S'laters.
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