The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Paris
I had a significant birthday
approaching. Rather conveniently the HMS Warrior summer ball neatly coincided
with the celebratory weekend making a nice entrée to the event.
We shared a table with two
couples who we had met on previous Warrior dos. When the entertainment balloon
shape man came round he, perhaps foolishly, asked us what we wanted him to
make. Husband asked for a 40 – for me. He dutifully obeyed, although the way he
had made the 4 (which was a purple balloon) did look a little bit as though it
had a decent pair of testicles. One of our friends asked for a lop eared rabbit
eating a carrot. The balloon man’s face momentarily fell, but a few minutes later,
said rabbit was produced – and it actually looked rather good. Later than
evening we saw a girl with a balloon model of HMS Warrior. We never saw the
balloon man again. Perhaps he had needed to go and lie down in a darkened room.
After the party it was nice not
to have too early a start for my surprise weekend away. It is tricky to pack
for an unknown trip away. Do I need warm stuff, smart stuff, walking about
stuff? And we needed to pack light, so there wasn’t the option to bring
everything, just in case.
We got on the train – destination
unknown. Husband gave me my first birthday present, which consisted of a
personalised travel notes book. In which to record our various trips and treks.
Previously all my notes had been scribbled on bits of paper before being
committed to type on our return. Now I could have a permanent, as it happened,
documented record. I started writing in it –very neatly. 10 lines later it was
less neat. After the first page it was a scrawl.
I wondered if we were going to
Burnley. We’d been there before, as a stopover I hasten to add. Not as an
intentional destination. We weren’t particularly planning on going again. But
when we got off the underground at St Pancras from where east midlands train
depart, I started to wonder.
Until we headed off to the
Eurostar check in. Destination, however, was still uncertain. Please don’t be
Eurodisney. St Pancras had a series of green areas, surrounded by little white
picket fences, filled with deckchairs where waiting passengers could relax. There
were also a series of pianos, free for anyone to play. And some good pianists
were using them – one playing a series of popular sing along songs.
There was a bit of a check in
incident. Husband had to go and see a person in a kiosk where he was told that
his seat was a flip down seat in the corridor. Mine however was an allocated
seat in the carriage. As the train loaded, he sat next to me. We waited as the
carriage filled with dozens of French students, all with huge heavy suitcases
that they were desperately trying to cram into the overhead luggage racks. No
one came to claim the seat next me. We waited. Was everyone now aboard? Were we
safe to sit together?
Another group of people headed
towards the carriage. Our hearts sank. But they filed past us. And then the
doors were closed. Hurrah. No need for flip down seat, Husband could stay next
to me.
We arrived in Paris to a fearsome
summer heat. Deciding it was far too hot to walk, we took the RER towards the
hotel. We got out after following wrong sortie, ending up somewhere quite
different to where we had intended. However, we soon got our bearings and
located the hotel. The hotel had a proud bordello feel to it, velvet walls,
stairs carpeted in a different colour on each step.
Our room overlooked the Seine
and Notre Dame. Shortly after we got into the room there was a knock at the
door. A waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne, a plate of chocolates, a
small plastic Eiffel tower and a note saying Bon Anniversaire. It was a
fantastic gesture by the hotel.
After dutifully consuming the wares we ventured
out, meandering down the alleyways nestled behind the hotel. We had only
discovered these by accident on the way to the hotel as we had come out of the
wrong exit from the underground, necessitating a more involved walk to the
hotel than had been initially intended. Before long we happened across a bar
which was serving beer cocktails. I had a wheat beer, white rum and blue
curacao cocktail, which was green although it was called Grand Bleu.
We walked along the river,
watching the endless stream of boats taking tourists up the river. On the wide
walkway at river level they had made ‘plages’, large areas filled with sand and
deckchairs.
We were going to Juliens for
dinner, and took the Metro to get there. Well, it would have been simple but we
initially went down into the Metro to the line which was going in the wrong
direction. Unlike the London underground, there was no apparent way to change
direction without going out and coming back in again, which necessitated
another ticket. The train was rammed full and we needed to push and shove to
get on. It was also damned hot and within minutes we were running with sweat.
After a long and warm walk
underground, we exited just by Juliens. On this visit we were given an English
menu. This was a little disappointing but on our previous visit it had been
extremely challenging to know what anything was on the French version. You
could perhaps determine what the meat or fish was, but how it was prepared and
what it came with was another matter.
While we perused, we were given a
bowl of olives with small chunks of vegetables which did rather look like the
bits and pieces which were pulled out of a plughole. Small lumps of carrots,
mushrooms and cauliflower. But only one bit of each. It was very difficult to
choose what to eat – veal, scallops and chateaubriand all tempted.
We had an aperitif and when we
ordered Husband also ordered a bottle of wine. But the waiter wouldn’t pour any
wine for me until I had finished the aperitif and we had no authority to self
pour.
The veal liver was a good choice,
melt in the mouth, like mousse.
We both went for flambéed
puddings – Husband going for a flaming brulee while I opted for grand marnier
crepes. Which I had previously had in our visit here 10 years earlier. And I
wanted to see if they were as good as the ones we had had on Champs Elysees a
couple of years previously. The table next to us had also had flambéed desserts
and we had taken pictures of their flames. They were about a two foot high.
When I had the crepes at our
first visit they were almost indelibly alcoholic. This time either I was better
prepared or it wasn’t quite so strong.
We walked back to the hotel
rather than face the heat of the underground. It was still warm, despite being
late. And, very full from dinner, it was nice to walk off the meal a bit. We
passed the working girls lining Rue Fauborg St Denis, still frightening in
their summer wear. In my little black evening dress, I did momentarily feel
like something bought and paid for as we walked down the street arm in arm. We
paused on the bridge over the Seine to again watch the boats. The moonlight was
playing visual tricks on the water movement. We saw something bobbing about,
barely moving. It would be terribly dull playing pooh sticks here.
Back in the hotel we threw open
and windows and had the last nooky of my 30’s to the sound of Paris night life.
In the morning we woke up to see
the sun rising above Notre Dame and had a lazy morning in bed.
Husband gave me
my birthday cards and a 40 badge. We
went downstairs to check out. I saw the receptionist point to her left, and
followed her finger. A grey haired man was sitting at a table. For I second
that was all I saw. Then I realised I was looking at the back of my father’s
head. It seems that Husband had contacted him to ask whether by chance he would
be near Paris this weekend. He wouldn’t have been, but the challenge had been
set and my father responds well to a challenge. So he had arranged to be there
anyway.
This had been arranged for some
time. Amusing, my mother had contacted my father to remind him my birthday was
coming up. Not wanting to let on about the plans to meet me in Paris, he
claimed to have forgotten and thanks her for the reminder. She subsequently
told me about this, claiming it was her who had reminded him.
We wandered off to forage for
breakfast at a nearby café, and then went to purchase the obligatory fridge
magnet. We get a magnet from everywhere we visit. The rules are simple. It has
to have the name of the city we are in on it. That’s it. The shop also had
miniature music boxes, ones of which played Happy Birthday.
We then headed up to Andy Pandy’s
having tried to explain to my father why it was called Andy Pandy’s and what it
meant to us. Initially he didn’t understand. But once we got there, and sat in
the sun with a beer I think he realised what we had liked about it all those
years ago and why we had kept coming back.
After the obligatory photo we
then headed off to Montmartre to hunt down the Moulin de la Galette. On the way
to the Metro we walked behind a woman and my father later commented ‘that
woman’s arse reminds me of the Ukraine’. Now the thing with taking an
underground train to a significant hill is that when you get out, there is
darned long climb to get out. There was no escalator, just a long, eternal
spiral staircase. After finally emerging into the sunlight we experience some
initial map reading difficulties. This was particularly amusing given my
father’s usual faultless sense of direction.
Once back on the right track we
found the windmill. Then carried on up the hill to contemplate somewhere for
lunch. Deciding to go back to the Galette for lunch we then saw the sails of
another windmill, the original Moulin Rouge, now in a private garden.
We went into the small garden of
the Moulin Galette for lunch. Initially the waiter was a little cool until my
father showed him the old photos he had of the two windmills on the hillside.
We had fabulous food and a couple of bottles of wine in the quiet, shaded but
still warm garden.
It was an excellent birthday. A fluffy grey cat wandered
around the railings behind our table, continually threatening to steal some of
our lunch.
Pudding was peculiar – a cold
sponge dessert served in a hot dish. Delicious nonetheless.
After lunch we wandered back up
the hill into the small town behind Sacre Coeur. It was heaving with people and
had been much quieter when we were last here in a December. We stopped to watch
a street performer – a woman who was an incredibly skilled whistler.
As the heat of the day rose we
walked to Sacre Coeur and down the steps in front of it.
A very fit black man
was climbing a lamp post and pulling incredible poses from it while holding a
ball in his hands or leg, with the Paris skyline as his backdrop. We stood for some
time watching him. As did dozens of others, sitting on the steps, cheering him
on. He was extremely skilled.
Until he dropped the ball. We looked out over the
city, picking out Gard du Nord, the Pantheon and Notre Dame.
We walked down the packed steps
to Montmartre and said goodbye to the father, as we had to head back to the
station for our train home. He had enjoyed his brief visit to Paris, liking the
challenge and slightly surreal albeit hot experience.
We walked slowly back to Gard du
Nord, trying to stay in the shade, and had a final beer before checking in for
the train back to England.
Before boarding I needed a pee.
One French cleaner managed to cause utter disruption at the toilets, closing
them entirely while they mopped the floor. The queue of women grew. And grew.
Finally we were allowed in, to walk over the wet, newly mopped floor. And the
cleaner then proceeded to do exactly the same to the gents.
On the train back we both fell
asleep. Then Husband woke up and went in search of champagne. The buffet car on
the Eurostar is like a proper bar. It has an actual bar, and small cocktail
tables that you could stand around and have a drink if you wanted.
Husband was given Eurostar
glasses with the half bottle of champagne – not plastic beakers. So we supped
on bubbly as a fitting way to end my birthday and on the basis that we had been
given the glasses, and no one was likely to come and collect them, we took them
with us when we got back to London.
He had also come armed with
snacks and asked if I wanted a biscuit. ‘Let’s wait until we get to England’ I said.
He thought I meant wait until we’re on the train home, after a pasty. I
clarified that actually I meant let’s tuck in the minute we get out of the
tunnel, which we did so immediately afterwards. Timing is everything.
On arrival at St Pancras we went
to the Booking Hall for a mug of punch and to nibble on haggis bon bons and
truffle chips. After his punch Husband then opted for a beer which a little bit
lively and frothed out of his pewter mug.
Thus replete and tipsy we headed
homeward after a stunning birthday.
