Where does the time go? www.silverspirit.org.uk - that's where!
Where does the time go? www.silverspirit.org.uk - that's where!
Member since:16.04.2002
Reviews:40
Members who trust:11
Being woken up at five o’clock in the morning is so rude, unless it’s for a damned good reason, so picture the scene on Saturday the 3rd May, when I’m disturbed from my three-hour slumber without even so much as a cup of tea to enliven the senses. The world was fuzzy but one thing was clear: We were going to Paris today.
I put on a black long-sleevedT-shirt and black trousers and put a red short-sleeved shirt on over the top. “Is that what you’re wearing?” Tommy asked me. “…yeah, why?” “Well, it’s just a bit messy, that’s all.” “Something a bit more formal then,” I huffed back into the bedroom and threw my shirt down onto the floor in early-morning irritation. Carefully, I selected my black shirt with white collar and cuffs and put that on – much smarter, but I didn’t go so far as to actually put on the white tie that goes with it. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” Tommy was standing, facing his army of deodorants and aftershaves when he continued, “it’s just, that’s what you wear to work.” “It’s not what I wear to work. It’s far smarter than what I wear to work!” I unbuttoned the shirt and replaced it on the hanger, still wearing the long-sleeved T-shirt. “What do you want me to wear, then?” “Wear what you want.” Wear what I want?! “I did try,” I said in desperation. “Why not just wear that? You look nice in that.” I put a short-sleeved T-shirt under it and that was that.
About ten minutes later we were ready. “I think I’m ready, but it’s early.” “Right, let’s go then.” “I must have missed something, forgotten something or something,” he said. “Why?” “Because I’m on time.” “I’m going for a wee, see you down there.
We drove to Bexhill and got aboard the coach where we said hello to Tommy’s workmates who were to become our companions on our European excursion weekend. We chatted and laughed as we traversed the southern coast and I shouted “rape” a few times as the crop was in bloom, brilliant fields of sun drenched and dazzling yellow passed our window and all the time I thought I was so funny.
We arrived at Cheriton, Folkestone and grabbed a burger and some euros, then we were back on the coach, it was a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius.
Lee, our driver, told us very nicely not to use flash photography inside Le Shuttle train as it sets off the sensitive fire detection equipment. He turned off the engine and slowly the coach began to heat up. From my seat, I could see what I presumed to be Lee’s rear view mirror. I could see where he sits and through his side window. Le Shuttle trains are just big metal boxes with a few tiny windows and I could just see one such fenestration by way of the aforementioned mirror, thus I knew when we were moving, stationary, in or out of the tunnel.
I’ve never been through the Channel Tunnel before and it’s really, very impressive. I’m used to the old hour-and-a-half crossing between Dover and Calais on the ferry, but this was a whole different travel-sized version of your favourite board game. There were no casinos here, no music video lounges, just the big metal boxes with their tiny windows. Stay on board the coach unless you need the loo, we were told and on board the coach we stayed. Our ears popped for about twenty minutes and that was it – we were in Frethun, France – it was crazy! Suddenly, there we were, on the continent and in a new time zone. I was impressed.
We drove towards Paris and, out of curiosity, I moved Tommy’s shirt as he slept to see which T-shirt he had on. He moved and looked at me through a sleepy haze. I asked, “What top have you got on?” “Does it matter?!” Biting, I tell you, biting. “I’ve got a crick in my neck, now,” he said. “Good, you deserve it.” I was scorned, you see. “Yeah, I probably do.” Soon after, we stopped for a bite to eat and I told him what he’d said whilst half asleep and he couldn’t believe it, “I’m very narky when I’m asleep!” You’re not wrong, matey! It was a classic French motorists’ complex. Tommy and I ordered
what promised to be something not unlike a KFC but was, in actual fact drumsticks from the smallest midget chickens on Earth, smothered with a sauce that contained, if nothing else, a lot of garlic. Now, I’m allergic to garlic and thus the chicken was rendered a non-comestible product. Tommy ate it in exchange for more fries. Which were cold.
We vacated the restaurant hurriedly and climbed back on the coach and a while later, Paris came into view, first the Stade de France, then a peek at the peek of the Eiffel Tower and we made our way towards l’arc de triomphe. I’m never too sure how far to go with the names of French places and monuments. Should it be le Tour Eiffel or the Eiffel Tower? L’arc de triomphe, or the arc de triumph? Or the arch of triumph, even? I don’t know, but stick with what I’ve got. We went round the roundabout that is l’arc de triomphe and found ourselves ejected from the coach for five minutes at the Trocadero. We walked towards the balcony that looks out over the gardens and the Eiffel Tower stood a good photo opportunity away. As we walked, a street vendor flicked a line of postcards at me, to which I replied, “Will you just stop that.” Funnily enough, he didn’t do it again.
Paris’s population back in 1990 was 2,175,000. Now, since then, that number can only have increased with the worldwide trend, but, as we made our way from the Trocadero to the South bank of the Seine, I couldn’t help but notice that there isn’t one empty street in the city. Absolutely every road has someone walking along it, dog on lead, phone to ear. Surely to God, there are more than two million milling people in here, but it’s fairly obvious, that number was the population and that doesn’t account for students, businesspersons and, of course tourists, which must bump that number up considerably.
Up and down the Seine were a myriad boats, some tugs but mostly commercial and tourist cruises, packed full of people with their cameras, waving as they passed us. Our boat was packed also, but we found a nice row of seats towards the back of the craft, on the left hand side in the direction of travel; the Eiffel Tower was behind us. The commentary on the boat was first in French, then English, Spanish and German and thus I lost the enthusiasm to listen, so Tommy and I just sat there, drinking in the scenery as we went under a number of bridges, regarding Paris as it sailed past and I fell into a hopelessly romantic mood. It’s the architecture, so grand and ornate, not imposing but more protecting, comforting with all those people bustling about all going to meet with their eccentric friends to meet up in a chic restaurant to discuss some avant-garde art exhibition.
My mind began to wander and I started to imagine what it would be like if it was just myself and Tommy on the boat, crazy 1950s music playing as we made our way along the river. We were both in tuxes and Tommy looked devilishly handsome. We each had a glass of wine in one hand and greeted people as we passed them with the other, falling about laughing on occasion. I fell into my delusion until – “I’m getting a bit bored, actually.”
I was snapped back into reality and he was right, the only reason I was occupied was because I was in the middle of my little fantasy world. After the excitement of the men on the roof of the Louvre, the scaffolding on Notre Dame, all that was left to see were the people on the banks, reading* and that was about it. I thought that all those people gave the city a real hum and the fact that I thought that all of them were rich, eccentric, chic-restaurant going, art-discussing Parisians was ridiculous. In reality, they were all going to work, going home, going somewhere totally prosaic and that was all there was to their lives – not much more than there is to mine, except I don’t go through Paris to do it. I had torn through Paris’s veil of romance, but I still thought it was a very lovely place.
Paris became the capital city of France late in the 10th Century, which would go some lengths to explain why it has monuments in abundance. Everywhere you go there are places to see; places to pay to enter, with queues of people lining up outside. After our cruise in Seine, we paid a swift visit to the Eiffel Tower and took a few pictures. The queues were impressive, there was no way we had enough time to ascend as we had planned to, so we consoled ourselves with ice cream. I ordered for Tommy and myself. I was meant to say something impressive, like “bonjour, je voudrais un glace avec chocolat et vanille… merci beaucoup, et un glace avec pistache et citron… merci bien.” However, it didn’t come out like that. In fact, it came out like this, “glace… chocolat et vanille… pistache et citron… merci.” I’m such a twat, but at least I didn’t point and say, “lemon and pistachio… yeah,” or anything like that. That would have been terrible. She would have killed me, that woman, with her crazy big blonde hair.
Back on the coach, we took an unofficial tour of Paris in that we lost the hotel where we were meant to stay. After about an hour, we found it and all found our rooms. Some of us found people in our rooms, which is exciting, isn’t it? We left our friends waiting for the lift to explain the occupied room issue to the well-meaning-but-useless individual at reception and closed the door to our room. It was pokey and standard with a vile infected-mucus-effect carpet littered with cigarette burns. The window was small and looked out over an embankment of greenery with tiny white flowers. Upon craning one’s neck, one could see the Seine flowing through what looked like a fairly industrial part of Paris. We had a TV in the room; the remote control was resting in a holder screwed into the headboard of the double bed. There were two more single beds in the room. One had collapsed*. Tommy and I were thankful that we were only staying one night and that we would be asleep for a great deal of that.
After freshening up, we made our way down to the bar from our room on the fifth floor. The lift gave a brief hiccup as it arrived at the ground floor and we all met up and found the restaurant closed. We sat at the bar and ordered deux vin rouges and received a very nice chilled rosé. We complained and were told that “my English isn’t very good,” even though we ordered in French. Next, we received chilled, watered-down red wine that cost us €2.60 per glass. That really stung, I can tell you. Whether that was the price per bottle and there had been a misunderstanding or if it was actually a vintage glass served from the fridge is uncertain, but we didn’t order another. I expect wine to be served in lead crystalglasses by ice nymphs for that price. Ouch.
We boarded the coach again and Lee took us back into the centre of Paris. We arranged to meet at 11pm to make our way home – The Metro was supposed to close at 12.30. Tommy and I walked along the Champs Elysees with a couple from Tommy’s work friends, Ashley and Karen, and Janet, who seemed fun, if complaints and whinging floats your boat. We walked a while and chatted, checking out restaurants for prices and variety and finally stopped at one with an agreeable selection with prices to match. We could have walked for ever looking for the best place, but we were pressed for time.
The evening flew by with the swiftness of the TGV and we had a great time, discussing this and that over our steak and chips as Paris’s denizens made their way past the windows into the yellow murk of the streets. We had a good few bottles of wine (a vintage Bordeaux and whichever the white was – I don’t drink it and so didn’t take any notice. Some Sauvignon Blanc, possibly) and got slowly pissed as we chatted. Janet kept saying that we had to leave too early and that we should just not go back to meet. She and Tommy ordered “another two glasses” from the waitress and received just that: Two empty glasses, and we settled the bill. €106.00 as I recall and, between five of us it was very reasonable.
We left for the Metro station and Tommy decided that his bladder was overfull and began to make this fact public. In the station, I heard an announcement, which said something like “please be aware that it’s Sunday tomorrow and so the Metro will be closing in twenty minutes, so do not, I repeat, do not allow anyone into the toilets” and so a sense of urgency had overcome us. Viv, who seems to be the kind of person who naturally organises people, began to organise where we should change to get back to the hotel. We didn’t have much time. We were making our way through the winding tunnels, trying to find the right platform when I noticed we should be passing some stairs which led to line 1, and going straight on to line 2, where we’d get the train somewhere and change and so on. A besuited battleaxe told me I was wrong and I insisted that, should we continue, we’d end up somewhere other than our destination. Tommy believed me but didn’t care as, by this point, he desperately required a receptacle for his excess urine. The group followed my directions (“I still think we’re going the wrong way,” I heard her say, so why don’t you fuck off that way, then, I longed to reply) and we found the right platform. Having surveyed the area, I kept lookout whilst Tommy relieved himself into a bin. “Company,” I chimed as voices got closer and Tommy whipped his genitals away, lightly splashing his trousers and we rejoined our companions on the platform to tell them how it went. Tommy’s manager did look amused.
The station we required was closed and so we got off at the one before. We hit the fresh air on street level and it didn’t look anything like anywhere near our hotel. The battleaxe went off again. We walked a few miles, it seems, in a happily relaxed mood, the odd comment being issued from our number, such as “well, I wouldn’t mind paying for a taxi” and “I think we should be going down that road” and “I really need to pee.” With a little determination and a lot of help from Viv, we found our way back to the hotel and seemed to have acquired a few extra bottles of wine in the process.
I fell onto the bed and bounced slightly, the wine was opened and Tommy and I with Janet, Viv and Chris chatted a while until it was just Chris and us. “I feel like a gooseberry, now.”
We talked for ages and I can’t remember what it was all about, but it was interesting. I remember there being talk of Tommy’s work, talk of my work, New York and, of course, Paris. She left and we got ready for bed.
The following morning was bright clear, I stood up in a haze and made my way into the bathroom, searching desperately for the hangover I should have had. It was just like the appendage from which the showerhead is supposed to hang: Nowhere to be found. I’ve never had a shower by just holding the showerhead and I won’t again unless I can help it. I got dressed in jeans and a New York hoodie and we went down to breakfast where we ate far too many croissants, pain aux chocolats and swirly Danish pastry-like things. It was scrumptious to the extreme and we washed it down with the juices of both orange and grapefruit. It set us up for what was to turn out to be one hell of a day.
Lee dropped us off at Versailles, the massive grounds of the palace of Louis XVI. It is now a museum and the queue to enter was of an impressive size. Low on money, we decided against entering, but took a good look around. It is a grand place, high and looming with gardens you could spend years exploring. We saw all we could and took a few photos and decided to go into Versailles town centre for a poke about. On our way across the coach park, about ten of the street sellers swarmed us, throwing wind-up birds at us, pinging us with postcards and trying to determine our nationality. We made to escape along the side of a coach only to find another coming the other way, there was nothing we could do until – “Fuck off!” Janet reigned supreme as they backed off and fucked off.
Versailles had a large market on at the time with a marching band and buses cutting right through the middle of it. It was very lovely to watch people going about their business, buying strawberries the size of mobile phones, casually looking over their shoulder to find a bus inches from their faces. Tickled me pink, it did. We sat and had a drink and assessed the swelt-rating. It was about an eight on the swelt scale (from 1 – 10) It was quite uncomfortable to stay out of the shade for any length of time and thus, after our drink, we pressed on.
We walked back toward the coach park after a brief look in a perfume/aftershave shop and found a nice restaurant and ate Salade Parisienne (with a spider) al fresco with Janet, Viv and Chris. It was a laugh. Our waiter had the same facial hair as an ancient walrus, however I don’t think it contributed to the food.
The coach journey seemed to go on for hours after this and we stopped at Rouen. It was a total surprise to find ourselves ejected again – we thought we were on our way back, but it was delightful to find ourselves here. Tommy, camcorder in hand and I with the digital camera tried to capture Rouen’s cathedral as best we could, but it is truly of Brobdignagian proportions and, in my opinion, every bit as beautiful as Notre Dame, if not more so. It was 31ºc according to the coach’s on board thermometer, but Tommy and I, having discussed this, thought it was much higher whilst we wandered about the plaza in front of the cathedral. It felt more like 35 to 37 degrees and it was gorgeous. I even got my forearms out.
It’s my firm belief that religion is the world’s most popular method of dictation. Hoi polloi is controlled by one person and there’s no one to assassinate at the end and so here I am, faced with this gargantuan representation of something I believe to be a device of oppression and I have to say that from the very top of its gothic black spire right down to the carved stone archway around the door, it was truly beautiful. My cynicism fell away for a moment as I looked at the statues beside the door. It returned soon after as someone had run off with the head of one and the entirety of another.
We stepped through the door and instead of bursting into flames as I expected to, I felt so very cool. It was actually freezing inside that place. Stone cold. More places should be built like this; tree trunk pillars supported a vast cavernous space between the floor and the distant ceiling, wooden chairs were laid out in their hundreds and scattered here and there were information boards which we took no notice of. Tommy got the camcorder out and filmed upward a lot of the time, stained glass windows, roof arches and mysterious staircases aplenty. We found ourselves at the altar and Tommy wanted to film the ceiling properly and laid on the floor in front of the dais and got up pretty sharpish when Viv told him that he was laying on a grave. He giggled and laughed about it, his voice echoing around the cathedral as I told him that hundreds of years ago, there was someone going “brrrbrrbrbrrbrr”. There was a sign that said silence. Tommy felt embarrassed and I was certain it wasn’t there before. Chris, Viv and I meandered off to have a look at the little inglenooks, which were very lovely stained glass affairs with a statue, some information and the opportunity to buy some church candles. I felt this detracted somewhat from the whole religious effect. I don’t suppose Jesus was at the last supper working out who had what, “Peter, you had the fish, yeah? Or not? You had the bread. Did I turn that into fish? Well that’s gonna be extra, mate.” I imagined Rouen Cathedral in a few years time to have expanded its selection of purchasables and the altar to be adorned with a 42” Dolby 5.1 surround soundplasma screenTV/DVD combi for only €4.999.99 with a free blessing from Our Lady.
We left the cathedral and were blasted by a wave of heat. God it was hot. We sat out in the square and had a soft drink, blinking in the sun and slowly roasting until it was time to meet the coach again. On the way up to Calais, Tommy and I discussed world climates and how we’re going to save for an antipodean adventure in a few years’ time. Australia is calling so pennies need saving. Until then, we decided, our cheapo holidays to Spain would suffice. We liked the idea of camping in France as well.
Clouds appeared as we travelled north and Tommy said that there was a big electrical storm on the horizon. We picked up some booze at Calais and went to the Eurotunnel terminal and found ourselves at MacDonalds. We ordered two large meals, one with a BigMac, the other with a quarter-pounder with cheese. We received a regular meal and I complained about it only to be told that this was large. Maybe the French just eat less, then. Back on the coach, we started to play a game where you take a letter of the alphabet and try to make it into something else, for example: A for ‘orses, B for mutton, C for miles and so on. I came up with K for Sutherland and thought it was funnier than anyone else did. Z was a difficult one. The man sitting on the other side of the aisle said, “Z for the hills,” which was quite good. Tommy came up with Y for lout over it; stroke of genius, that.
Back into the tunnel for more ear popping and finally, we arrived in England a full forty minutes before we left France. What fun!
Tommy was right, after the tunnel crossing, dark clouds were gathering and as we arrived back in Sussex the sky was intermittently flashing and there was something definitely amiss with the clouds to the north. A feeling of foreboding on the way home bothered me, like there was something terribly wrong. I half expected to round the corner onto our road to find our house burned to the ground but it wasn’t so. We walked through the door, our cases of wine in tow and found the place empty, I checked the cat and everything was fine. We slumped into the seats and agreed that it had been a damned fine weekend. V for la France.
Phew I'm shattered after all that travelling and boozing...oh hang on a minute I never went did I? Bloomin' well seems like it though! A fabulously written account of a rather splendid sounding excursion to gay paree! Y for thin chocolat monssiour?? Noofer :P
jillmurphy 24.05.2003 21:18
I wanna go through the tunnel. I still haven't! How can you be allergic to garlic?!
NH Hotels, the hotel chain leader in Europe, with more than 300 hotels in 20 countries in Europe, Latin America and Africa. Enter into our web site and find the best available tariff at all times
May 24th, 2003
very helpful by (100%):
