Hi readers,
Been a long time which I apologise for now.
But...
My friend Marlena from Poland came to stay for the weekend and to put
it in a nutshell, we had an incredible time. We explored the whole of
Paris – and when I say the whole of Paris, I mean three
solid days walking and taking Metros. Seriously. I am currently in
recovery mode.
But it was worth it. Every now and then you need a bit of an
exhausting weekend to realise you are actually young, sprightly and
loving life! (Instead of haggard, overtired and stressed by the mere
sight of McDonalds – see previous blog posts).
I could recount the entire weekend back-to-back, missing nothing...
but because this is Paris we're talking about, it really would be a
mini-novel. So I will allow these pictures – a few of my favourites
from our ramblings round the city of love – to speak for themselves
and then I will proceed to write about a truly unforgettable
highlight of the weekend, one that had to be committed to memory in
written form because otherwise it would be a wasted anecdote.
"Student house a la France"
One of my favourite finds in Paris yet...
"Avenue Rachel"
Paris, called the city of love, has a wall of love...in many languages
French nights out - order a coffee in the nearest restaurant at 6AM. Followed by a glass of wine!
...Which some people proceed to drink, because
when in France,
Do as the French.
The Adventure of Marlena, Rachel and a Magic Bottle of Wine at a
Certain Palais de Justice of Paris
Once upon a time (last weekend) two twenty-something year old,
attractive female girls with red lipstick, heavy handbags and a
penchant for wine set foot in the beautiful capital city of France –
commonly known as Paris.
One named Rachel, the other named Marlena, these two girls had been
brought together once more after a wonderful summer drinking beer on
the sunny beaches of Spain. However, in Paris, where November
sunshine was rare with the cold, dry winds of Northern Europe
blustering in, the girls could no longer face the idea of drinking a
cold beer out on the terrace as they'd used to!
No; quite the contrary. It was time to acclimatise themselves to the
fruit of the vine. The national beverage of France, served warm, cold
or room temperature, and which always came with interesting
side effects:
It was time for a bottle of wine.
So along their travels, they stopped by a small supermarket shop not
far from the Eiffel Tower and purchased one: a very cheap bottle
of wine.
It didn't matter, they said to each other. A cheap bottle of wine in
France was a good bottle of wine in every other country in the world.
What else could France manufacture more effectively than wine; the
motherland of champagne?
I (obviously) carried the wine in my handbag. In there, it
was in very safe hands. That is, until we reached a stop in our
travels which was a must-see for Marlena.
“We have to see this church, Sainte-Chapelle!” she said
excitedly, waving the tour book in front of me. It was a rather
rubbish tour book, in fact, £3.99 from the Works and had been lying
in my bedroom at home for about 2 years before I'd even bothered to
glance at it. But it had served us pretty well so far in Paris and as
I leafed through it, I was quite impressed that Marlena had managed
to make use of it so successfully.
However, I noticed something odd on the page about Sainte-Chapelle. I
pointed at the photo and turned to Marlena:
“This chapel looks a lot like the Sacré-Coeur, doesn't it?”
She frowned and we examined it again carefully. Yes, the same dome,
white façades and quintessential steps leading up to it. Could this
chapel be the hidden, lesser-known younger sister of the Sacré-Coeur?
Sitting behind a walled building right in the heart of Paris's
centre?
How exciting, I thought to myself. Instantly, I was convinced
we had to see it too. We made our way using the signposts leading to
Sainte-Chapelle until we arrived at some rather elaborate gates which
barred off an impressive and very large building.
We were at the Palais de Justice – or the Supreme Court as it was
in London. Behind the gates were policemen in uniform and undoubtedly
beyond that were some of the most intelligent lawyers in France.
Maybe even in the world.
“But why are we here?” Marlena was frowning up at the gates. I
glanced up and down the street and then noticed something.
“Look – entrance to Sainte-Chapelle!” I tugged her sleeve
pointing to the sign I had just seen. ENTRANCE/ENTRADA/ENTRATA SAINTE
CHAPELLE was inscribed on it, around the side of the the Palais de
Justice. There a small queue which we could only assume was the queue
to get into this incredible, mini-sister version of the Sacré-Coeur.
We joined the queue. After a few moments, Marlena glanced and the AA
tourist's guide to Paris and then up at me. She was frowning.
Before she even asked, I knew what her question would be:
“Can you check this is the entrance to the chapel?”
When we'd met in Spain that summer, it had always been the reverse:
me asking her to translate or ask questions in Spanish. Now it was my
turn to be the interpreter. But I understood her concern – what if
it was simply the queue to get into the Courts? It's not like anyone
in these situations does anything to make life easier for you –
sometimes they even find it funny to watch tourists get confused and
frustrated.
So I went and asked. The response was typically French: vague,
unclear, ask-someone-else. Perhaps it's the entrance. Or actually,
it's the entrance to both. We're not entirely sure, we're just
waiting here for something. So since it wasn't a very long queue, we waited. When we got to the
doors, Marlena turned to me in amazement.
“It's like the airport!” she said, astounded, pointing to the
metal detectors and X-ray machines. I shrugged and said “C'est la
vie.”
(A split second later I berated myself for conforming to such an
outrageously blatant level of Frenchism). But not for long, because
Marlena had passed through the metal detectors which promptly started
beeping madly. Whilst an armed and uniformed man with another metal
detector began frisking her, I put my bag through the X-ray machine
and confidently breezed through the metal detector.
It was only on the other side that another armed and uniformed man
put out his hand to stop me in my tracks. He picked up my heavy
handbag.
Another split second later, when he reached inside and started
pulling the neck of our beloved rosé bottle out from underneath the
pyjamas, leaflets, bags of souvenirs and goodness knows what else
I was carrying around that weekend, I felt my heart sink right
down to my stomach.
In all the hustle and bustle of the day, I had completely forgotten
about our little bottle of cheap rosé (which was admittedly one of
the things contributing so much weight to my handbag).
His expression was clear as an open book: You may NOT bring this
through.
 |
| (This bottle was enjoyed later - I won't spoil it yet) |
(We had also forgotten to take the bright orange price label off it,
which didn't do any favours).
Marlena (who was finished being frisked) looked on in horror back and
forth as I pleaded our case to the adamant security man in rapid-fire
French. She was gesturing and saying something to me at the same time
as the uniformed and armed man rattled away about “possible ways to
recuperate the bottle when we left if he explained to his colleague”.
(Just to clarify, the verb 'récuperer' in French is frequently used
– recuperate in English is not. But my brain was too frazzled to
think of anything more at that exact moment).
I explained to the security man that we wanted to try and pick it up
again on our way out. He explained that he was going to put it in the
bin – but only the paper bin. If we came back within the hour, we
could pick it up.
Trying not to think about the build-up we were causing (there were a
few curious glances being thrown our way from beyond the barrier) I
agreed, thinking, the paper bin is not going to kill this bottle
of wine...
The security guards were fighting back smiles and I could tell what
they were thinking: all this for a bottle of terrible rosé that
costs 2.80 euros?
But, Marlena assured me as we walked through into the courtyard, we
bought that bottle. We deserve to keep something we spent our money
on!
And for some reason, it had a lot more value on it now – now that
it had been subject to a screening process at the Palais de
Justice of Paris.
We turned a corner and voila! There was Sainte-Chapelle, said
Marlena.
I looked at it dumbly. Then I looked at Marlena. Then I looked at the
AA guide.
“This building looks nothing like the picture.”
No indeed. Apparently, the AA guide was mistaken. Or the book cost
£3.99 because they didn't have the money to print an actual photo of
Sainte-Chapelle (or else they hadn't successfully passed the
screening process at the entrance when they'd tried to get one).
No, the AA guide's solution to this problem was to merely print a
second photo of the Sacré-Coeur and stick it on the Sainte-Chapelle
page. I didn't know what to say about that so instead I just shrugged
my shoulders again and tried to hide my disappointment.
I shouldn't really have been disappointed by such a beautiful chapel
(inside the stained-glass windows were particularly impressive) but
really, when you're expecting a mini-Sacré Coeur, anything in
comparison is disappointing...
*
When we had finished our tour of the Chapel (in about ten minutes –
it was one room) and also a sneaky tour of the Palais de Justice's
interior (“We can't come all this way and not see it,”
Marlena justified), we were ready to leave.
And pick up our magic bottle.
We went back to the entrance where the security guards were. As we
approached, he (a different uniformed and armed man) grinned at us
and produced the magic bottle of cheap rosé from the (thankfully)
empty paper bin.
“Here you go!” he said cheerfully in English. “Are you both
American?”
Before I could even utter a single, indignant protest at the fact
that he not only assumed we didn't understand a word of French but
that he had quite seriously mistaken our respective
nationalities, he breezed us through the metal detector.
“If you could both exit by this way, you can leave with your wine,”
he continued, handing the bottle over, still bearing its
incriminating orange price tag. “But,” he added in a lower voice,
“I wouldn't drink it if I were you.”
He gave me that knowing, I-am-a-wine-connoisseur look that all
French people can rightfully get away with, simply based on the fact
that they are all wine-experts, even if they don't drink
alcohol.
Feeling too ashamed and reprimanded to utter another word, I shuffled
through the detectors after Marlena, ignoring the incredulous stares
and peals of laughter coming from the uniformed and armed men from
the other side and from amazed members of the general public waiting
in the queue to get in. It didn't help that the metal detectors began
blaring angrily and incessantly until we reached the blissful safety
of the outside street, out of sight and out of earshot.
But at this point, it only took us a couple of seconds before we were
in peals of uncontrollable laughter, swaying and holding onto each
other for support in the street, the bottle of wine still clutched in
my hand with its orange label proudly above the simple legend ROSÉ.
Passers-by looked on in alarm, as we certainly appeared to be
drunkards – but not merely drunkards; raucous, young, female
drunkards outside the Palais de Justice of all places!
If Paris were a person and could give reproving looks, we would have
received a very disapproving one at that particular moment for
flouting the unspoken rule of ladies behaving ladylike, particularly
in the streets.
“Really ladies!” Paris would have said, glaring at us, “This is
not Montmartre! This is the 1st
Arrondissement...If you want to behave like drunken hooligans, go
to the Moulin Rouge.”
I could feel Paris's heavy judgement on me, but quite frankly I
couldn't care less in that moment. Marlena looked at me and we burst
out laughing again. Then she grabbed my arm and said:
“You
definitely need to write this one in your blog.”
*
Without challenges, life would never teach us anything.
This is a conclusion which I have come to this week, in spite of many
moments where challenges have presented themselves in diverse forms.
As I haven't written a blog entry for a good couple of weeks
(possibly even coming up to three now, which is seriously remiss of
me), I have decided to make this one extra long. In fact, the reason
for it was because I got something of a “writer's block” last
week, and even the week before that. With each week that passed, I
had a blog entry theme in mind and then when it came to writing it, I
re-read what I had written and found myself swiftly pressing BACK
SPACE...
It happens to the best of us; when there's something we really want
to say we sometimes can't say it. And it's the same with writing:
when there's something we really want to write – for example an
essay on a topic we know all about – sometimes the words won't flow
into sentences.
And then other times, writing is as easy as 1, 2, 3.
So admittedly, I've wanted to update my blog for a few weeks now but
somehow “I never found the time”. As I sit typing this now (in my
toujours Internet-less apartment) it is 1pm in the afternoon,
I have a 1000-word “abstract” to write about my dissertation
(whatever that means; can't those genius academic freaks get
their act together and call it a summary or an
introduction or something like we used to in school?), I
have had only half a cup of coffee and 2 hours sleep (dangerous, very
dangerous) and on top of that, I have no food in my house and a
shopping list of things to buy.
And also the Internet thing to sort out.
(I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get Internet actually. That's
another very long story altogether, possibly one of novel-length at this rate...).
But the thing that remains constant is the desire to update the world
(well, the world of my friends and family) with the goings-on of my
life in Blog Form. So, in face of the winds of all that is
Complicated, Bureaucratic and Just Plain Annoying, I am giving myself
an outlet for this and making sure that if I can't laugh at myself,
others can.
It's hard to explain what these challenges are really. Where to
begin?? Would be my first question. It isn't really just having lived
in an apartment for 10 weeks with no Internet, neither is it always
the “J'en sais rien; je ferais rien” attitude of some of the
French official people I've met so far. (Seriously – when you need
something done, it means you need it done, not in 6-10 weeks or “on
the second left at the end of the road, where my colleague will help
you”).
It's more the day to day challenge of facing new challenges
which can wear you down. And actually, this is the most true thing
really. In the time I have spent here, I've realised that maybe this
year is a wake-up call for me.
Was I expecting an easy, relaxed approach to life on my year abroad;
a year in the Caribbean lounging on a beach followed by a summer au
pairing again in the Cote d'Azur or Nice?
Perhaps.
But did I get it?
Most definitely not; in fact I got exactly the opposite. But the
challenges which present themselves in day to day living – getting
on the wrong Metro and missing the last direct train home so that the
journey is two hours rather than one, walking back and forth from
McDonald's weekly and walking around Paris trying to find things like
the British Embassy and a phone shop who will tell me my address is
in a zone which can pick up Internet (and not the reverse) – these
challenges are not crises. No food, no bed, nowhere warm to live, no
job, no friends, no money – those are crises in Paris. These are
the real crises people face: sleeping under bridges by the Seine,
bunking in Metro stations and lying on the Champs-Elysées freezing
themselves solid beside shop windows.
So when I stop and think about my so called “problems”, suddenly
Nina Simone looms into my mind and starts singing “Got my hair, got
my head, got my brains, got my ears, got my eyes, got my nose, got my
mouth...I got my smile...” and then I feel ashamed of myself for
having doubted this logic. (Thanks Nina).
My friend Marlena, before she left Paris, gave me a postcard with this picture on it and wrote
me a little note on the back of it. Even though my “problems” are
miniscule when put into context with real problems, she understands
that I've had my fair share of “I CAN'T DO IT” moments since I
got here.
'Whatever happens to you, remember you are a woman and you will
always find a way to resolve your problems.'
Well indeed – how could I deny that logic? (Every time I look at
this card, I can feel a slightly pro-female “Destiny's Child”
speech coming on, so I'll keep it short).
Most of the superheroes are men (obvs. They have to save the damsels
in distress who can't hack independence). But frankly, some of these
damsels are just Superwoman but they don't know it. If Lois
Lane had to save herself from getting kidnapped and thrown off a
building, would she be able to? According to the comics, no.
But
personally? I reckon she could if she had to. Any woman could, if she
had to. And since I've got here, I've realised this: if you're a damsel in
distress who is used to a form of Superman always coming to her
rescue...
Then wake up and realise what you have to do. Moreover, what you're
capable of doing. When you have to do life independently, save
yourself (in some cases, literally and in others, from all things bureaucratic) and rely on no-one else, well...
That's when you realise, there are lots of undiscovered Superwomen in
this world. And you're sort of one of them, if you call yourself a woman.
