Paris. Beautiful architecture, Notre Dame minus Quasimodo. The Musee d'Orsay, a converted train station houses an excellent collection of impressionist art, Sigley, Monet, and another guy that sounds like Picasso, but i think is Pissarro. Sartre and Simone de Beauvoire turn in their graves as we pay 18 Euros for a Heineken and vin blanc in Cafe Flore on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The Latin quarter is full of cool jazz cats and cigarette socialites sitting outside bistros in the cold, covered only by an awning and their lapel collared coats.
The Eiffel Tower glows with an UV blue underlight and sparkels on the hour, every hour. Vertigo must be overcome to make it to the top and stand in awe at the panoramic neon map that stretches out to the horizon and disappears as the earth curves round. Everything is reduced to light and dark. Walk up the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe, also spectacular at night. Sculputres of Renaissance warriors battle with their tackle out, naked and vulnerable.
Pigalle, the Moulin Rouge and sex shops stretch out along the south of Montmartres challenging Amsterdams red light district. Depravity in-house and out-sourced. Fat hookers don't intice and fail to live up to the images plastered on the outside of the bars. Still, horniness and hardons force a hasty retreat to the hotel Saints Georges. Debauchery taken home and disciplined.
The Centre de Pompidou boasts an impressive archive of modern art. Basquiat. Beuys. Picasso. Man Ray. Fishli and Weiss, The Way Things Go. Marcel Duchamp's Urinal. Humbled by seeing such significant pieces in the proverbial flesh. Right wrongs, count to 10 more often. The buildings insides are on its outside. Transparency.
Ride the river Siene and kiss under the most romantic bridge. Exhibitionists love to be watched by nearly a thousand different voyeuristic statuesque heads hanging over the water. The Oberkampf is uber fun. Fine dining and drinking to the sultry sounds of Amy Winehouse, Phil Collins and The Police. Shakespearian book shops in the Latin quarter. Smoke menthol Vogues, casting fashionable shadows. Berets, pointy shoes and over the top lapels, are all Parisian lo-fi haute couture. Rain wets high spirits as every tear you fail to cry dampens your heart further. Communication.
Croissants and pain au chocolat. Eurostar vs Eurolines. Ferry and coach team up to take on the train. Over or under the channel?
1 comment:
More haste less speed? Perhaps, but without a little loyalty to the bible that is the Lonely Planet, one may not have left the luxury of one's pent house! The result? No mastering the metro to the sound of the accordian, no strolling though the gardens of Le Louvre, no soggy baguette picnics or black and white photos at Le Palais de Tokyo. No tack shops and pretty things. And no French knickers or Chick Points! Holy Moly! Thank heavens for Travel Bores! x
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