Commerce Before I visited Paris I always heard tell of a bookshop, 'Shakespeare & Co' which had berths were apiring writers could sleep providing their were looking for inspiration in the city streets and would help out in the shop for a few hours a day. My tired feet couldn't ever trundle much further than the tourist traps so I missed visiting the shop myself. I'm still disappointed that I could visit, but this virtual tour helps a bit. Literary Traveller's ongoing series of article about Earnest Hemmingway offers a good potted history of the place. It seems this isn't the original which was eventually closed by the Nazi's when the owner, Sylvia Beach refused to sell an German officer her last copy of 'Finnigan’s Wake'. Hemmingway was a regular customer and helped with the re-opening of that original shop. The current premises were another shop, renamed by a friend of Beech, George Whitman as a tribute after her birth, and he estimates that over 10,000 writers have slept amongst the stacks for at least one night. All have left a photo and short biography, some very famous names amongst them.

Photography My Paris bridge collection.

Moments I’m sitting in the café at the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. On the table before me are an espresso and pain du chocolate, and they are all I can smell. Around me people are talking in a din of different languages. A Japanese girl is sat at a table almost but not quite opposite to me. She has brought an espresso as well. We smile at each other, and we share a few words: ‘You alright’ Yes.’ ‘Japanese?’ ‘English?’ But its obvious that is the limit of my Japanese and her English so we sit in silence. I'm reading the English version of the guide book; hers is all in Japanese. Different versions of the same book. I put my copy down and start to eat the pain. I can tell she is intrigued by it, so I pull off a chunk, making sure there is some chocolate and offer it to her. The girl takes it gladly and smiles giddily after eating. She tries to say thank you but can’t, so I just tell her she’s welcome. When she’s finished that piece I give her some more. We sit in silence just looking at each other, until our coffees are gone. We shake hands and go our own ways.

Like all big cities, Paris can be one of the loneliest places in the world. I’m a paradoxical human being. I like going to places alone, because it means I can see everything at my own pace and only see the things I want to see. But I also want to be able to share the experience. When I was in Paris, having these amazing experiences, I sometimes did feel like I was in an alien place were no one understood who I was. After the first day, whenever I heard an British accent I almost ran to it, just to discourse, a kind of relief in the ability to communicate meaningfully even for a few brief moments.

This moment wasn’t about language, but it was about interaction. For such a romantic city, there were a lot of single people touring alone. In a way it felt like we were some kind of cultural subgroup. The trouble was we couldn’t talk to each other, either through fear or because of language. When the Japanese girl sat opposite I knew I wanted to talk to her, tell her about all the amazing things which had happened to me that day, about bumping into Whistler’s Mother, about the Mona Lisa. But I was able to tell her about this one small thing by sharing it with her. I fantasize that she’s writing about all this as well on her weblog (‘…and I tasted his sweet …’), but I don’t think she is. For a time it was nice just to live in a moment with someone and it not be about service or money …

Paris For anyone who's interested, here are the best of the first set of pictures from my Paris trip ...

Photographs I had some of my Paris photos developed today. As usual, I'm mostly happy with some of them, embrassed by at least two. Much of this has to do with my camera, although I haven't the heart to go digital. But looking at the entries for the PDN-PIX digital imagining competition, I know that the investment won't be too far away. Especially like this frog, and this landscape.

Paris I have an inability to sleep in late. I can be going to bed at three in the morning after a night out and find myself awake again in five hours unable to turn over and drift away again. I had planned to sleep in slightly on the Wednesday but sure enough there I was a seven o’clock blaring about the bathroom.

Flicking through the guide book, I found the only tourist attraction open at eight in the morning was Notre Dame Cathedral. I’d planned to skip this. My home city had one of the greatest cathedrals in the world. They all tend to look the same after a while, and I wasn’t that interested. But at 8:30 in the morning I’m trudging towards it’s thudding immensity.

There is a queue leading to the tower. I remember having been up the Eiffel tower and the Arc de Triumphe. I wonder how much more of Paris I can look at from on high and pass in favour of the inside. But again they were there, the tourist groups. As I attempted to navigate through a group from Sweden I was reminded of the moment in ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’ when our gang are cornered and surrounded by thousands of braying orcs. All are taking photos, but of each other, very close up. They could be standing anywhere. In protest I throw off some shots of the gargoyles. Although none of them are singing, strike one against the Disney interpretation.

The light inside is very low. As I enter, the loudspeakers inside, all winy and unfocused are telling us ina variety of languages not to make to much noise so that we disturb the worshippers for whom this is their local church. I buy one the many official; gudie books and start to walk around.

To one side are trees of candle holders. I leave a donation and light a candle. I’m not religious in the traditional sense. Nondenominational spiritualist if you must know. So I stood by the candle and thought about how the world could be a better place if we just talked honestly to each other instead of resorting to violence all the time. I mostly did that because the loud speaker came on again asking everyone to be quiet, and two teenagers were yabbering incoherently into mobile phones.

The guide book isn’t easy to follow. Although it’s been translated and re-written well in English, the actual directions aren’t very clear. At few times I sand by statues reading the blurb only to find I’d been looking the wrong pieces. Some of the stories do resonate however – the reason there is so much so so art in there is because every year for a particular festival something would be donated. They were the equivalent of giving a tin of Co-op Baked Beans to the school harvest festival.

After a while I realize I’m not actually enjoying myself. The cathedral is spectacular and everything in it amazing. But I’m just looking at things. I’m not actually taking anything in. And whenever I am interested in something, someone else comes and stands in front of it, or a guided talk sweeps by and I’m distracted. About halfway through I glance at my watch and decide I’ve seen everything I want to see. I’m longing for the peace and quiet of Liverpool Anglican Cathedral. It’s simpler, but more contemplative.

Paris Of course the other reason I wanted to visit Paris was because I had a date with a girl with an enigmatic smile. Too bad there were so many other people there for the occasion. The most famous painting in the world attracts crowds which means anyone with a vested interest, in other words those who want to marvel at the artistry not to just be able to say they’ve seen the Mona Lisa are out of luck.

The canvas is in a glass cabinet within a large gray wall with a tall elbow height barrier around it. Surrounding this are upwards of a hundred and fifty people. Forty of these are taking photographs. With the flashes on their cameras switched on. Apart from the fact that this is a pointless exercise because being the most famous picture in the world, you can buy postcards anywhere, what are they expecting to see in the snapshot? Probably what they’re getting, with is their loved one standing in front of a sort of orangy-yellow gray thing with a mad white Tinkerbell on their shoulder. Give me some time and I could knock that together for them on Photoshop without actually damaging the one that they’ve come to see. I can’t believe how relaxed The Louvre are about these things. Try and use a flash camera at the Tate and you’d be manhandled to the ground and escorted from the premises.

I do have a theory though. I think the Lisa I saw on display that day is a very good copy. I think on some days the security watch out for real art lovers. When they spot one, they’re asked to follow and are led behind the wall, were the real Mona Lisa is kept so that they can gaze at its real glory. There wasn’t anything glorious in what I saw that day. In some way Paris should take more care of its assets. [see also Mona Lisa Mania]

It has a bouquet.

Abroad IV Nothing actually prepared me for the immensity of it. I literally turned a corner and there it was looming down upon me. I stopped in my tracks and started laughing and pointing.

'It's the Eiffel Tower.' I kept saying. 'Look everyone … it's the Eiffel Tower.'

Then it struck me. No one else seemed to care the way I did. Parisians ignored it as part of the landscape. Other tourists fiddled with cameras and group shots. But I was the only one standing there just looking at it, my eyes tracing the lines of the structure trying to work out the construction, trying to imagine how something like that could ever come into being.

It was an almost religious experience. This was the first time I understood I was going to fulfill another of my ambitions in the space of twelve months. This thing I'd always been looking forward to in the back of my mind, this image which I'd been seeing for twenty-seven years was here in front of me. And I was going up it. Right to the top. Madness. I stopped again, still trying to take it in.

'It's the Eiffel Tower.' I kept saying. 'The Eiffel Tower.' (I take my monuments very seriously)

My hands shook as I handed over my first Euros to pay for my ticket.

'To the top.' I said.

The clerk printed a ticket, matter of factly and handed it over. It was a paper and printed. Like Charlie when he won a chance to go to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, I wanted my ticket to be made of gold.

The trip up the tower was everything I expected. Tiny lift filled with tourist chatter. By now my initial shock had died down and I became curious as to what I'd find up there. I stopped halfway up for a picture. Then began the wait for the list to the summit. This is a twisty windy metal queuing system. The entire time the couple in front are French kissing like mad. They don't care. I don't care either. This everything I thought Paris would be about. A group of Japanese tourists don't have tickets and fight there way backwards through the crowd. Every tuts. A man passes by wearing a sweatshirt with a New York Fire Department logo on it, reminding me the anniversary isn't too far away.

Looking at Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower just made me curious. This is a massive city, but it's also a very green city. Between the ancient architecture are tree after tree. The tower itself is surrounded by a massive park. I just kept plodding around, avoiding the people and taking photographs. I was still in a fantasy world. I used a whole camera film because in some ways I didn't know what else to do.
And then I decide there is only one thing for it.

I should interject here and say that I hadn't told anyone I was going to Paris apart from my parents. I went out with all my friends two nights before and didn't mention it at all. Only one reason. I wanted to surprise my friend Chris with a postcard and I knew what I wanted to write on the back. As I've mentioned previously, one of my top ten television moments is the time Tom Baker and Lalla Ward were up there. The scene was written by Douglas Adams and I always thought it would be fun to actually stand on the spot and imagine what had gone on between takes at Baker and Ward fell in love (they married not that long after - but time is relative). So the night before I went to Paris I transcribed the piece, so that when I sent my postcard I could include the scene on the back of the postcard. So I had the scene in my pocket.

I got it out. I started to read. Out loud.

(THE DOCTOR and his companion ROMANA stand on the top of the Eifel Tower in Paris looking down at view below.)

Doctor : Nice isn't it?
Romana : Yes, marvellous.
Doctor : Marvellous, absolutely.
Romana : Absolutely marvellous.
Doctor : Well I think it's marvellous.
Romana : So do I. Though it's not quite as you described it.
Doctor : Really? How did I describe it?
Romana : You said it was nice!
Doctor : It's the only place in the world where onecan relax entirely.
Romana : Mmm! That bouquet!
Doctor : What Paris has... It has an ethos. It has a life. A.....
Romana : A bouquet?
Doctor : A spirit all of its own. Like a white wine, it has...
Romana : A bouquet?
Doctor : It has a bouquet. Yes. Like a good wine. You'd have to choose one of vintage years of course.
Romana : What year is this?
Doctor : Ah well, yes. It's 1979 actually. More of a table wine shall we say? Hah! The randomiser’s a useful device but it lacks true discrimination. Should we sip it and see?
Romana : Ooh! I'd be delighted. Shall we take the lift or fly?
Doctor : Lets not be ostentatious.
Romana : Alright. Lets fly then.
Doctor : That would look silly. We'll take the lift. Come on.
[full script here]


My Tom Baker impression is only serviceable. Imagine John Calshaw the impressionist with a cold. My Lalla Ward is non-existent. So I didn't read it that loudly – also for embarrassments sake.
When I’d finished, an American turns to me.
‘Are you sermonizing?’
‘No.’ I say.
‘What was that?’
‘Erm …’ I say. ‘Did you ever see Doctor Who?’ And I end up telling him the whole story. About Tom and Lalla. About how it was filmed just were he was standing. He asks for a photo. I get one to. Then he totters off his wife close behind.
‘What was that about Bob?’ She’s asking.

I took in the view a bit more and then head downstairs. I have a coffee and chocolate waffle in the café and write Chris’ postcard. I write another to my parents, dabbing it in the chocolate drips on the table. There is a post office on the tower. I send it there. A Euro for the two. In all I probably spent about two and a half hours up there, but it felt like years. This felt like Christmas Afternoon. All of that build up and it's over in minutes. I might go up the tower again, but it won't be my first time.

I look over at the Arc de Triumphe.
'You're next.' I say.
I start to queue for the lift down. From behind an American voice can be heard.
‘Oooh look Mary – it’s Doctor Who….’

Abroad III I’ve always found the prospect of a hotel room a disappointing experience, especially in hotel chains. For me a place has to have a sense of presence, an impression of all that has gone before. To truly be a place to feel comfortable it has to be familiar. The only similarity I found at the Comfort Hotel in Paris was that it looked like every other room I’ve ever stayed in. This was probably the worst place I’ve stayed in. Some questions:

Why is the bathroom filled out completely with tiles including the floor, so that any water which flies there stays there. Why isn’t there a shower curtain, so that when I do want to have a shower I spend the entire time against the wall trying not to flood the rest of the bathroom. Why is the holder for the showerhead vertical to the wall so that I can’t actually stand underneath like I can at home? Why does the bath itself look like it was designed to accommodate dwarfs only?

Whose big idea was it to make the bed that way? So you fold the sheet so it covers the full length of the bed, under the pillows, and trap it under a woolen throw, covered again by another sheet. How am I supposed to get into this without wrecking the equilibrium of my sleep patterns? And when I do get in, why should I then spend the whole night trying to keep all but the bottom sheet on the bed? Further, does the maid have a really small head? I can assume this is the only reason there are two wafer thin pillows, which together only amount to half a real pillow, and require that I use all of my possessions to support my cranium for two nights?

Why is the restaurant located in a room which resembles a doctor’s surgery? Why are the hotel’s cleaning staff in here out numbering the guests, shouting a smoking? Why is that cigarette butt lying in an empty jam sachet? Why does the coffee actually taste alright? Why does the cornflakes have the consistency of old rice paper and with the skimmed milk taste like real cornflakes do with water after many pints of cider? Why are people eating them? How old are these croissants and pan du chocolate? Why did make me want to leave as quickly as possible? Why did I have breakfast in the Louvre the following day?

Why did I pay £48 per night for this?

Abroad II Anyone who’s been reading for sometime will know that in most things I’m quite confident. I’ll head at it like a bull and usually work my way through somehow. So there I was standing a in Charles de Gaulle airport (not pretty) and realizing I have absolutely no idea what to do. I know I have to ring home to tell everyone I’ve arrived, but when I approach the phone it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before, with it’s slot and nothing else. Nowhere to put money. Nowhere to do anything. I put in my credit card. Nothing happens. Then the plane announcer says something I don’t understand and for the first time it dawned on me that I was in a different country.

A sign with a logo on it in the shape of a train was pointing in no particular direction so I decided to follow it. A crowd was heading that direction so I was more following them (hoping that they had the same idea as I did). I had instructions on how to get to the hotel so I decided that rather than deliberately getting lost I’d head there. The walk to the station was about ten minutes through some deep uninspiring concrete. Liverpool ‘John Lennon’ Airport (‘Above us only sky …’) at least has Speke Hall to look at. Here there’s a Prince Charles nightmare of a hotel and a motorway.

Somehow I manage to find myself to the information desk at the railway station. I look at the clerk. She looks back at me. Up until this point I’d been telling myself I would get by. I knew a little bit of French. I’d studied at school for three years afterall. As I stood here, the rest of the story fell into place. I’d been set four French. We’d studied almost nothing useful for two years and I hadn’t paid any attention because I had a crush on the teacher. Anything I might say in French would be just embarrassing.

The only part of me that I’m at all confident with – speaking – is suddenly gone. I hadn’t quite comprehended how alien everything would actually be. For thirty seconds, I’m a mute. I tap my forefinger on the counter. By now the clerk obviously thinks I’m a loony. Then I apologise for not being French.

‘I’m sorry, I’m English.’ No shit, she thinks. I don’t know that for sure but somethings you can tell in the eyes. ‘I just got here.’
‘Yes.’ She says.
'You speak English.’
'Non.’
To this moment I’m not sure if she was lying just so she could have some fun. But whatever’s happening I’m sinking. At the back of my mind I’m thinking ‘Three days like this?’
‘I’m here for three days. Do you have a travel pass or something?’ And so I entered the Roast Beef approach to foreign languages SHOUT LOUDER. I was everything I promised myself I wouldn’t be if I ever left my small island.
Without another word the clerk starts to madly rushing about her cubicle. I hear her mumble something about a leaflet. Eventually she actually growls and returns to her chair. She points.
I follow her pointing. The ticket office is right behind me. There are queues.
'Thank you.’ I mumble and draw away. As a turn, the person behind me in is boggling their eyes. I don’t blame them.

At the ticket counter it starts again. I don’t apologise for my nationality this time (I conclude that they’d all be speaking German if it was for us … just one of the irrational rationalities I’d make over the coming hours). I say I’ll be there for three days and before I can say anything else a travel pass is thrown over the counter. I throw back my credit card and thirtysomething Euros are charged. I didn’t care how much cost I just wanted to get away from the station. As I take the escalator to the platform I keep saying saying to myself, out loud, ‘oh hell what do I do now’ … ‘oh hell what do I do now’ …

Paris I had actually gone abroad before. To Germany when I was about eight. I was there for three days and I maintain this was the first time I saw ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ on a video from the local emporium. When I say this to people, they gasp, not actually recognizing that not everyone can afford to go abroad sometimes. I hadn’t even actually been on holiday alone for any kind of extended period. That overnighter to Southend, and three years at University, but I’m sure neither of those count. I’m talking about a-lone. Without a support network. In a completely alien environment. So I thought it was about time.

Two hours after I’d found about my new job (more later) I was in the travel shop booking a three day trip to Paris. I always said that this would be the first place I went to and it seemed logical. As usual it was related to something. I wanted to stand on the Eiffel Tower in the spot were Tom Baker and Lalla Ward recorded that iconic scene in the Doctor Who episode ‘City of Death’ (‘the thing about Paris is … it has a bouquet …’) and to see the Mona Lisa. Once I’d covered those, everything else would be a bonus. There is something liberating about going into a travel agent and saying that I want to go away in three days and just picking a hotel out of a hat. Everyone should try last minute once in a while. Yes it’s bound to be more expensive than if you’d planned ahead, but the look smile on the travel agent’s face when you simply sit there and say yes to everything was a picture.

I’d never flown before. Not because I was actually scared. I didn’t have any fear of it. It’s just another one of those things I’d never gotten around to. And another one I’m happy to say I can cross off the list. I liked the simplicity of ‘EasyJet’. Yes, it was just like traveling by train, but this was an even more pleasant experience. I wasn’t prepared for that rush as the plane roars up the runway and into the air. I we left the ground the only thing I could do was laugh. For moments I felt superhuman. I WAS FLYING! Looking down at the landscape I understood how the first balloonist must have felt when the land spread out before him. Patterns of colour and lines. So familiar, from the ground suddenly made no sense. And before I could and my bearings, the plane burst through another barrier and within moments the phrase ‘blanket of clouds’ finally resonated. I hadn’t realized that in the sky although the place must have been proceeding at some speed to stay in the air, the view of the window would be at almost a standstill. Only the usual baby crying broke the silence. And then quicker than it had begun, the plane voluntarily landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport and …. <>