100 posts and the concluding chapter

This is my 100th post! And it is also Mother's Day in the UK. Whether or not you're in the UK, send a message to your mother: call her, text her, email or Skype her. Remind her that you love her and appreciate her.

Public service announcement over. Let us return to Rouen.

So: when we last met, Mary and I had ascended the Gros Horloge and looked out over the glorious vista of Rouen. Having looked, all that remained was the descent. The descent past five floors, down hundreds of steps whose height changed without warning. The feeling of jolting terror that filled me when I put my foot down to where I thought the step would be (and instead found empty air) became my constant companion. A difference of even three centimeters is enough to cause the human brain to fold in on itself and collapse like a soufflé.

I didn't realise quite how tense the descent had made me until I reached the bottom. I had to walk like a robot because my legs had cramped up so completely that my knees refused to bend. Twenty minutes later I was still feeling a little wobbly as we paused to review our progress and our map. Following lunch, Mary had indulged her love of apples and crunched happily away as we watched the market close down around us. We stepped briefly into another cathedral, l'Eglise St-Maclou, in the hope of finding the crypts but the whole place seemed to be under renovation. We nosed around, but the day was drawing on and we retired from the building with an urge to sit and enjoy the peace.

We found a park and settled ourselves on a bench. To our left was a gloriously large house of the kind one only seems to find in France. Beside it was another towering spire and behind that the sun set. A long day and, to put it bluntly, we were pooped. After sitting for a while, watching children play football with their dad, listening to the music and sounds of students around us, we roused ourselves and looked for a bar.




Thankfully bars are both plentiful and easy to find in Rouen. We settled at a table outside in a little square and waited for the waiter to come past. I may have mentioned this before, but managers in the French hospitality industry have a near phobia of hiring more staff than they need, and as a result getting served in France is a matter of waiting and being absolutely ready to order when a waiter stops at your table. If you say "Um," he will be gone, and you will be thirsty for another thirty minutes, unhappily regarding the golden-coloured beer that others are drinking.

We snapped off orders fairly quickly and the waiter was overjoyed to meet an American and an English person who spoke a little French. He disappeared, he reappeared, two tall glasses of cold and delicious beer were presented to us. The evening drew on and we talked about this and that, nothing of any importance. We had another beer, looked at the time, and made our way towards the station after one or two false starts on my part. Having reached the station we embraced again, parted, and I collapsed into my seat. Opposite me was a young lady who looked unhappy and had arrayed about her exercises in English grammar.

I offered what little help I could and what followed was an impromptu lesson in English, because, as previously mentioned - I like teaching. As we got off I offered her my card on the assurance that she would call if she needed help; I doubt she needs an English tutor but - you never know. The only sure way to gain nothing is to do nothing.

So: Rouen is beautiful. If I have learnt anything from this trip, from this year, or from the events that transpired over this day it is that opportunities should be seized around the waist and passionately embraced.

Metaphorically speaking.

A final photo that I particularly like; the rest can be found at this link.

Friday night, I'm going nowhere

Well, not entirely true. I've not gone far today, but I've left the flat at least.

Today has been interesting. My sick colleague (see yesterday) decided to stay at home and, with my other colleague in Spain, I was flying solo in the office. I'm really quite proud of how I managed it; I answered several calls and aided several slightly confused seniors through the maze that is the Internet. I also took messages, filed money, and worried about double-entry bookkeeping which, I maintain, I should not need to worry about at the mere age of 23.

Incidentally, do I look lots older or lots younger than 23? A student of mine asked today if I were married. Bizarre. Incidentally I said yes, because saying no is really difficult for me as an Englishman. She nodded, pleased, and said "Tu as l'air de quelqu'un qui est tombé en amour."

Really? Do I look like someone who is in love? 

Saying that, I recall being in love, and the hopeless, lost, head-in-the-clouds person I was certainly bears more than a passing resemblance to my current self. Unsettling; apparently being in love is approximately similar to being unsure of one's location in Paris, which might go some way to explain it being the city of love - in fact, it's the city of confused and lost tourists, which actually amounts to the same thing.

In any case, my afternoon was spent packing and sticking boxes - I'm definitely getting into a sort of Hobbit/Victorian vibe, where even manual labour has to be undertaken in a waistcoat - and finally I escaped, at 5, to a bar where I sunk a double Talisker, 16 years old. The bar in which I drank has prompt but rude service, and every time I go I'm reminded of why I don't go very often. 

Thus, with one drink inside me, I strolled to the local stationers and perused the books, looking for something lined.

I must explain at this point that (for reasons utterly unfathomable to my otherwise remarkable brain) the French seem only to produce exercise books with squared pages. I can't get my head around this bizarre trend. Does it help with cursive handwriting? Because I absolutely despise it.

While perusing, I met a friend of mine and asked her for a drink. Just one drink, I assured her, proffering my arm. I am a gentleman, after all. She kindly agreed to accompany me and, arm in arm, we made our way to the Café Leffe, where we talked and supped for the next four hours and thirty minutes. 

One drink turned to two, which turned to Irish coffees, which turned to emergency Turkish food on the way home. A kebab has a certain greasy loveliness; one recognises even through the haze of alcohol that it will be an unpleasant memory but, in the moment, it is utterly delicious.

Following the demolition of the aforementioned sandwich I am home, my blog is finished, and since +Blogger thinks I'm in England it still counts as today.

Two sessions of three hour lessons this weekend plus all museums are open, for free, on Sunday. I'll be at the Musée d'Orsay or the Institut du Monde Arabe.

Cannot wait.

Oh; my drinks guest made this. It's about CCS, carbon capture and storage, and presents the idea in a fairly easy-to-understand way. If you've ever wondered about how we can clear up carbon dioxide while continuing to use dead dinosaurs to make plastic (which, by the way, is kind of cool) then watch this. Well illustrated and voiced, it's a useful bit of learning to be installed in your brainspace.

P.S: If you're interested, I imagined a press release for a fairy-tale, since it's National Storytelling Week, over on my PR blog. You can read it here, if that's your bag.

Wedding Belles

I am not a religious chap, in general. I don't like religion of any sort; the tunes are pretty but the words are sort of creepy. However, I do appreciate the role of symbolism and ritual in doing anything. They feature everywhere in life, and religious ceremonies are the best places to find them.

Last night was a triumph; a gorgeous ceremony in a beautiful church and the couple surrounded with love. Love is just as amorphous an idea as God, but I've seen more evidence for love than for God, so love is what I believe they were surrounded by.

We were due to arrive at 1pm, and 1pm is precisely the time we arrived. Although this seems obvious, within my family tardiness is the norm rather than the exception. We actually sat in the car for a minute, struck dumb by shock, before disembarking in the usual shambolic way. I know that in theory it is possible to exit a car with style and grace, but I am yet to discover the secret. We also disembarked the cake, the secret cake the photos of which were embargoed yesterday. It was extremely heavy; we carried not only a 10 kilo cake but the responsibility of the wedding cake. It added to the mass in no small way.

We shipped it onto the coach and made the greetings that one must make amongst family that one hasn't seen since the last religious rite. It's tragic that I only see these wonderful people at times of great sadness or great joy, but that's the way life is - we are brought together only to see it at its best and its word. Reality, that great squisher of dreams, interferes in the idyllic life we would otherwise lead.

The traditional greeting between younger and older generations are always the same: "Auntie So-and-So, how are you? It's so nice to see you! You've not got any older!" And, of course, the standard response, "Jono! It's been so long since we saw you last! Haven't you grown!" That's especially kind in my case, because my height peaked when I was 12 and the only way I've grown is outwards. The coach brought us to the church, an absolutely stunning early Gothic construction. It is Roman Catholic, and so the ceremony proceeded with all the pomp and circumstance inherent in that institution. The words were excellent, and I am glad that someone chose to change the usual ones just a little - cherish has a less misogynistic tone than obey. Their voices were a little quiet, but what do you expect - they were binding themselves together three times, which has always been a powerful number in mystic systems. The Christians still have three parts of a one God, and marriage binds a couple three times - before God, before the State, and before the love of their friends.

Soon the ceremony was over, and it was time for pictures, and hundreds thereof. The couple looked embarrassed and proud and nervous, and could barely stand to be apart. The dress was daring, a sheath with a good meter of train, and the bride was accompanied by her mother. They came out to the traditional shower of petals and cheers; the bride doesn't know it, but she's married into one of the most boisterous and loving families in the world. We went on to the reception, which had a casino downstairs in which my sister managed to win £110 on her first go. Beginner's luck, and I don't even believe in luck. The prices were extortionate and the staff added a service charge to every transaction, and although the setting was beautiful I have no qualms about naming and shaming the Millenium Gloucester as practically criminal. To add a service charge to every drink served is an absolute outrage, especially when a request for a large vodka and tonic was met with the kind of gawping expression one generally finds on a goldfish. I don't mind tipping - I've worked in bars, and I'm proud that I can usually earn a goodly sum in tips - but to just add it to orders regardless is disgusting.

My dad did his speech, and it was excellent, although a collective groan went up when he clocked in at only 8 minutes and 12 seconds - a sweepstake had been run, of course, and my cousin cleared up, having plumped for 8 minutes. My father's ability to ramble is legendary amongst my family, and the conservative estimate had been fifteen minutes. He did incredibly well, and I was massively proud, even if he went off-script a couple more times than I'd have liked. It didn't matter. He captivated the audience.

At long last we wound our way home; jollier and fuller than we'd arrived. And so I write this in the afternoon, with a head that only aches a little and still surrounded by the love of my family. It is something we carry with us always; like the Queen's crown or a wedding ring, it need not always be physically present. When the Queen is in the shower, she is still the Queen. If you wear your ring or not, you are married. And whether you are in the midst of your boisterous family or far from them, their love is still with you. Those still with us and those taken from us in sadness; all are with you and - do not forget this - you are with them.

Last tango in Paris

I really like making friends. I like the way we all bounce around life and our friends introduce us to friends we would never have otherwise met.

Such is the case with Paula.

Paula is from the United States and has been mentioned here before, but in brief - she is a person with an enormous personality and a continually bubbly outlook on life. Last night was her last night in Paris, and so she and I went out for dinner.

I confess that things didn't go exactly to plan - which is why I write this at 11:30 ante-meridiem, rather than post-cibum. It began with Paula turning up, as is her wont, a little late, although since this time it was a mere 40 minutes I think I should be quite thankful. We met at the Gare de l'Est, and strolled in the light drizzle that swirled about us to the restaurant, with a brief detour through a homeless kitchen.

The restaurant we went to is called Les Enfants Perdus. A google will give you their site, but unfortunately the link for the menu is currently broken. You can find it at 9 Rue de Récollets in the 10th arondissement, only about five minutes from the station.

When we arrived, the first thing we noticed was the size - it is not large. The bar is extremely small and was staffed by a tall and impressively be-whiskered man while two waiters rushed about in the French style. I believe that at French restaurant schools waiters are taught that every inch of space must be utilised, and consequently the three small rooms that made up the restaurant were thronged with people. Squeezing myself and Paula in was a struggle, but we made it. We had reserved a table, and just as well - two couples were turned away as we arrived.

We ordered very, very slowly. The service was excellent, if perhaps a little over-attentive - but only a little. I gave her a small gift, as a souvenir of Paris - I'm quite she has no others - and we finally ordered. Paula decided to be brave and ordered foie gras while I picked salmon crumbed with sesame seeds. It was served with a sort of vegetable that was utterly delicious while Paula's came with duck pâté and caramelised red onions and solid slides of toast. My salmon was absolutely delicious, the slight saltiness of the fish combining with the sesame and vegetable to make a fantastic mouthful. From the look on Paula's face, her bravery had paid off, although I had to lend a hand with the duck, of which there was a much larger portion.

We had also ordered a bottle of wine, and before the starters arrived the proprétaire, the owner, came over and - having apparently been told we were speaking English - launched into an explanation of the wine we had chosen. Thomas did not sound like your average French restaurant owner, and that's because he isn't - he's an ex-pat from Chicago. Thomas is an absolutely fantastic guy, and he explained that the wine we'd picked was still very natural. Paula and I looked at each other and placed our fate in his hands; the wines are all very reasonably priced and so we asked him to surprise us. He did not let us down, and came back with an absolutely exquisite Marsannay from 2009. If you have one, keep hold of it, because I imagine in three years it'll be even better. As it was it went incredibly well with both the starter and the main.

The main came after a wait of around thirty minutes, which suited us perfectly - neither Paula or I like to rush our food, and our meal took on a distinctly Parisian bent: before long we had covered religion, politics, touched on science, travel and were finishing our plates and moving towards the nature of free will when I noticed that the last train home left in five minutes, a third of a bottle of excellent wine still remained and the bill had yet to be paid.

What could have quickly degenerated into disaster was saved by the friend Paula was staying with, a Greek called Efi who speaks four languages and is studying law. And is astonishingly pretty, which makes no difference one way or another but merely proves that some people have all the luck. She kindly let me spend the night, although we still managed to stay up until three just talking.

We rose again at half past six, dressed quickly, Efi and Paula saying goodbye and clearly unwilling to let go - a last hug was followed by another and another. It will be interesting to see if Efi and I become friends, and would deliver us in a beautifully cyclical manner to the beginning of this piece.

The answer to yesterday's riddle was five minutes past three; the reason clockwise is the direction it is is because it is the same motion traced by a sundial in the northern hemisphere. Had the clock been invented in Australia and the same mechanism been used, clockwise would be what we think of as anti-clockwise. I do hope that made sense, I prefer to explain with the aid of gestures, but I have faith in your imaginations.

Today's riddle is: What place in England is called Hill Hill Hill?