Rouen

What a day.

I'm going to start off by saying that it was an incredibly long day and my head is all over the place. Thank you for sticking with me until the end.

So: I awoke this morning at 6, threw coffee at my coffeepot, threw the coffeepot at the stove, turned it on, and wrapped myself in a dressing gown. I had turned off the heat last night and going from warm duvet to cold room was proving a challenge. The smell of the coffee helped.

My coffee brewed, I stepped briefly into the shower to encourage my frozen blood to recirculate. Wrapped in a towel with that elixir of life clutched tightly in my hand, I must have looked quite the ridiculous sight - but no matter. I dressed casually - I wore a suit without a waistcoat or a tie, which barely counts as dressed - and made my way into the morning, guidebook, sudoko book and camera all crammed into my little bag. From my little flat it is a short bus ride to La Défense, and from La Défense a hop on and a hop off the RER to Auber. From Auber a walk (briefer still) to St Lazare and there, yawning and bleary-eyed in the crisp morning sunshine, I boarded my train.

And fell asleep.

I can almost hear my mother's horrified gasp. The rest are eagerly waiting to see in what new way I have made a fool of myself. In what new and exciting adventures did I partake, willing or not?

I am sorry to say no such story will follow. Having carefully planned every aspect of my travel, I knew that the terminus was Rouen and, as such, I would be gently ushered off the train at my destination. As it happened I woke in good time, and set out on my journey newly refreshed and eager to face the day. I had a short wait before my travelling companion arrived.

Mary, whose blog you may have seen gracing these pages had offered herself as one half of this two-man fellowship, and so I settled myself into the little bar at the station, took had a coffee, and bent my brain to sudokos. 

Before long the hour arrived, and Mary along with it. We exchanged kisses, because we're almost French, and discussed the weather, because some habits even months abroad cannot break. With gloom in the sky but joy in our hearts (and the hefty and glorious +Lonely Planet guide to France as our comfort) we stepped forward into Rouen and into one of the most picturesque, one of the friendliest, one of the nicest towns I've ever had the privilege of entering.

We started down the hill and turned at the sight of the Palais de Justice, a building that seemed like a cathedral but was in fact the law courts. Looking up we spotted gargoyles and grotesques, and though I wanted to capture them all this cheeky chappy was the most photogenic:

It is at this point that I must confess a flaw of mine. I like teaching, and what poor Mary did not know is that I am consequently a hideous companion. I rambled at length on every subject of which I have some little knowledge and, being the philomath/polymath/sponge that I am, those subjects are numerous. She bore my badgering with patience and had the good manners to seem interested in what I am sure were uninteresting trivia, and so for that (and for many other things) I am indebted to her.

Onwards!

Past the Palais we turned right and were strolling down Rue des Carmes when we exclaimed at the same time. I had just seen the sky-scraping turrets of Cathédrale Notre Dame while Mary, facing the other direction, had caught sight of the Gros Horloge, the gorgeous clock set in a bridge over a street that was only just coming alive. 

We examined it in detail and Mary informed me that the orb at the top represented the phase of the moon. "Waning gibbous." she said, by means of explanation, and I nodded sagely. We passed the door to go in but it was resolutely closed. The sign posted beside it said that visitors could tour from 10 and yet the portal remained obstinately unopened. We strolled under the bridge, stopping to examine the figure of Christ the Shepard carved over our heads, and roamed around the town for a little bit before making our way back to Notre Dame.

I love churches. I love cathedrals. I love that there are monuments to the glory of men, monuments to the ability of an idea to drive us to greater and greater heights. There is no more solid reminder that we are small creatures whose dreams are bigger than they have any right to be. There is no more beautiful souvenir of the truth that we are greatest when we work together.

Hand carved statues. Hand carved.

There is nothing like an electric light to bring ugliness to anything.

On the other hand, the crucifix that forms the centre of this and all churches is an explicit and violent reminder of the centre of the faith; of the sacrifice that a bloodthirsty god demanded as the wages of sin and that a perfect being gave for love. As I have said before, the story is a fascinating one, and if buildings like this were its only output then I could not love it more. 

But they're not.

It was here that I took a picture of which I am immensely proud, and which I am sharing with you without any form of touching up . I would very much like to know your thoughts.

How can it be improved? Nothing is perfect, least of all this, and so I'd really appreciate input from anyone with an opinion on this.

From the Cathedral we made our way to l'Eglise Jeanne d'Arc, although admittedly by a circuitous route which took us halfway across the bridge into Rouen Central, a nice enough place, I daresay, but hardly what we'd come to see. An abrupt about turn and a check over the map in the Guide (p.195, for those keeping score at home) found us at the church. 

L'Eglise Jeanne d'Arc

We nosed around it and then, as the sun broke gloriously through, basked like lizards and allowed our conversation to flow like the Seine we'd so recently crossed and recrossed. People passed around us like a time-lapse film and out of the corner of my eye I saw someone lock up the church. Even vergers need a two hour lunch in France.We decided to follow her good example and stopped at Les Maraîchers, another excellent tip from the Guide, where we were served by attentive and friendly staff who smilingly coaxed French from our uncertain lips. Mary had scallops and I turbot, both exquisite. Alongside these fish dishes - the region being famous for these fruits of the sea - we had a bottle of Riesling (2009). I had a dessert on top; sliced apples in a calvados sauce - exquisite. We finished the rest of the bottle and, having paid and waved goodbye, made our way to the church.It would be hard to find two Catholic churches in such physical proximity whose design was so far apart. From the inside it seemed that we were inside an upturned boat, the ribs stretching high above us to form the keel. The stained glass on the north wall faced windows shaped like abstract fishes on the south and the congregation were to be seated in a wide arc around the sanctuary, rather than the standard cruciform layout. It was beautiful again, but in a vibrant, colourful way. Notre Dame fixated on the sacrifice; here, at least, was the message of hope and new life.Making our way back past the Gros Horloge we saw the door open but a sign advising us that the tours were full. Disheartened, we inquired as to when we should come back, and were told that we would need wait only a few minutes. This we did and when the tower was less clogged with people the gentleman behind the counter - having sussed our accents - asked if we would like the guide in English or in French.We glanced at each other. This was a test, and I suspect neither of us would have admitted to trepidation in the face of explanations only in French. "Français," we said, and he handed us the guides and sent us on our way up the tower.The tower has hundreds of steps and five floors. At various points you are invited to punch a number into your audioguide and press it to your ear whereupon a charming Frenchman talks you through what you can see in front of you. The material is presented clearly and is utterly engrossing, allowing you to almost (almost!) forget the steepness of the staircases and the tightness of the helix.(Staircases that wind upwards in a column are helical, not spiral. A spiral staircase would be a gigantic waste of energy and money. To understand why for yourself, draw a spiral on a piece of paper. Starting at the centre, cut around the line, and then pull the shape you've cut downwards. You now have a spiral staircase and understand why supporting it would be an architectural nightmare.)Mounting stair upon stair and with my legs turning to jelly, we were introduced to the original mechanism, the internal cogs and finally the bells at the very top of the tower. Like Notre Dame, the solid mass of stuff seemed to bend my reality around it, and I was almost grateful to step out onto the parapet for some air.I say almost because heights give me a giddy feeling in the back of my brain. I am not scared of being high up, you know. I am simply terrified of suddenly being high up and falling, and even that's not as terrifying as stopping suddenly. Neither heights nor falling will kill you. It's the sudden deceleration caused by your body going from speedy to zero in fractions of a second that will splatter your brains across the pavement.In any case, the view was gorgeous:

Though admittedly easily distracted by birds.

And the company offered a charming counterpoint to the unchanging buildings.

From there - well, there's an awful lot more to say, but this is a very heavy post already, so perhaps I'll tell what happened next tomorrow.

Oh, and in the UK it's past midnight, so happy Mother's Day to any and all mothers reading this, and especially my own.

The day of rest

Yea, right. I can understand taking a day off if you've created a universe and everything in it from scratch in six days but since I haven't, I've been busy today. I got up early enough to go for a run, have breakfast and walk up to my student's house. The hill was less surprising today, but on the other hand I probably shouldn't have run before hand. Rookie mistake.

I took my camera because, as I said, I had planned to go museum-hunting. I left my card at home because I have a curious love of souvenirs, a remainder from a childhood desire to buy the cheap rubbers and pencils on offer at Hever Castle. We always went to Hever Castle.

In any case, that meant I had only the cash from my tutoring that morning to last me through the day. After that I would be stranded, and the walk home is a long one, so the first thing I did was buy my all day ticket. Young people - thank you, French state, for still believing in my youth - can get a three-zone day pass, valid on all forms of transport, for 3.65€ on the weekends and on bank holidays (jours fériés). During the week it's a lot pricier.

So I headed in, armed with my camera and 3.65€ lighter. In Paris you can pretty much throw a stone and hit a museum, and although I'd planned certain locations, I threw that plan to the winds and picked the first one I walked past. It was the Musée Guimet (site in French only), and good lord, was it beautiful.

Nearly completely Asian sculpture with heavy emphasis on religious icons, the heavy mass of stone really reflecting the solidity of the Buddha. Christianity has a frail icon, and that's the point - Christ broken and reborn is the root of Christianity. Buddha, on the other hand, is the solid antithesis of all that's bad in the world - he attained enlightenment through meditation and a middle path between self-indulgence and self-mortification. He seems kind of a solid dude.

There were also plenty of Hindu deities, with their many heads and arms, cast in bronze or gold. Unlike the Buddha they had sustained some damage over time, but the carving is still exquisite - though still nowhere near the utter mastery attained by Michelangelo. I mean, look at this:

Look at the folds of cloth, at the ribs, at the freaking veins. Two years. I couldn't do that in two lifetimes.

But I digress. There were two floors of incredible art and I highly recommend it. There are no pictures, because it felt strangely disrespectful. There was also a Cambodian Buddha who looked frighteningly human, despite being cast in bronze. Very unsettling.

I was heading towards Notre Dame when another museum caught my eye. The quai Branly is a very different sort of museum to the Guiment, very darkly lit, but also more interactive. I have to say that the at first the lack of light irritated me, but once my eyes adjusted to the gloom I found it really helped focus on the exhibits. It also highlighted the arrogant people who read the "no flash" sign in three languages, with a symbol, and decided it didn't apply to them. I have no time for that sort of person and so I shall move swiftly on.

There were artifacts from every ancient culture in the building, and after a while I started getting museum fatigue, All of this information wore me down, and the knowledge that we wiped out most of these civilisations because at the time we thought it the right thing to do got me down. I took a couple of photos, and I wanted to share this one with you.

Because he scared the bejeesus out of me, and I like to share. Look into his eyes.

 Deeper.

Oh yes. There are eyes there. There's a cross on the crown, but it's like the light of the angler fish. Luring you in before gobbling you up. Once you've looked, it's all over. Helpless. Drowning.

I tore my eyes away at the last moment. It may just have been one of the French cub scouts - boy, is it weird that they have cub scouts - but I'm sure I heard a scream of rage and frustration. Suddenly revitalised by my brush with Satan up there, I quit the building and my stomach growled - I always get hungry after brushing with Satan - so I turned my feet towards a friendly looking ristorante. 

The first impression was not good. I sat down and asked for a coffee and the waitress looked at me very cooly. 

"We're not a café, you know. We only do food."

I was astonished. I was astonished because the couple sitting next to me were drinking coffee.

"I am going to order something later," I said. "I just need a coffee for the moment."

Clearly my good looks and easy charm convinced her, as she gave me a sunny grin and whisked herself away to get my coffee. The menu looked inviting and reasonably priced for the area in which I found myself and, having been without an oven for four months now, saw pizza and craved it immediately. Calzone is one of my favourites, and I ordered it without hesitation. I also got a carafe (50cl) of red wine to go with it.

My calzone arrived. Nice dough, tasty cheese and ham and WOAH, WHAT THE WHAT.

Orange goo had started leaking from my delicious calzone. An egg yolk had been popped into my calzone before it had been sealed. Why? Why would anyone add egg to a calzone? I like eggs, don't get me wrong. I was planning on having some for breakfast tomorrow. But on a pizza?

So did I complain? Did I stand up, throw down my napkin and roar "This is unacceptable! Eggs do not belong in calzones! Scramble this guy, poach his brother and fry his sister and I shall munch them all the live-long day but in my calzone? You go too far, sir!"

Of course I didn't. I'm English. I'm polite and besides, like I said: I like eggs. It wasn't bad. My dessert, however, was on another plane. Aside from the pronunciation issue - why did I assume anyone but us would read c-o-l-o-n-e-l  as kernel? Very awkward two minutes, but it arrived. A delicious, light and refreshing lime sorbet that had then been liberally doused with vodka.

We're talking pretty much equal volumes here.

I also got a straw, because that way it's easier to suck up the melted sorbet/vodka mix at the end.

I'm pretty sure there are nightclubs in the UK where sucking 30ml of ice cold vodka through a straw is considered an end-of-night-thing. I was having lunch. 

The reason why the French don't do much after lunch is becoming clearer.

With the bill paid I made my way homeward, my jollity increased by my excellent lunch. The whole meal came in at 28.50€ and so I recommend Dell Angelo, 6 avenue Rapp, as somewhere to take a date or have lunch. Fantastic. Have a Colonel.

Just one, though.

If you'd like to see the rest of the pictures from today's jaunt, click here.

Oh. I also saw two policemen on inline skates. Weirdly intimidating.

Mon Martre? Ton Martre? Everybody's Martre!

Awkwardly wedged in joke aside, I had a really good day today. My body woke me up at 8, which is kind of cool - although I don't think I'll be ditching my alarm clock any time soon. Far too neurotic to rely on my own body.

In any case, getting up nice and early gave me an opportunity for an exceedingly long and luxurious shower and a browse of this week's news. I read a little Sherlock Holmes as part of a lesson plan - my life is awesome - and made crêpes. It's the weekend, and I am firmly of the opinion that calories consumed over the weekend absolutely do not count. You will see further evidence of my faith in this along the way.

In any case, I thought I was doing rather well when I strolled out at 11 to make my way into the city. On the way out, however, I passed a Dutch friend of mine who had been up for two hours already and had been training solidly on his bike for those two hours. It would be grating if he wasn't such a nice guy.

I also got to read Kate's new blog post, after a hiatus of far too long. My friend Mary is also blogging, so for a uniquely American point of view I recommend her new blog too. Final recommendation is a webcomic that I think is absolutely amazing called Looking For Group. There are lots and lots of pages, and they're hilarious and filled with great nerdy pop culture references. If you're confused about where to begin, then I can only offer the advice of the King of Hearts:

"Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on until you reach the end: then stop."

Excellent advice, even if it comes from a playing card.

I digress again; you must forgive these flights of fancy. I made my way into Paris, going first by bus to La Défense and from there taking the RER to the Arc de Triomphe. A stroll along the Champs d'Elysée with only a little window shopping and an awful lot of pictures brought me to the great wheel at Concorde and Cleopatra's Needle, tipped with gold, blazed in the cold winter light. After a great slew of pictures (which I shall try to edit and refine tonight) I made my way to Montmartre. It looked glorious, and the Sacré-Coeur cathedral which perches atop it and commands astonishing views across Paris is a perennial beauty. I took the stairs up and the funicular down, which bizarrely seemed to be the contrary view - coming down I had the little carriage to myself but walked past a long queue of people apparently unwilling to march up the steps. There are 300, but in the freezing cold I was glad of the increased blood flow. I was so pleased, in fact, that I stopped for a solid three-hour lunch.

Lunch consisted of a half-litre of average red, an excellent stew of beef and rice and a cheese plate.

Let me share the cheese plate with you. I can only share the image, but I wish I could have shared it with you there and then, because I'm of the opinion there was half a kilo of cheese on that plate.

Since you weren't there, my friends, I had to make the best of it. It is worth pointing out at this point that I have a mild lactose intolerance. It is not as bad as some people get it, but as I left I could feel my bloated belly straining at my belt and, fearful of buttons pinging off and removing the eye of some innocent tourist, I hastily made my excuses and left, a little merrier for the wine and the small bill. As a result I recommend L'été en Pente Douce, 8 rue Paul Albert, if you fancy an excellent meal at the top of Montmartre. Just make sure, if you order cheese, that you've a friend to share it with. Or a lactose intolerant enemy.

A quick trip home and I found that an internship whose deadline I'd missed had been re-opened, so I've spent the evening recording and re-recording myself, because I like perfection. And finally, finally! I sat down and started writing this. I began at the beginning, as the King recommended, and I have gone on until I reached the end.

So I'll stop.

P.S Here are some photos from today.

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?