Fate, signs, and serendipity

Mary was 21 on Thursday, but she also had two finals, so she decided to have her birthday celebrations on Friday. Now on Fridays I normally tutor in the evenings, but those students are on holiday. My lesson with A, however, was still on track for the next day and so, feeling like a heel, I had told Mary that I could not make her party.

Knowing I'd not be going anywhere after the end of work that day, I confess I'd not bothered shaving or washing my hair. I had a vague idea of going to get my hair cut (I know, it's still not happened, and it's becoming quite hideous) but aside from that, there was nothing that required my attention. Having finished a little early that day, I decided to stretch my legs and wander down to the station to pick up some t+ tickets for the bus to A's house and back.

When I'd bought them, I found that someone had left a ticket from Rueil - where I live - to Paris. In addition, as I picked it up, my phone sounded in my pocket - A had to cancel the next day's lesson.

This is why the blog is titled as such. I do not believe in signs or fate; after all, if these circumstances had not arrived together in such a manner I would not be writing about them. Sometimes these things happen, but mostly they do not.

This time they did, and in short order I had rushed home, slung things in a bag, and rushed out again. The ticket that I'd acquired (or been left there by the hand of fate, whichever better suits your worldview) got me to St Lazare and one very quick transaction later I was on the train towards Le Havre.

I got there for around 10 and the girls met me there; Kate, Mary, and a newcomer - Jaimie, who takes the place (but could never replace) Paula. After hellos we made our way to a bar called The Trappist, which in true French style was tiny and already packed to the rafters. Getting a drink was a matter of simply giving in to the flow of people and seizing a glass as you passed the bar, and then dropping some money on the way back. Actually stopping was a foolish notion; the only place there was no movement was the loo, which (again, in true French style) you did not so much queue for as suddenly find yourself in front of and then leap into, seriously aggravating whoever had been just behind you.

I only had about three pints in this bar, while Mary did her best to sink her (admittedly tiny) weight in alcohol. Her friends, being good and true, did their utmost to aid in the completion of that goal, and before long it was well-achieved. To round off the night, the DJ - wherever he was - put on "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" and our little group erupted.

With that glorious chorus complete, we made out merry way home. Friends slowly peeled away, final wishes of "Happy Birthday!" hanging in the still-warm air. We slept until ten the next day, when Mary - unbelievably - suffered no hangover. I, on the other hand, had the kind of pounding headache and unsettled stomach that I normally associate with a third of a bottle of vodka - not three pints. Emasculated and injured, I took my sorry, sweating, shivering self home. The train journey was agony. The bus was worse. I strongly suspect that the blow to my manhood was causing my symptoms to worsen. Three pints!

In any case, I got home and collapsed. I woke at ten, better but still achey, and staggered out for something greasy and satisfying. I found it, and it was both, but it seemed to cure me almost immediately. Stuffed and sleepy, I fell back into sleep, but it was a much better and more natural sleep than before.

And so this brings us to now. With apologies for my tardiness - two posts missed! - and a recommendation of my friend Rachael's blog, where you'll see at the bottom that my grip of geography is as strong as ever. 

Oh, and it turns out Delirium is so-named because it knocks in at 9%. My manhood is restored, but from now on I'm drinking Belgian beers out of this:

25ml measures only

Le Havre, and what I did there. (Part 2)

We woke at about 9 and set off for a little breakfast; a small bakery that Kate had showed me yesterday does the most enormous, the most delicious brioche rolls for less than a euro. Admittedly at first the chap got my order wrong; he was too busy staring at the vision of beauty beside me to actually listen. There are disadvantages to having attractive friends.

(Well, that's not quite right; there's a disadvantage to living in a society where being attractive also means being treated like a piece of art, or a piece of meat - something to be looked at and sized up.)

Tucking in and strolling back, we met up with the last member of our little trio and headed to the hotel to pick up Mary's parents and brother. We'd told him we'd be over at 11 last night, but we rocked up to find sleepy faces all round. We should have seen the flaw in our plan last night; at 2am it would have been tricky to tell their parents anything, since they were absolutely fast asleep.

In any case, they told us they'd be ready briefly and we retired to the bar downstairs for a coffee. Before long the Scales has descended (sorry) and we set out, heading towards the beach. The weather was a little less misty than yesterday, and I managed to snap a look out towards the cape.

That's a patch of sand. It should be noted that Mr and Mrs Scale kindly didn't point out that beach here has quite a different meaning to the one it has in the US; I suspect they were expecting slightly more in the way of sand and slightly less in the way of...well, rocks. 

This is them, by the way; the very sweet (and very slightly chilly!) Scale parents:

And no, I don't know where he got the beret and yes, I am exceedingly jealous. It's a lovely beret. 

Having looked out to sea for a little while, we struggled back up the rise of rocks and to a little stall the girls had nicknamed "Victory Fries." I struggled to understand why until I tasted them; truly they are kings among chips and would be crowned victorious in any contest of taste.

However, the elder members of our little fellowship were starting to struggle in the cold, and we made for a restaurant nearby. The restaurants by the sea in Le Havre are rather unique; they are essentially collapsible. Come tourist season a lorry drops them off, they are constructed overnight and in the morning you have a fully-functional restaurant, including kitchen, floor, chairs, tables and all the other wonders one thinks of when one thinks of restaurants. This included heat, a welcome relief as we sank into chairs. It fell to Mary, Kate and I to order, which we managed with a hodge-podge of orders spoken over each other with pauses to speak to our English speaking friends. I have to commend the poor waitress; understanding only one half of a conversation being held in front of you must be frustrating in the extreme but she smiled all the way through.

Conversation was varied and the food was excellent; I had a warm goat's cheese salad and divvied up the tomatoes and olives between father and daughter. I hate tomatoes. Mary and Mary's father are rather keen on them, and as I felt a certain kinship with the pater familias I favoured him a little more. I have suffered Mary's keen wit once or twice before; to have lived with it was, I felt, deserving of an extra tomato. Mary did not feel the same. The look she shot me through her lashes would have skewered a lesser man, but I rallied and skewered her straight back. 

Kate and Mary's mother had mussels. Kate had an ingenious way of excavating the little morsels from their shells; using an empty shell as tweezers she made short work of a shell that years of evolution had crafted. The rest of the Scales stayed away from seafood and plumped for pizza instead. All was sumptuous, and when the bill came Mary's mother surprised us first by offering to pay - a great kindness - and then by revealing that she spoke French as well. The tip she left was as generous as the lady herself, and the waitress stammered thanks as we left (a little slower, unwilling to leave the heat) and made for the ice cream stall.

I had sorbet, lemon and strawberry. An unfortunate intolerance to lactose meant I was already feeling unpleasantly unwell from lunch, and so decided not to exacerbate that particular problem. The others plumped for various different flavours, all of which sounded scrumptious (including salted caramel, which I'd have never thought of by myself). Ice cream in hand, we made our way back to the hotel in which the Scale family was staying and ordered hot chocolates and coffees to round off the day. 

The rest is unexciting; I caught a train back to Paris, another to La Défense, and a bus home. Sadly at every point I was confronted with "Manif pour tout" flags, a nasty little aberration which is attempting to block a law giving gay couples rights equal to those of straight couples. I'm not going to waste another byte on these people save to say that taking your kids to a protest is stupid. Kids have absolutely no opinion on the subject, and it just makes me feel that you're trying to indoctrinate them from the cradle and that's messed up.

Enough about them. They're unpleasant and I hate unpleasantness. Instead, marvel at this picture taken inside the church at Le Havre which is square, with a circular spire that inspires someone who's spent too much time with Assassin's Creed (me) to give serious thought to climbing it. Note also the helical staircase that clings to the inside of the tower and which gave me a shiver just to look at.

So that was my weekend over. Thank you for sticking with me all the way through.

Le Havre, and what I did there. (Part 1)

My release has just been sent; you will hear no more on this subject until I know more. Promise.

And so to Le Havre. A small town on the coast which can be described simply as "grey." The beach is grey rocks under a grey sky while grey buildings stretch into the distance. But if you know me - and being a reader of this blog I like to think you do - you know that I despise simplistic descriptions.

Le Havre is filled with colour, from splashes in windows to the fragments of smooth, frosted glass that glitter on the beach. The people are colourful too; a large Algerian population means that berets jostle alongside hijabs and the market traders switch fluidly from French to Arabic. It's wonderful to listen to and realise that wherever one goes in the world, all market traders are the same: vocal, cheeky, and willing to say anything to entice you to buy. It's as though there's a global network of training schools, or a manual that's been translated worldwide.


I started the day with Kate, my uni chum, whom you saw yesterday. She is a continual fountain of giggles and happiness and so dear to me that I cannot do it justice here. She lights up every room she finds herself in, and not in an arsonist kind of way. In the way that lights do.

She was kind enough to show me all around the town. We saw the Hôtel de Ville, which translates as the Town Hall (or as near as possible) as well as various other little bits and pieces, including a couple of sculptures of birds:

Birds are a continual fascination for me, because flight still strikes me as the most beautiful and perfect way to travel, even as I grouch and growl at the fact that a trip to the US will take 9 hours. Birds have an exquisite and exclusive kind of freedom. It is to be envied by all of us who are earthbound.

We also saw the beach and took a stroll along it. Mist blanketed the sea, and from it came the call of huge ships, their deep, booming horns scattering the little yachts that flocked around the shore. One appeared suddenly from the whiteness. It was unsettling; one moment there was an unbroken wall of mist and the next a huge shape coalesced out of it. We sat a moment and then struggled up and made our way towards the town again. With aching legs we decided to take the tram. It is a thing of beauty, all sleek lines and near-silent humming. Edinburgh could learn something.

Kate and I settled for a lazy movie and we put on Les Intouchables, which has been translated into English as The Intouchables, which I feel is a lazy translation. Of course it is only me, but I would have preferred The Untouchables. Merely a letter, but for me it changes the meaning a little.

As I said yesterday, it is a wonderful film and I highly recommend it. Omar Sy in particular is fantastic; keep an eye out for him in upcoming weird-fest L'Ecume des Jours (Froth on a Daydream). Until then, however, you'll have to keep reading this. At about 5 Mary dropped by with her brother in tow and invited us back to her room for Jello shots.

I have never had Jello shots before, and if I am very lucky I will never have them again.

We headed out for a bite to eat to a Macdonald's; Peter, Mary's brother, wanted to find out if we did things differently over here - and I confess after those Texans had commented on it, I was curious too. We ate and chatted (the conclusion, by the way, was that the burgers are the same but the sauce is seriously disappointing) and then strolled gently back. Peter is a really funny guy, and it's nice that in Le Havre everything is so close.

I should mention that if you point a camera at Peter, he cannot help but pull a very strange face. I have no idea why. He is a handsome and charming man, and yet point a camera at him and he cannot help himself.

I am certain that he is already a great actor and that one day he will be a famous one too.

We got back, we went on Youtube. Kate and I shared British comedians with Mary and Peter, and in between those moments we shared stories of horrific injuries - Peter's catalogue of broken bones and torn ligaments are a story all of themselves - and before long it was 2am. I had planned on taking a train at 8pm. Having missed it by quite a margin, I spent the night in Le Havre.

And, in fact, most of the next day.