Home

Ok, I've finally had time to write my last post. I'm home. The grey and wet of Europe is behind me. Goodbye dogshit-encrusted streets of Paris. See you later crushing, stuffy tube.
Thanks for the memories sprawling metropolises where stashing your bag is dearer than a hostel in Southeast Asia. Adieu nights so still and silent you wonder if you're the only animated thing in a world where time has stopped. Auf weidersein hustle-ful alleys, suspicious eyes and smelly fellow travellers!

Thanks for the comments and reading of this. Maybe a few more pics will come up in time.

Dijon and Beaune

Having a few days remaining on my railcard, and a pouch full of leftover monies from various places, I felt I had to at least stay a couple of nights in a Hotel of some quality. It was the end of the trip. I'd been scraping around in places like Budapest and Prague, dossing in Zurich and Florence and lying rigid but cheaply on the night trains. I felt I owed it to myself to have a wee splurge.
And anyway, I arrived into Dijon late at night, my Barcelone plans having been thwarted by the obscene price of the night-train (CHF111!), and I wasn't about to haggle a hostel.
I found a stone courtyard, laced with grapevines, the welcome glow of warmth eminating from a tiny reception up a flight of wooden steps. The kindly madmoiselle showed me to my quarters. The 2-star Hotel Sauvage. A notch above simple, and all elegant. Sleeping in a double bed, without the snorting and shuffling of other travellers, nor the rolling and clunking of the night train couchettes (with their infestation of nimble fingered prowlers), nor the racket of church bells, nor the socks and pencils of so many sofas was a great luxury. And I totally rinsed it. Going to bed early after a pot of Burgundy and morcel of cheese, I relaxed to the chatter of a bit of French "television", rising late to a Hotel breakfast and ready for a walk.
The town is of course a delight with its cobbly, narrow streets and fountained squares. There are wine caves every two steps, and degustation restaurants every three. Even a suitably shack-like reggae club said to me that this city had it all.

After two nights there I saw the wee city of Beaune. The capital of French wine. In fact, a network of cellars and caves and tunnels for aging wine with a city built on top. I had my enormous rucksack, and since ut was one of those places in which everyone has a decent siesta during the day, I was bound to wander about alone without being able to see the Wine Cave Museum or find a decent grub.

My trip is now ended, I just have a few more nights in Paris.

To the Sun

O ball of warmth and light, how I've missed your glory!
Blaze your furious gold upon me, and burn out those shadows that have made my mind their nest!
Fiercely broil away that damp and heavy grey that has soaked my very heart with its Dismal Gloom!
Let your roaring Light of Warmth and Brightness scorch and ember the socks so weary of the Drizzle!

Ok, I'm not John Donne, I know. (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=173385). But you can imagine the relief... The first bit of sunlight I've seen for what seems an age. Don't take that golden NZ light for granted all.

Night Train to Zurich

Well I have to pass through Switzerland again to get back to England, don't I?! The track goes that way! Well this track does.
So I'm now back in Zurich for a short time with Christa, Cosimo and Nicholas again. The train ride was noneventful, despite the towering, muscled Eastern Euro shielas sharing my cabin, along with the brother-sister pair of Koreans. Man talk about limited English. Thought I had guts cruising round Europe with only one and a few scraps of language. We pulled into Zurich (the terminal station) and the sister asked wild-eyed of me: "Chiri? Chiri?"
"Yes, Zurich," I replied, I hoped warmly. At least they were two, but I know there must be plenty of lone travellers without a word tramping the cobbles and gaining a totally different view of Europe than I've seen.

Budapest further

The old stereotype of the grim, cheerless work-focussed, stranger-intolerant Eastern European. As if! Many of the people I met (mainly in hostels, it's true) were sheerful and friendly. This despite the iron curtain of thickest cloud casting its miserable non-light over the grime of a huge, busy, sprawly, no-centre clash of modern glassy scrapers and ancient crumbling edifices of a city. It really did get dark at 4pm. The cold worsened toward the Danube.
That said, it is an amazing place. None of this "keep it fancy for the tourists" lark - let the damn city grow, if that's what it wants! Up with the scrapers! Slap in the strip bars! Turn on the booze (wee joke - that's been on for centuries already, and at a torrent)! Stick a few more roads in if we feel like it! I got the feeling that the Magyar were a rightfully proud people who demanded to be able to have a city in exactly the way they want it, and anyone interested can come and see it if they want.
I checked out the towering Citadel, Castle Hill and the museum there, booze halls, dining establishments, pubs and alleys. I happened on a particularly beautiful season. The Autumn leaves cast a greatly welcome splash of vibrancy over the hills and tramlined river's edge. The moon even appeared for a night, but the Curtain had arrived again before daybreak. The beer, of course, was tasty and satisfying. I had my first stein (1 litre) in 10 years at a wee Magyar-run pizzeria. It did look rather vulgar to be chugging from more of a trough than a glass I imagine, but no one around seemed to mind.
"Let him suck away on his stein," they murmered to one another. "Of course he can eat pizza in Hungary - we're not that far from Italy after all. Sure we were on and off part of tyrannical empires and great dynasties, and have as much claim to Mozart as our Western neighbour," they continued, in low, moustache-bristled voice. "Drink up lad! Eat of those quadruple size portions! Face the cold and tread heavy on the greasy streets... for you see, the Light of freedom and opportunity shines bright on the Magyar. We lie low now, but you'll find us soon enough in your own streets, your Opera Houses, your Reggae Booths, all."
So I did.

Budapest

Grey. Sunset at 4pm. Historic, and modern together. I'm cold. Ready for some of that kiwi sunshine again. More when I get to a better terminal.

Prague Culture

Today is "Republic Day" In Czech. This means the locals ignore it and get annoyed at it being on a Sunday (so no holiday) and the government puts on all manner of parades and military displays. I wandered up to Prague Castle to have a look around and there was a whole spectacle going on. Officers, rank and file, officials, firing cannons and war vehicles. Also a delightfully small crowd of spectators. In the main square they were playing music and marches.
I dined in a small but authentic pizzeria, with the obligatory pint of ale. I was much better treated than the night before when I was looking for a dining place. You see, I felt I owed myself something of a splurge. I entered a flashish hotel and asked for a table for one. The Maitre d', who resembled Hercule Poirot with his slaphead pate and handlebar mo, regarded me suspiciously with his hedgerow-eybrowed, dual-monacle-bespectacled eyes. Perhaps he was not used to my high fashion of raggedy trouser cuffs, tinorangatiratanga beanie, faded skivvy and not-once-washed jacket, but he sidled off and asked the barman, in German were there any ROOMS free. Of course there weren't, and he had his excuse to say "Sorry; full". Classist old fart! So I found a much more respectable and welcoming atmosphere at Restaurant Metamorphose.
But back to today... after the castle display I visited the Torture Impliment museum. I thought about going to the Sex Machine museum also, but Guy, an Australian bloke I'd met, drily suggested that they were probably the same museum, just with different entrances! So I had another beer and am ready to move on to Hungary tomorrow.

Prague and surrounds

A friend once described Prague to me as "Disneyland with Booze". I now know what he means. Disneyland - a fairytale-like, dreamy Eden of castles, cobbles and costumes. Booze - beer. Lots. Cheap. Good. I've been wandering the alleys and squares for a couple of days, still in that buzz of wonder at how such a fantastic place can exist. Architecture, food, music, beauty all crammed into one tiny, quality city. The photos I'll paste will say it better than I can now.
I also visited Kostinice, an hour's trainride away, the famed Bone Church. With more imagination even than the Paris Catacombs, the bones of 40,000 dead souls are arranged into a Ghoulish display to the Glory of Mortality. A huge chandelier containing skulls, clavicles, femurs, cochleas and bones from every part of the skeleton adorns the ceiling. Stacks of carefully arranged skeletal artifacts grow dusty in four large crypts. A coat of arms of the regions, made entirely out of human bones, adorns a wall. Floral displays, words and other macabre decorations flank a Crucified Christ at the main altar. Beautiful and terrible at the same time. If I ever thought I was going to live forever, I relent! Ok I get it! One day I'll be dead too! I believe you already!
Now I'm back in the Capital having dined in Restaurant Metamorphose to typical Czech sauerkraut, roast duck and stuffing. My choices to visit tomorrow include:
Museum of Medieval Torture Instruments
Sex Machine Museum
Puppet and chocolate bazaar
Gothic Bridge and Castle
Pub

On to Budapest in a couple of days.

Zurich, and the Night train to Prague

Talk about spooky.
The unfriendly companions I had combined with the shabby train should have warned me about this... but no. I took on the couchette to Prague with the remaining elation of a chance meeting with a friend in Zurich.
My friend Christa (who lives a 20min train ride away) was just happening to step out of the picture theatre as I was perusing the list of films. "Matthew!" I heard, and to my amazement, she had been in Zurich for a hair appointment and was killing time at the movies. It was like Fate's kind hand had passed over and delivered us each the gift of the other's company for the afternoon. So we had a luncheon, a catchup and a promise to meet anew on my way back from the East.
But once again to the Night Train. I am asleep, used to the occasional slamming halts as the train stations... when the Vienna carriage dismounts it feels like a wreck! The whole train reels and shudders, the booms of deep metal rattling the bones of the fretful sleepers. An old drunk Swissy has left his couchette to spend the night in the bar. More than once I awake to a creep stealing into the compartment and rifling through his stuff. Each time I turn to see what they're up to they flee, but with a nonchalance suggesting they know I'm not going to confront them. Once I awake when a mini torch is pointed through the window at my head. I turn to see who's doing it and it is gone. An0ther creep, scoping out an easy target. My sleep is fitful and uneasy. Morning breakfast comes, rolls and jam, and I wolf it and return to a better snooze, now that controllers and police are moving about. Thus like till Prague...

Moutier

I spent a very pleasant few days eating and drinking of the finest of Swiss cuisine, with the finest of family friends. Since it's tricky to stick up pics from here, these will be up in a few days.

Railpass Regained

Ok, you can all sleep easily again... my railpass was duly returned to me by an extremely apologetic Mr. Weidmer, high official of Switzerland SBB. I argued my case, and gained on top of the 50 francs they sent in apology, a refund of the tickets I'd bought thus far and fr200 for loss of use of the pass over the week it was in the possession of silly old 'Tony' the conductor. Bet he's in the shite. So it was onward...!

Moutier and Kafka

The mountain town of Moutier is such that it always feels like I'm returning home somewhat. Mostly because I have some old family friends here that I love to visit.
Unfortunately, the weather has ceased to be golden sun and warmth, and turned to lead-grey skies with a seriously arresting chill in the air. Even the locals are noticing the severity, that they are bid stay at home aside the fire with a nice rouge and a little chocolàt. Now I recommend all to read Kafka. Not only is it well written and classic literature, but it gives one a veritable idea of how someone may feel losing, and attempting to regain, a rail pass. Mrs. Berger (my contact at the SBB headquarters) was very helpful-sounding, saying she'd sort it out and ring me with instructions on how to receive a new pass "tonight or first thing tomorrow". Of course she didn't so I rang the office today only to discover that she wasn't working for two days. "Michael" informed me that he knew naught of the issue, and when I politely pressed him to get the hell on to it and find out toute-de-suite, he said that they hadn't managed to contact the controller who originally confiscated the pass. I bade him do that very thing, and be quick about it, and he seemed to say he'd think about it. Meanwhile, an email came to me from my friend Laura (whose number I'd left the SBB as a contact) saying they'd called and that the pass was indeed fine all along, and that the controller had ballsed up - as I had recounted to him at the very time he sought to confiscate the thing.
So now I have conflicting stories, workers that promise one thing then piss off for the week, agents that agree to help then sit around with their thumb up their arse and controllers who take things so by-the-book they lose their reason then call the wrong number and say something that isn't correct anyway.
Switzerland, you are in grave danger of falling from the lofty peak I have esteemed you to. They of course blame it all on the French agent who issued it initially, as a humorous analogy to our rugby loss.
I'll get it back, but boy I'll have to work for it.

A sip of local liquor with Laura and Sylvan

Strong and fiery, just what one needs before a train journey. Local legend suggests that it was discovered one day when a woodcutter was wrestling a bear, as often was a means of past-time for both species in early Swiss times. Just when the bear was about to deliver the coup-de-grace, the woodcutter dived behind a half-cut tree and the bear's claws released the sap. This fell into Woody's billy on the fire, and boiled as they continued their game. When they were done, and it was time to clean each other's wounds, Woody found he could use the boiled sap as a sterilising agent. But like all great discoverers of fine alcohol, he drank it instead, sharing it with Bruno. They became drunk at once, married, and thus was born the fine delicacy of William (somebody's) Bear und Cutter Elixir-cum-Steriliser.

Verbier

Well I thought I hadn't seen enough of mountains in Switzerland, so I cruised up to the Village of Verbier with Laura. Her boyfriend lives in a converted granary, built from interlocking logs overlooking the most stunning alpine vista. We stocked up on Gruyère and an assortment of other cheeses, veges, wine, juice and traipsed up a mountain path to a viewpoint overlooking the entire valley. Building a small fire with their mates (a couple with a wee baby boy) we dined on superb provisions and roasted chestnuts.
The waning sun cast a golden light o'er the mountaintops, and we breathed deep of the cleansing mountain air, blown fresh 'cross the Alps. A pale half-moon arose, casting its gentle gleam atop the snowy peaks, and we listened to the sighing breeze in the pines rise and fall away. High above, planes with their cargoes of hectic souls scurrying to their misplaced ideas of Eden drifted almost silently, with never a synapse wasted on who might be down below, living, growing watching the paraponts which like the leaves of Autumn drift ever down from the peaks into the valleys.
Night falls! The chill increases and we head downward, back to the chalet and into dreams of trains and cows and mountains... awaken to the sound of church bells which their glory they echo to every corner of the village, while the morning sun rises sharp, lusty, with the promised vigour of a new day.

So yeah, I s'pose it was alright.

Geneva

A totally world city, Geneva is a chic mix of cobbly, ancient streets with expensive shops and flash new headquarters of world organisations. And studenty bars, of course.

After a brief walking tour in the Wellington-style wind (cold and incessant), we found a bar that was playing some kind of death-thrash-punk. The exterior décor was lovely.

There happened to be a couple of Scottish sisters there who found out I was from NZ. Then one said "NZ! I saw that movie Black Sheep the other day!" Well. Of all the films to pick out. Nice one Jonathan! They said it was their favourite.

Between sips I humbly happened to mention that I'd had a small amount to do with the film... well it was like they'd met one of the real sheep from the cast. And when I told them my last name, they almost fell off their seats. Lucky I didn't tell them my Zodiac sign and my Chinese starsign... I couldn't bear to and anyway they wouldn't have believed me. Thank goodness.

Time for some Immaturity

Ok, I think I've been more than fair to Switzerland in my praises. Time for something a bit irreverent.

Restaurant called "Modehaus Fuchs"
Bottle of chic wine: "Terre Arse"
Opticians: "Schmutz Opticien"
Regional train: "Inter-fahrt"

I guess hardly funny to the locals, but I quite like names like that.

Lausanne and Laura

Yes I'm still smarting from the outrage of having my rail pass confiscated. How could they! But that aside, I'm now in beautiful Lausanne with my mate Laura. She's studying psychology having just moved here from Geneva.

I haven't checked out the city in full yet, but if it's anything like the golden sun streaming through the window portends, I think I'll enjoy it.

Gruyère

This is a wee town I went to with Andrea. I had been there 10 years before, but it was great to see the place again. It is a real town. Google it and check it out. That is where the cheese of that name comes from, and a special cream that is so heavenly. The meal pictured two posts ago was had there. The vista is from the top of a funiculaire overlooking Gruyère and plenty of mountains and misty lakes.

But it isn't all cows and cuisine. There is the Giger museum. Now I'm not a prude, far from it in fact, but this was sick. What a disturbed dude! He was the conceptual artist for the 'Aliens' films, and his art goes where even that doesn't. You aren't allowed to take photos thank goodness, but the imagery haunts one enough. You can Google some of his stuff and see what I mean.

But even with this caveat, it is pretty moving stuff. Intricate, controversial, dark, multimedia, laboured-over... it serves as a great sign that this country is far from just pretty vistas and moneyed chalets. An underbelly, and plenty of bodyparts besides, exists and is firmly established in the national psyche. Such a quaint and curious juxtaposition of cultures.

Rail Pass Passout

So my rail pass got confiscated. Because it was "old" and "incorrectly filled out" therefore "invalid". The guard was quite keen for me to start paying for tickets from now on until he "got it sorted out". I politely declined his offer and bade him "kindly depart and engage in relations upon his own person", and that I would unfortunately not be acquiescing to his recommendation. I felt I had paid through my nasal passage for said pass, and he might take up any issue with the Paris station. He humbly agreed to do as much.

I guess I could be stuck in worse places, but it annoys me somewhat that a station worker could mess up so completely.

Urrrrg. At least it's sunny here in Lausanne.

The Beautiful Switzerland

I know, I go on about this country. You who make fun of me know who you are. But here's some more ammo for you:

I LOVE IT HERE!!!!

It is easily one of the best countries I've been to.

Friendly. Intelligent. Philosophical. Aware. Beautiful. The only thing is that they don't have any sea, but that doesn't stop them winning sea-related sports as I'm constantly made aware. Though they all admit it is because of the money, and the NZ skipper. Since I've been here I've been to many villages, valleys, lakes, mountains, hung out with great people, talked high art and philosophy, and been paraponting. And I've just got here.

I'd been hanging out with my mate Andrea, who I met in Laos some years ago, in her town Fribourg and surrounding region. There is so much cool stuff to do here. It's a real advantage to know a local.

I'm now in the Jungfrau region mountain town of Wengen, sipping beer and looking out over the valley of Luaterbrunnen toward the Eiger. And it's cheap! You could never, never, find a place at this price in NZ with such spectacular views and comfort. I mean it. And best of all, it's real.

So get on the net and check the place out. Use your imagination. It will be even better, I guarantee it, on penalty of fondue.

The top pics are me and Andrea, going luging and paraponting, then having a typical Gruyere treat. This one below is the view from my hotel window in the Alps. Really.

Bologna

So, Bologna you say... what do you think of? Red architecture and politics? Unfinished churches and tilty towers? Richly covered footpaths?

Of course not. If you're anything like me, you thought "spaghetti bolognaise". Well, the joke's on us! There's no such thing! Bolognaise sauce is never served on spaghetti! Truly, the grade of noodle is too skinny to be thought proper to accommodate the sauce, it is served on a wider flatter noodle. And that's just one of the things I learned about the region. Tortellini is another gastronomic invention, served in a thin soup. Flaky puff-pastry bread, creamy cheese, jams, preserved vegetables and house wine was the fare that we ate when I went to a local eatery with Claudia. I met her on a traveller's networking site, as she has that charming but mythical view that NZ is an Eden that is perfect, unspoilt, safe, friendly and beautiful. And I guess it is all those things, but not only.

She acted as a guide for an evening and instructed me on many various things from politics to history to architecture to food. And she arranged for her mates to put me up for the night in their traditional farmhouse. It's great when you find people so warm and genuine, and friendly. I guess that is Italy all right. The picture is of her and Pietro, her mate who hosted me for the night.

The Sway of Pisa

It would be fair improper not to go to Pisa, just because "everyone does" (and they sure do).
What a right, royal balls up! I found myself laughing at the sheer absurdity of the thing, and the fact that construction battled on for 200 years to get it such. I'm sure Jesus knows the thought was there, but man it's a mind-bend.

Walking up it is just as interesting - because of the slant, you feel you are at times walking up to go down and vice-versa. and the slant isn't uniform, it is partly corrected which adds to the weird gravity it seems to possess. But it is beautiful. Yes, it may be a bit slopey, but it sure doesn't skimp on charm or detail. Bells, marble florettes, curved brickwork, the lot.

Lined up in the piazza are a million 'souvenir' shops selling every kind of slanted item. Cups, mugs, mirrors, bottles, wines, oils, candles, statues, books, cloths, miniatures, chairs, hats... all sloping to the same degree as the fated tower. Yes it is a bit kitchy, but also pretty cool. There are also hand carved marble replicas of the tower and David.

Off to Bologna today to check out some tortellini I hear is unmissable.

Night-train to Firenze

A couchette on the night train direct to Florence was not as restful as I'd hoped. The 6-bed berth was full, three beds taken by 3 generations of a Vietnamese family. A girl around my age was taking her mum and daughter on a trip to Rome for a few days. She must have been a travel agent of some kind because she was keen to give me her email so that when I visit Vietnam, she can organise all the hotels and travelling. Thought her toddler was cute, she was lively and it became clear that a restful repose was not to be had at once. As well as this was the fear that I would sleep past my destination and end up in somewhere just as cool, but not intended.

But arrive in Florence I did, and might I say, gladly so! My friend Rachel has a beautiful apartment on Borgi Allegri street, close to one of the busiest, most beautiful town squares. She's also a superb chef and wine agent, the latter being proven by the triple-size balloons of delightful Rosso Italiano we imbibed. I'm seriously thinking about forgoing a few other countries to stay in Italy a bit - I know, they all [guidebooks, travellers, friends] said that would happen, but now I can see why. I went to the local markets to get something for tonight's dinner; as what not the case in Paris, everyone I dealt with happily spoke clearly and simply as I grappled with the vowels and inflections, and were most helpful when I made my selections. Honest warm and friendly, if the rest of Italy comes close, I'll be more than happy.

I could wander the streets here forever. Now a square; now a deserted wee cobbled via with leaning stone buildings and tiny dark but plush trattoria; happen upon a corner and the volume trebles, as throngs of tourist groups gaggle by and snap away, then under a small stone arch... and silence once again... save for the eerie drone of some kind of hum - then zoom! zoo-zoo-zoom! as a horde of vespas scoot by... then silence as I duck into another cobbled alley and hear only the distant calls of locals and the peal of bells from the many exquisite churches. It's truly an ancient and modern city, with a respect for fine food and delightful wine.

Hmmm, speaking of which...

Crushing Defeat

Well it would be unfair not to mention the awful defeat of the All Blacks by France. Particularly as I was in the town square with 18,000 or so French fans, and I'd talked up the game so much. A tiny cluster of us cheek-by-jowl right in the centre. We had two Scots, a N-Irish and a German on our side just to make up the numbers. Well, everyone knows the result.

It was actually the best place to lose from. The atmosphere was truly electric. I've never been so crammed in my life, I had to sit in enjoyment of the happy bear clasp of a roaring french guy, as space was so scant. And let me tell you, it's a special moment sitting in the tight embracing arms of a cheering enemy as you watch your team slowly be taken apart. They were, however, very gracious about the win, even if the winning roar was somewhat deafening.

Afterward, Andre and I (plus our wee clan of UK + German) went beer-swilling, sorrow-drowning at the local Scottish pub. It was actually really great to be felt sorry for by the throngs of ecstatic French all coming up and telling us that we "played very well", and having a laugh.

Today we had disowned "Les Blacks" and moved to support Scotland, with equally dismal results. It's now Argentina, thankfully I have a cousin there so I can clutch at that distant straw.

On to Florence tomorrow to offload my silver fern souvenirs at cut-rate.

Pictured is our supportive Scot, James, and the affectionate Frenchy who cradled me so.

Paris Catacombs

A couple of hundred years ago, health issues arising from the drinking of water that had been filtered through thousands of corpses in the Paris Cemetary of the Innocents, dictated that the graves all be dug up and the bones stored in a common ossuary.
The ossuray was then opened to the public in the early 1800s for the citizens to go and see the ghoulish remains of the former inhabitants. The caverns have been divided into 'rues' (streets) each with their own name, and death-related slogans adorn the walls. 20m underground, it is as quiet, as they say, as the grave.
The tunnels twist and turn for what seems like forever, but is in fact 500m odd. Eerie lighting casts grim shadows on the walls and sporadically you hear the distant drip-drip of perhaps some of that same water that so caused the casualties.
Eventually you arrive at the ossuaries... vast stretches of yellowed bones of the executed, dieseased and accident prone lie grimmacing eternally at you. One adaption that had been made since the original opening was to arrange the bones into artful patterns, crosses, heart-shapes and decorative florettes. They aren't hidden behind glass or grating, but they are the very walls of the moody sarcophagus.
Staring and staring... the expressions on the skulls are greatly varied. Some plead with you. Others seem to laugh knowingly. A few glare accusing and furious, while others wear guilt or scared deference. Many just have that tired, faraway look of those who know their fate and long for rest.
Though it was interesting it was a delight to be above ground again, breathing the clear air in the sunshine, without the pressing whisper of death just over your shoulder.

Paris Further

Like it's crusty twin, London, Paris is a mysteriously labyrinthine place at times. I found a bookshop yesterday, just opposite Notre Dame, and today it was nowhere to be seen. It's like the city has to 'get to know you' before it will share all it's many parts. Of course I found it again when I wasn't looking for it, no doubt tomorrow it will once more escape me.

I've been out to La Defense. That is a totally different Paris. Stunningly original and ultra-modern architechture and sculpture thrown all together in a smallish area, it is like the designers of the original city came back to life and rebuilt it in a style consistent with that of around 2050. I rode to the top of the grand arch and surveyed a hazey skyline, and also saw an exhibition on the history of computing from the 1700s-present. I'm still finding too many things to do here without having time to move on; and I can't wait for the NZ vs France game in the town square, hehe!

Pictured is André at our 'local' in Montmarte. We dine at the restaurant I can only remember as being called the 'Roger Gascoine'.

Paris

Well I've been here for a few days now. So far I've watched a couple of games in the town square, where they've set up a huge screen in front of the hotel de ville for the people to enjoy for free. Imagine that in civic square!

Andre's wee pad is great, just a 2 min walk from the square. A very pleasant courtyard apartment in the best cobbly streets of the city.

Went to see a reggae gig last night, being Morgan Heritage, LMS and friends. After waiting for hours in a crushing gaggle of other poor sods who never bought a prepay ticket and pleading with the hapless bouncers who ploitely argued their cases, we entered for cheaper and found only a moderately packed dancefloor. I guess they must value their space when they can get it. The main act didn't come on till about half-three, and only played for 40 mins, which was a little disappointing. Though they did play their anthems as well as a few newies, and most of the crowd knew and sang along, in English. Very positive and enjoyable vibe.

Just got a few rues to promenade, a cafe or two to imbibe and the odd croissant to butter and jam. Very pleasant so far.

London Art

Well I had to go and see a few artworks while here. I have a couple of favourites in London. The First is a classical painting, by whom I can't remember, of a dragon fighting (and winning) against a couple of hapless Argonauts. I just remember this form a book on Dragons from when I was very wee, and ten years ago I stumbled across the original in the National Gallery.
So I went to have another refresher look and couldn't find it; upon asking a yawning gallery guard, I was informed that it had not been displayed for "years". It made me wonder about how big the collection actually is if many paintings lie in a dark vault for decades until it's time to display them again.

The next is a Clyfford Still. An abstract work, consisting of a blue expanse slightly broken by a yellow streak and red patch. Know the one? It was the one that turned me around into appreciating abstract works. I saw it when I first went to the Tate, and there it was again, more prominently displayed than before.

Then it was off to reward my good fortune with a couple of pints in the Duke of Thropshire, or some such pub.

Paris tomorrow.

Wedding Crashing

Well, the wedding was a success. It was great to see kiwis representing in drunkenness and shite-talking, just as well as the poms. The tower was spectacular. And haunted apparently. I didn't see any spooks, but I did find a cosy patch of brambles to catch a few winks in on the walk back to my guesthouse. The moon was so yellow, the evening so warm... I think someone had spiked my drink - with more drink. I'll try not to spread foot-and-mouth around the country any more than I have already, stumbling across paddocks and through scrub to try to find my way home.

Essex is a very pretty county. There are modern houses with full thatched roofs, quaint pubs and rolling downs. I'd stay on a bit, but I'm not Slim Carlos, you know.

Now I'm back in London spending quids like they're bucks. It's a different economy here, strongly not in our favour. Time for us to represent, and filter some of those sweet Sterling's our way. Thinking of heading to either Brussels or Paris in a week or so. That should make my posts a little more riveting.