The next day we rose earlier and went to a small bar for breakfast. It took ages to get served, possibly because we were a bit on the late side for petit dejeuner, possibly because I spoke English to the waitress and she was too offended to serve us, possibly because the French believe that breakfast should be taken slowly. We waited on a couple of very french chairs at a table with a marble top and little wiggly legs like they belonged on a puppy or lion cub. When we finally got a friendly, helpful waitress, she explained how brekkie works and we ended up each with a silver tray (real silver, I think) with hot chocolate (they made the paste bit and gave you a separate jug of hot milk) croissant, cereal, orange juice, and a bit of baguette with butter and jam. It reminded me of the “continental breakfast” you got in Holiday Inns in the ’80s but so utterly knocked those into a cocked hat.
Today we had two landmarks to “do”, either of which could take half a day, so we jumped on the Métro to Bir Hakeim and wandered in the welcome grey weather along the waterfront to the Tour Eiffel. It was big, we anckowledged, then, estimating the duration of the wait to go up it, moved on. We went via the tunnel where Princess Di crashed. On the boat tour the previous day we’d picked up that there was a replica of the flame from the statue of liberty there, that was a memorial of the Princess. It turned out the flame had not been put there as such, but it had since become one as there were flowers tied near it and the top of the bridge was festooned with graffiti. Some read “Diana 4 Ever, Kaylee 2004 Boston, MA” then some French people had written huge quantities of prose or poetry.
Another quick Métro jump for lunch (of cheese and ham and baguette) then to the Louvre. Venus de Milo - check, Mona Lisa - check (this was disappointing as there was a near-hysterical, pushy atmosphere in the room and there was no chance to simply come to terms with the picture itself. Fortunately, turning my back on the ML, I was rewarded with the Wedding Feast at Cana, which is absolutely immense and allowed me some time to get into the whole art thing. We’d got to the ML via the French Paintings gallery, which involved lots of Davids (of “and Goliath” fame) and a bunch of snooty kings and lords and stuff, but we departed into the Italian Paintings gallery. Wow, the Italian paintings really leapt off the canvas! Highlight for me though was the painting of some king dude (ok I can’t remember who it was) where the artist had only got a coin to go on, so the face was exactly side-on, the hands were fudged, and the clothing was chosen by the painter to strike a balance between regal and accessible.
We wandered over the Pont Des Artes and around the Latin Quarter again where we found some extremely tasty ice cream and got it down our tops, then headed back to the Airport. The chocolate tart at the airport snack bar beat anything available in England, let alone in British airports, and the flight home was 45 minutes early, so not such a late night was had after all.
If you have not been to Paris before, stay near the Arc de Triomphe! We emerged from the hotel around 11:30, and had a little difficulty getting breakfast: Rachael wanted a croissant and we eventually found a place called the “Croissanterie” or some such, though there were none in evidence.
Me: Est-ce que vous avez des croissants?
Girl: Non, m’sieur
Lady: plupla bwah fefahfefwois - which I took to mean “meh, they’re tourists, give them one of the hard ones from this morning
(Girl goes out the back and returns with a croissant.)
Once brekkie was out the way, it was a slow 3 and a half mile walk from the Arc de Triomphe down the Champs Elysée, past lots of posh shops and American tourists to the Place De La Concorde, a second immense roundabout only this time with two fountains and a 3300-year-old obelisk in the middle. Continuing to the Jardin des Tuileries, lunch of a savoury Galette in the park, onwards to the beautful Place du Carousel and finally the Louvre. At this point, you about face and you can see all the way back to the Arc in perfect symmetry. They even trimmed the trees in the park to line up with the vanishing point!
The Louvre is closed on Tuesdays, so we continued to the Pont Neuf and jumped on a tour boat which showed us all the bits we’d just done, but from the other side, the Eiffel Tower, and the cathedral of Notre Dame, plus some neat bridges.
It was Rachael’s birthday and she wanted to eat in Le Grand Colbert, which appears in Something’s Gotta Give and is claimed to have the best roast chicken in all of Paris. We found it, along with a bunch of stuff in the window about the movie which, along with the prices, made us think we had “done” the Grand Colbert now and had no need to eat there.
A quick Métro trip back to the hotel for a shower and change, and we header to the Latin Quarter to get us a bite to eat. This got a bit interesting since Rachael is currently more-rather-than-less veggie, and doesn’t really like cheese apart from Wensleydale. Most restaurants offered a choice of Duck, Veal, Chicken, Fondue or Raclette. So I had a fondue and Rachael had a “Rustic Plate” of veg and pasta. I enjoyed the fondue (though I paid for it next day) and Rachael thought the veggies OK, but the dessert really made up for it. Crème Brulée (which some Restaurants helpfully translated to “burnt cream”) and Crème Caramel, both of which were absolutely scrummy.
Our walk around the Latin Quarter was truncated by Rachael’s glamorous but impractical choice of footwear, and we Métroed it home again and I began the long task of digesting a dinner that had essentially been a big ball of cheese.
Jet2 promised us a trip to Paris for 99p there and £1.99 back. Plus taxes. Oh, do you have a bag? That’s £5.99. Oh, did you want a seat? That’s £3.99. Do you want “Priority Checkin”? No? sure?
So £150 each later, we had two nights and two days in Gay Paree. We flew Leeds Bradford to Paris Charles De Gaulle and wandered around looking for a bus that was supposed to take us directly to the Arc de Triomphe, where we were staying. Couldn’t find it, but did find a railway station so paid our €16.50 and jumped on a manky SNCF train into Châtelet/Les Halles and rode the Métro to Place Charles De Gaulle/Étoile which is really the Arc de Triomphe. (Everything seems to have 2 or 3 names in France) We crossed like 7 billion roads to find the Star Hotel Étoile, and dragged our sweaty, luggaged forms in through the airy, marbled foyer.
“Bonsoir“, said I, “nous avons… uh … reservée une … uh … chambre se soir…”
I even spelled my name in French letters (no, oh never mind) when the reception guy looked puzzled. So I showed him the reservation thing and he pointed down the road.
At least I was stupid in French not English.
At the Crowns Hotel Étoile, where we really did have a booking, we checked in En Franglais and got our small, clean, badly-maintained room. Chucked down our bags, watched some gay love scene in French on the telly, then went out to eat. We found a small Crêperie absolutely chock full of high school girls from Brooklyn speaking something that was related to English and French but didn’t seem to be either. It later became a pattern that the friendliest Parisians were the ones where we attempted to speak French when they had just dealt with an American.
Hmm, the saxophone may not be beyond reprieve after all! Quinteto Mambo Jambo played in Hull last night, and I went over to check ‘em out… partly because it’s interesting to see how Latin music can be played with fewer than six people, and partly just because. Mambo Jambo are essentially a duo of multi-instrumentalists: Pete on lots of variants of the guitar, and a cowbell played with his foot, and Frankie who plays flute, sax, clarinet and seemingly anything else that comes within her arm’s reach. They had an additional backline of bass, conga/bongo and a guest timbalero. The backline was able and adequate, some great soloing but a couple of cases of lost timing, but the duo at the front really shone. The sensitivity and cooperation in the playing was really outstanding and the vibe was really friendly, intimate, and uptempo. Even the saxophone actually contributed rather than detracted :-)
Download The River from http://www.mambojambo.org/quinteto.htm for an example of that lovely playing!
The only real criticism is that the foot-pedal cowbell can’t swing like a proper campanero. Pete, Frankie: drop me a line, my rates are competitive!
Discrimination per se is absolutely vital to a functioning world. If you don’t discriminate between baby milk and mercury, you poison your baby.
Unfortunately, lazy language has made this argument harder to be clear about. First of all we can easily oppose unfair discrimination on the basis of race or gender. There are two important ideas here though:
- unfair
- on the basis of
Actually, we could oppose all unfair discrimination, e.g. “I will not give you the accountant’s job, because you wore a green top at the interview and I hate people who wear green tops”. But it’s not likely that many others would back up the discriminator on this decision — i.e. very few people are troubled by green tops, whereas there are entrenched attitudes towards, e.g. foreigners or the opposite sex. In other, more rational cases, the person being scrutinized gets to modify his or her appearance or behaviour so as to be more acceptable. If I don’t think I’ll get the programmer’s job going to the interview wearing only spats and a dog-leash, then I’ll wear a suit instead. (Note: these are not the only two choices of outfit in my life.)
The other interesting idea above was on the basis of. If I were interviewing for a nursery school helper and discriminated against a black person because he or she is on the sex offenders list, this should not cause an outcry. I am not discriminating on the basis of his or her race, but on a factor that is extremely pertinent to the job I’m offering.
When discrimination means denying something to a person because of something beyond their control, then it becomes unjust. Hence anti discrimination laws regarding race and gender. But there’s a sliding scale - to what degree does one “choose” to be a crook, a scumbag and a drain on society? Tough call.
Should we discriminate against University applicants on the basis of their academic performance? You bet! Against rich people when it comes to claiming benefit? I reckon. Should we discriminate between fact and fantasy when choosing a medical product? Probably also a good idea.