Camp Update

Evening is setting here in the wilderness. If you can call it wilderness-with no bears, no poisonous snakes, spiders or ivy, no rednecks with shotguns and a porta potty on the hill, it’s a bit like camping in Disneyland. This is still England after all.

But we got driven to our site by our hostess on whose land we are camping on a trailer pulled by a quad bike, which was quite exciting. The farm dog ran along behind.

It’s been a beautiful day, warm and sunny. Pretty much the opposite of all weather predictions, and the previous week’s experience. As usual we are unprepared for this circumstance, with raincoats, trousers and wooly socks. We were prepared for yesterday.

We had a little hike earlier. Hiking with an iPhone is a whole different ballgame.

“Where shall we go?”
“Let’s look at a satellite photo of the area and see what looks pretty.”

“Where are we now?”
“Lets use the GPS tracker and it will show us on a map.”

“Which direction should we go?”
“Let’s use the compass and it will tell us.”

“Look! Something pretty!”
“I’ll take a picture with the camera!”

“What kind of bird is that?”
“I’ll just look on the RSPB website and find out.”

“We seem to be completely surrounded by fierce ravenous badgers! Quick! Call for help!”

“The battery’s dead…”

Las Alpujarras

This entry brings us to the most breathtakingly beautiful and breathtakingly terrifying part of our sojourn in España-our trip up into las Alpujarras.

After our little trip to the teteria, we visited the Mercadona in Granada, and loaded up on supplies. The British ex-pats who own the cottage we had rented for the next two days had warned us that it was many miles between ourselves and any grocery stores. Did we experience any trepidation at this point? No! Instead we thought: “Oh goody! Two days in nature, far away from the madding crowd!”

And so we traversed the autovia and began a steep climb into las Alpujarras. The roads became narrow, the turns more hairpin, and the shoulders non-existent. We drove slowly, much to annoyance of the Spanish drivers (who tended by and large to be very rude-maybe it’s the lack of fiber in those sandwiches) but confidently toward  Orgiva, where we were to meet our host, who would lead us up the mountain to our cottage.

After some amusing wrong turns into tiny quaint one-horse towns, where old men gathered on street corners to stare at us, we arrived at the garish las Llamas bar. We found our host, Chris, who is the most improbable Brit I’ve ever met. With her Birkenstocks, jeans, long gray hair, cigarettes and beer she seemed much more like an Austinite that a South Londoner. Maybe that’s why she lives in Spain.

Chris was very kind. We all had a coke at the bar (not of course mentioning before our hosts the disturbing thought that many Spaniards visit the bar before driving on those same winding narrow roads), while Chris informed us of the 9km drive up unpaved roads that we were about to attempt. She drives a jeep, of course.

Then we started up the mountain in our little Citroën. According to my friend Nigel, the Citroën is just the car for attempting offroad adventures. Originally envisioned as the car for French farmers, the Citroën test ride involved driving across a ploughed field with a crate of eggs in the back. Be that as it may, without all-wheel drive or off-road suspension it was bloody terrifying.

JJ prayed to Mother Mary the whole way-I didn’t even know my wife was Catholic. I held onto the “Jesus handle” and tried to say encouraging things, but mostly just cursed. Michael sat very pale and quiet in the back seat. The road was very bumpy and narrow. At several points we had to ford little streams where melted snow trickled down the mountain. At one point we had to pass a jeep going the other way, us on the outside, with centimeters to spare between us and drop down the mountainside.

Michael pesters one of the many dirty strays that are all over Spain-this one was cute

When we got to the top our hosts ushered us into the house, and gave us wine. They have three beautiful dogs and two horses all of whom we met. Chris and Dave bought the property six years ago and moved away from London. They fixed up the long abandoned farmer’s cottages, adding running water, electricity and windows. In the cottages the electricity comes from solar panels on the roof (it is only needed to power little energy saving light bulbs-the refrigerator and heat run on propane). The water all comes from a reservoir on the property, where melted snow pools and is piped into the houses. The hot water comes from a solar heater on the roof. How very cool!

After we recovered from the hairraising drive up the mountain, it sank in what a beautiful place we had come to. It was dry and hot on the mountainside. Above us, the mountain’s snowy top disappeared into clouds. Nestled into the opposite mountain’s face, across the valley, there were little white villages. Poppies and irises grew out of every surface clear of brush.  You could hear the sing-song melody of the goat’s bells as they clambered about on the moutainside, the rushing of water in its many streams, the call of a cuckoo (they sound just like their man-made imitation: “cuckoo! cuckoo!”) and the wheezing of the azthmatic horse.

JJ in her kitchen

We settled into our little white-washed stone cottage and JJ made us a lovely dinner. When the sun went down it was very dark on out in the wilderness. We sat in our cottage and played cards in the dim but cozy lamp light. Over the course of the evening there were several outbursts of fireworks, culmunating in a display that lasted several minutes, for this night was the night of a big fútbol match involving Barcelona, and so there were fireworks for each time Barcelona scored a goal and even more when they eventually won. The sounds of raucous drunk cheering and singing drifted across from the villages in the distant hills. The stars were astoundingly bright and numerous.

Our little cottage: that's not a ghost-it's me walking

The next day was our one day to sleep in, and sleep in we did. JJ made a sumptuous breakfast, quite cheered to have her own little kitchen. Michael had set her sights on visiting the Buddhist monastery down the road. So, we hiked down the mountain. JJ and I stopped after a while, and hiked back up the mountain. It was a lovely hike, if very hot and strenuous in the thin air. Whenever we got hot, we needed only to come to the next stream. Here you could just reach down with your hand and scoop up fresh melted snow. We met a handsome goat-herd, Pepe, with his. I wanted to say to him: “Es una dia bonita, no?” But it occurred to me we would seem daft, as every day looks like this to Pepe. He had with him four dogs. A placid black and white enormous hound (or small pony?), a excitable little yappy dog that barked constantly, a dog that paid us no attention whatsoever, and a medium sized shaggy dog that kept circling us and nipping at us, obviously thinking we needed to be herded.

When we got back to our homestead, J dipped her toes and I dipped my whole self into the reservoir. It was actually a lovely feeling. In the water, it was so cold I could feel my blood vessels constricting and my muscles cramping. But once I stepped out, it was like I had internal air conditioning, and I remained cool for the rest of the day.

At noon in Orgiva, our host Chris met Michael’s friend, Aisha, who had come on a bus from her home in Vigo on the west coast, to join us on our visit. They arrived around one. Soon after Michael returned from her epic hike up the mountain. We napped on blankets in fields on the mountainside under the shade of olive trees for much of the afternoon.

That evening we had another lovely dinner, and played Scrabble until bed time. It had been a lovely day. The next day, we packed up the car yet again. Our hosts hugged us-they were very kind throughout-and we sadly headed down the mountain, bound for our last destination, the beach.

Putting the Ham Back in Alhambra

We woke up early the next morning, for this day was Granada day. Too early in fact. We were packed and ready at 7. The hotel did not serve breakfast until 8. Nobody was serving breakfast. London, at 7 o’clock in the morning is already bustling with activity. Any restauranter worth his salt opens at 6, hoping to catch the breakfasting commuter crowd. In small town Spain, however, not a creature was stirring, not would they be for several hours. The streets were deserted.  And so we made do with our little stash of snacks, and got in the car.

Our first task of the morning was a daunting one-we had to get the car out of the claustophobic underground parking cupboard. It required backing the manual transmission Citroën directly up a narrow ramp which was at something approaching a 40 degree angle and then out into a street that was possibly 10 feet wide, with cars parked along the curb. JJ managed it even without coffee.

We found our way back to the autovia, and headed out across Spain toward Granada. After several hours we arrived in Granada. To see the Alhambra you must book a time slot in advance, and our tickets were for 1.30. But we spent an hour lost in Granada searching in vain for legible streets signs, before we gave up and parked the car in an underground parking garage. With not much time to spare we took a terrifying bus ride, on the tiniest bus I have ever seen, up the hill to the Alhambra.

At a cafe outside we purchased several dismal ham & cheese (no lettuce, pickle, tomato, mayo, nada) sandwiches. Then we collected our tickets and entered the palatial complex of the Sultans of Granada.

The Alhambra did not disappoint. It is surely one of the wonders of the world. I have seen many palaces in my life, ostentatious, imposing and grand. None compare to the vision of heaven on earth that is the Alhambra. The whimsy of design renders the whole place ethereal-fountains spring up in the middle of room, and the water runs in a channel down the steps and out into a courtyard fountain. Everywhere is stone carved with such intricacy and vibrance it seems almost alive. Nightengales pop in and out of the carved stone and bath themselves in the fountains. Every surface is covered in colorful tiles or vibrant carving, until the whole dynamic swirl reaches its zenith in a a ceiling made of innumerable geometric vaults that baffle the eye.

And yet it was all built in the 1300s. I’ve never learned much about the moors. In all my Spanish and history classes, the Moors seemed to be this dark menacing force, that constantly threatened Medieval Christendom. But here in this paradise with its kaleidoscopic buildings and lush gardens, the rulers had implemented an irrigation system, and hot and cold running water, at a time when, in the rest of Europe, everybody had fleas, and lived in filth and ignorance. I suppose history is always written by the victors.

After not nearly enough time in paradise, we trundled down the hillside. We were briefly accosted by gypsy women, who grabbed Michael and assaulted her with her fortune, until JJ shooed them off. Then we stopped in a cute little Teteria (tea house) where we had some zumo (that’s whacky Spanish talk for jugo).

Before leaving Granada we went to the Mercadona and loaded up on groceries before setting off for the mountains.

Mosque-arade

Entonces, on Tuesday JJ went to the airport to collect our rental car. She promptly got very lost in between the airport and hotel, but found it eventually. And so, much later than expected, we let Madrid disappear in the rearview mirror, and set off across España on an American style roadtrip.

Look out Tucson-here we come!

Our little Citroën, which we discovered went from 0 to 60 in about fifteen miles, carried us across  sunbaked La Mancha. The divide in highway was filled with pink and red azalea bushes. Olive orchards spread out from the autovia in neat little rows. On the hill sides there were many windmills, both the old school kind, a la Don Quixote, and graceful modern wind turbines. Every few miles there was also enormous black bull-shaped billboards. No idea what those were about.

????????????

We exited the autovia at Cordoba to find ourselves in the middle of loco traffic, for this day was the day of the féria, the city fair. Many women in flamenco dresses and men in Bolero jackets were winding their way to the fair ground in the baking heat, among gridlocked cars and motorcycles.

After getting lost and driving all over Córdoba’s winding cobbled breathtakingly narrow streets for about an hour we finally found our charming hotel, which featured many little courtyards and a damp but sweet little apartment, where we deposited our luggage, and set off for the Mezquita.

Córdoba Streets

By this time it was quite late in the day. We got to the Mezquita with but an hour and a half between us and closing time. But we had a good long wander about the place. Interestingly, the Córdobians actually refer to the place as the Cathedral, and though most outsiders know it for its Muslim architecture, it has been throughly Christianized in the past 517 years.

Everywhere, amid the Muslim arches, the current occupiers have plastered up ennumerable cherubs, saints, gargoyles, and crucifixes, most of them tacky and unoriginal. In the heart of the former mosque there is a Christian church, filled to exploding with mahogany, marble, and gilt paint. How tawdry the extravagant graven idols of men, beasts, and angels appear when so closely coupled with the ornate elegant natural forms of those arabesques which the conquistadors found too beautiful to destroy. It seems there is more to read about the secrets of the divine in these forms, which appear to have grown like vines rather than being carved out of rock.

After we were shooed out of the Mezquita, we wandered around the Juderia, which featured much less Judeakitsch than we had hoped. Most of the shops featured flamenco dress aprons and plastic fans. We looked at the outside of the ancient synagogue, took a picture with Maimonides, giggled at the street sign that said Judios, and went to have tapas.

This was the only tapas we got to experience on the trip, unfortunately. The waiter was an old man who was either rude or hard of hearing or both. But the food was yummy and the wine was cold. Following tapas we returned to the hotel for a brief rest, for I was feeling very ill. I went to bed, while J and Michael went out to get dinner. They settled for ice-cream and we called it a night.

Courtyard at Hotel Maestre

Today, Señor, the bull won.

Public Art

My boss told me an excellent joke about Spain. It went something like this.

A tourist goes to a little village in Spain on the day of the bull fight. He is sitting in a restraunt examining the menu, when all of sudden he hears a great fanfare, and the entire wait staff emerges from the kitchen with the maitre d carrying an enormous silver plate with a great silver dome. They carry the platter to the table of a self-satisfied looking fellow. The whole restaurant applauds as the maitre d whips off the silver dome to reveal the enormous meat underneath.

The tourist is very curious about this and after a minute he inquires as to the meaning of all this pageantry. The waiter explains: “Ah, Señor, this man has just been served the cajones of the bull. It is a great honor. You must book many years in advance.”

Which, is exactly what the tourist does. And so many years later he returns and takes his place at the table of honor. Once again the fanfare sounds, the whole wait staff emerges, and the maitre d proffers the silver platter. But when he removes the silver dome, there’s nothing but a tiny pile of meat the size of a meatball.

The tourist says: “What? I don’t understand!”

And the waiter replies: “Today, Señor, the bull won.”

Which is about how our trip to Spain went.

I was very ill. From a stuffy nose and blocked up inner ears I developed tonsillitis. My throat was extremely swollen and infected. But I was determined to have a good time in Spain. And so, J and I bought a bunch of cold medicines and paracetemol at the drug store in the airport. I began taking them every six hours, like it says on the box.

I should note that I seldom, almost never, take allopathic medicines. On Monday, Michael arrived, and I was adamant that I was going to go out sightseeing with J and Michael.

So we ended up far from our hotel in the center of Madrid, with me being very ill. We went to the Parque del Retiro, where at least I could lie down in the grass. Here some sadistic mariachis were playing the “Chicken Dance” song over and over and over. J and Michael went to purchase some of the dispiriting ham sandwiches (made with ham and cheese-no lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo, no nada-just ham and cheese) that we later learned are ubiquitous in Spain. Meanwhile, I was sick in the grass. I blame the “Chicken Dance.”

The Boating Pond at Retiro

J and Michael returned, much alarmed at the severity of my illness. We had a little picnic in the grass and then meandered about the Retiro. We sat for a while by the gorgeous boating pond watching large fish eat refuse floating on the water’s surface.

Michael and Mermaid

Then we gave up and headed back to the hotel. I went to bed with a fever and a painfully swollen throat. While napping that afternoon I had many amusing vivid dreams and fevered hallucinations. Meanwhile, J and Michael went to the local suburban mall, the “Plenilunio”, where they found a Mercadona supermarket, and a little herbal shop, where they purchased echinacea and garlic for me.

Can you spot creepy Pooh Bear?

J made a lovely dinner in the kitchen (having given in and paid the €4 to use the kitchen furnishings), and we spent the rest of the evening watching Spanish TV.

Today, Señor, the bull won.

Bienvenida a Madrid

We’re here beginning our first full day in Madrid, hoping that we’ll get to see a bit more of the city than the inside of our hotel. Yesterday morning we headed to the airport in a minicab since M. isn’t feeling too well. Gatwick is a mere 45 minute drive from our house, which is fantastic unless those 45 minutes are spent with a driver who clearly received his British driving licence by trading in one from a country with little or no driving standards. Miraculously, we arrived at the airport without any damage done to ourselves or other road users, and sat around waiting to board our plane. The gate was late to open (never a good sign) and by the time our flight’s departure rolled around, we were all still loitering in the gate area staring at each other blankly.

sicky wan tourist waits to board plane

Air Europa’s strong point is not the efficient filling of a plane. We finally all boarded the plane and buckled in, ready for our relatively short journey to Spain. We sat, and sat, and sat. The flight crew came on to announce some sort of luggage problem, and promised we’d be off in 10 minutes. About 40 minutes later, they tried again with the ’10 more minutes’ line, but no one believed it. After about another 45 minutes, we finally took off. The late take-off put us in Madrid much later than planned, which threw our whole day off. We were planning to dump our stuff at the hotel and go into the city to see a few things at the Prado (J particularly wanted to see Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights). This was before we realized that getting to the hotel would take the better part of the day, even though it was only a mile or two from the airport as the crow flies.
View Larger Map

We should have taken a cab, but we’re hardened public transport users who are used to efficient(ish) London systems. But after a tube, and a tube, and a tube, and a tube, and a bus, and a long walk to the hotel, we began to wish we had given in and spent the extra money on a cab. M was feeling very poorly at this point so we decided to forego any trips into the city for a quiet evening in the hotel. The hotel is very nice – it’s like an apartment complex, and our ‘room’ is actually a one-bedroom flat with a living room and a kitchen. It looks like they finished building it maybe last week. J started to think about making dinner but discovered that the lovely new kitchen has absolutely nothing in it – no utensils, no plates, no cups, no pots and pans. We learned that for 4.50 we could rent a key that unlocks a small cabinet supposedly filled with cooking utensils. The desk clerk kindly pointed out that this would be silly as, being a Sunday, there was nowhere open to buy anything to cook anyways. J began wishing for a SuperTarget and trying to value the European charm of every useful thing being closed on Sundays. M moped about being ill. A good time was had by all. We finally found some dinner (in its loosest sense) at the local mall, which was full of exciting stores selling things we never knew we needed, like a child-sized Roman centurion costume. Of course, they weren’t really selling these things, since it was Sunday, but you know what I mean. We came back to the hotel and watched a somewhat strange Texan man teach English lessons on the television (did you ever thing about how many different meanings the word ‘fair’ has?) and hoped that tomorrow would be more fun. Michael arrives today, and we seriously hope she got the text message about the cab. We’ll see what today holds!

Torists

Last week was the second week of my Easter break. As avid greenies and one time Mists of Avalon enthusiasts, Glastonbury, the epicentre of both hardcore environmentalism and woo-woo spirituality in this country, seemed a perfect destination.  So we packed our bags and boarded a bus to Bristol, where we caught the Somerset local bus to Glastonbury.

The Tor

Glastonbury is out of this world, in many ways. Whatever your religious stripe, it is a place rich with mystery and sacredness. And whatever your religious stripe, in Glastonbury there is someone trying to capitalize on it.  Christian? Why not buy water from the well of Joseph of Arimathea? Pagan? Why not buy water from the well of Ceridwen? Buddhist? For a nominal fee you can meditate next to the sacred well of Avalon?

As JJ said, Glastonbury is light. Another place full of mystery is Savannah, Georgia. But in Savannah is dark. It’s full of ghosts and voodoo and you might get mugged. Glastonbury is light-it’s full of hippies and energy healers and you might get hugged.

The roots of Christianity in Britain were laid in Glastonbury. According to legend, Joseph of Arimathea, Mary’s dad, came to England with his nephew, Jesus. Thus the inspiration for William Blake’s hymn, Jerusalem;
“And did those feet in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green….” Then Joseph, after his imprisonment by the Romans, following Christ’s death, brought the Holy Grail to Glastonbury. He also planted some “Holy Thorn” trees, when he stuck his staff in the ground, which according to legend only flower at Easter and Christmas.

From Glastonbury Abbey

Glastonbury also has some ties to Merlin and King Arthur, the Christian King who was almost certainly a pagan. The monks at the Glastonbury Abbey supposedly discovered the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere, although the discovery coincided rather fortuitously, suspiciously even, with a funding campaign following fire damage to the monastery. It’s where Arthur was taken after his last battle and where Excaliber was forged.

The Ruins of Glastonbury Abbey

The area was the Isle of Avalon, meaning isle of apples, for at one time it was an island surrounded by marshy fen stretching to the Bristol channel. In fact, such and island of sacred mystical creatures exists in just about every Indo-European myth.

The first stop on our tour was the Somerset Museum of rural life. Here they have a whimsical assortment of rusty antiquated farm equipment and household wares. JJ was excited to find rag rugs made a hundred years ago in the same way she made her own. We were thrilled to discover a Singer sewing machine and the world’s oldest bread maker. There were all manner of Victorian kitchen gadgets-a sugar cutter for cutting of bits of your sugar oblisk, a bottle jack which turned your meat in front of the fire, like a rotisserie.

Victorian Bread Making Contraption

We chased some chickens about and saw the barn which was once the barn belonging to Glastonbury Abbey, where the community’s wheat was stored.

Then we trundled off to the Abbey proper. On the way we noticed this…

When we entered the ruined Abbey, an otherworldly mist hung about the place. In the distance we could see the Tor up on the hill, but was we walked toward it, it disappeared. We wandered among the ruins. The mist hid everything of the living modern present, and we were enveloped in the timeless ruins.

The Mists of Avalon

Our little Bed and Breakfast was the most sincere, charming, and eccentric little place at the foot of the Tor. It was called Berachah, and it is run by a lady who does “color healing.” Berachah according to the Welsh architect means “Place of Blessing” in Sufi, and is obviously related to the Hebrew Beracha. It was formerly the temple of an occult mystic writer Dion Fortune. We stayed in the Lilac room, which was lovely.

Silk Painting by the Guest House Owner

The owners give guests the run of a lovely little living room, garden, and a kitchen stocked with all you need to make a vegetarian junk-food breakfast. We also has a little kitchen en suite to our little lilac room. It was quite sweet. The living room had a little cast iron stove for the winter, big comfy sofas, and bookshelves stocked with books about mystic Christianity, color therapy, astrology, Buddhism, Dion Fortune, gardening, Kabbalah and a few copies of Vogue. Weird. There was also a piano, a guitar and a glass chess set. We could have spent the whole vacation in the living room playing chess and harnessing our Qi, but “England’s pleasant pastures” called to us.

A Sample of the B&B Library

We headed out on a dusky trot through the verdant pastures at the foot of the Tor, and watched the sun set over Avalon.

The next day we awoke at 5. After a hasty breakfast of cereal (which we never eat at home because it is “reconstituted corn slurry” and deadly) and tea, we hiked up the the steep steps to the Tor. We reached to top in the light of dawn and were greeted by the most amazing vistas.

St. Michael's at Dawn

Then we climbed down and went back to bed.

After second breakfast of eggs, toast, and baked beans (which we never eat at home, because they’re full Bisphenol A and delicious) we crossed the street to visit the Chalice Wells, the ancient sacred wells of Glastonbury, now housed in a gorgeous garden. Here we found peace and many pretty flowers. I had a big nap amid the daisies and clover.

JJ with carcinogen-free water bottle to collect holy water

Ommmmm Zzzzzzzzzzz

We spent some time during the afternoon perusing the various emporiums hawking pentacles, organic produce, Hindu god knick-knacks, and incense, but it all got a bit depressing after a bit. So we bought ourselves a little picnic food and went and munched in the grass by the Chalice Wells until it was time to catch the bus home.

Our bus home was full of Somerset natives (Somersettians?) who “awl spowk loik the Archers, a reh-dio prow-grahm aboot Zomerzet farmers.”

As they say in all sincerity in Somerset, “Cheerio!”

Last Mango in Paris

After our day at the Louvre, we went back to our lovely hotel. Then JJ went to the French pharmacist. There she purchased all sorts of homeopathic snake oils which are only available in France.  Then she went to the supermarket and bought baguettes, salamis, cheese, lychees (the French are really big on lychees) and a bottle of wine.

When she returned to the hotel, we had a little picnic on our balcony and spent the evening, bundled up in our hats and scarves, watching the goings on in the lively Merais beneath.

We <3 picnics!

"I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles"

At some point during the evening I took off my shoes on the balcony. When I awoke the next morning I found them full of rainwater. Luckily I had wool socks, because we did a lot of walking that day.

A Mural in Le Merais

First we went to the Catacombs. The Catacombs are a vast network of tunnels out of which the stone that built Paris was once quarried. At some point during the nineteenth century the Parisians experienced repeated outbreaks of disease, the suspected source of which it was believed were the numberous cemeteries around the city. And so the Parisians dug up their dead, and carted the thousands of remains down into the disused quarries. Here the remains were respectfully arranged and a chapel built where masses could be said for the dead.

Facilis est descensus Averni

One might expect that entering the Catacombs would be a grisly  experience. It is undeniably grim, but not for the reasons one might imagine. One quickly become accustomed to the presence of thousands upon thousands of human bones around oneself. What is irksome is the 200 meters between oneself and daylight. There is little light and even less air. It is more than a place of death-it is a place where life is completely absent. Nothing lives down there, not even rats or moss growing on the damp stone. The tenuousness of existence clings to one’s mind, when one is dependent entirely on a few flimsy electric light bulbs, a weak air conditioning system and nineteenth-century masonry.

It is a solemn place, but by no means sad. When you see all around you the masses of humanity that once inhabited the world of the living, you realize who created our modern world. We laud the names of great architects, patrons, engineers and visionaries. But really it was this sea of humanity-weavers, sawyers, nuns, smiths, bakers, theives, landlords, millers, mothers, and all the rest-who, by simply living their daily lives, built our civilization. Like the left-overs of a raucous banquet, these are the remains of the vitality out of which Paris was built, as surely as it was built from the quarried stones.

We were very glad when we finally came out the otherside.

We spend the rest of the day wandering le Merais. Paris, it is always said, is the best place for shopping in the entire world. It was half-way through the day, before we remembered WE HATE SHOPPING. We did get caught in a terrible downpour and so sheltered under the awning of a cafe, drinking coffees and watching the world beyond. Tres European.

The little cafe where we took shelter

The odd little gas station across the street

Before leaving Paris we were determined to have a proper French meal. We discovered a little restraunt called Les Philosophes. Here we blindly ordered the specail of the day, because it was all we could manage in French. We were not disappointed however. It turned out to be a lovely meat (pork?) with some yummy mashed vegetables (potatoes and swedes?) and a simply gorgeous dessert-a rich eggy cheesecake, with a mango and passionfruit sauce. Wow.

JJ in Le Merais

Then we headed North to Gare duNord where we got on a train, and came home to England.

High Art or Art High?

The Louvre. How can one summarize such a vast catalogue of man’s incessant straining to incarnate the beauty that a sunset or a peony achieve effortlessly? It is the best museum in the world for its colossal collection will tell you volumes, not only about art, but also about history, religion, morality, sexuality, love, truth and cosmopolitan manners. If every work of art is a window into a human soul, then in that place you can find laid out before you a cacophanous throng of genius.

Everything's up to date in Kansas City: Check out the whacky column elevator.

Who can fail to be inspired? Many appear to accomplish this seemingly impossible feat, however. Among the profanum vulgus it seems there are so many souls that are “too langorous to thrill out of self consciousness into rapture,” to quote George Elliot. All around are crowds, jostling to see a work, take a picture and move on.  A couple of centuries ago the jeunesse d’or of Europe traveled to the centres of culture on the grand tour, in order to put the icing on their cake of education (mmmmmm knowledge). Now the grand tour is a ritual that has lost its underlying meaning.People see things to see them, without the intention of feeling anything about them or learning anything from them.

Part of this is the conundrum of living in the age of mechanical reproduction. There are so many ubiquitous “beauties.” Like those “beautiful” women in advertisements that all look the same, because our culture so narrowly defines “beauty.” Thus they hold none of the power of real beauty, for nothing so humdrum could ever engender exaltation. So it is with great works of art, and with Paris itself, really. We have always already known them through mechanical reproductions, and have been told they are “beautiful.” How then are we to be inspired by the presence of the real thing? In the way that recorded music has squashed our natural musicality, so too has the photograph preempted the joy of seeing.

Having said that, looking on the Venus de Milo and the Nike of Samothrace sets the heart racing and the spirit soaring. I’ve not included a picture of either, because mechanical reproductions will never have the same effect. I have however included a picture of the stairs at the Nike’s feet. An Art History professor of mine once experienced Stendhal’s syndrome whilst ascending these very stairs and beholding the winged victory. The moment of wild bliss caused her to faint, tumble down the marble stairs and break a leg.This is for you, Dr. Sadler.

Ah! Boom boom boom boom!

Another perplexing conundrum of the age of mechanical reproduction is the permenant state of living in the past in the future that is created by those people who live always with their cameras in front of their faces. They see all through the lens of a camera. So, they never look at life, in the present, right in front of them. Instead they capture it all, to experience it all later through their digitally recorded memories.  At some point you stop having a life and become a self-licking ice cream cone, documenting your experience to the extent that you don’t experience anything.

Who holds the leash?

The best bits of the Louvre are the obscure bits that no one really wants to see. These are not crowded and house pieces of art you’ve never seen before, some bizarre, some arresting, and some downright tacky. So much art is like a written language for which man has lost the key. We had a riotous giggle looking at these.

Louis XIV: His face seems to suggests that he knows exactly how silly he looks in that getup.

Or maybe he can see these two across the room...

Detail of La Sibylle de Tibur by Antoine Caron: lactating fountains! These Romans are crazy!

Joseph and Mary do "the Hustle"!

Bah! There's snakes in my cup!

Dude, that looks painful! (Check out the dude in the tight red pants in the background for extra laughs)

Funniest Ascension Ever

Holy Trinity from Provence, around the 15th Century: Whose hand is that in the top right corner???

Dead Cat: I like to think Gericault painted it as a memento mori for his feline: "As I am, so shall you be" if you don't stop yeowling!

Wha?????

Nom!

Joan of Arc: What's that God? Put on the armour? Ok.

Stuff stolen from Italy during Napoleon III's invasion...

In Vino Veritas

In Seine

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the spring of hope. It was the winter of despair. Paris was a trip.

We got on the Eurostar at 6.30AM (GMT) after another night bus Odyssey across London. The Eurostar is superb transport. It takes you from the middle of London to the middle of Paris (eliminating the trek out to the airport), without all the stress of going through rigorous security and then being hurtled thousands of feet into the air to be exposed to all kinds of radiation. And it’s greener than flying.

The train dropped us off at Gare du Nord in North Paris, and we gleefully trotted off to our nearby hotel to drop off our luggage. Our walk took us through the most intriguing neighborhood. The streets were lined with Restaurants Indiens,  shops selling sari fabric, and bouchers musulmans (which hopefully refers to the religious persuasion of the employees and not the wares). How strange to go to all the trouble of leaving England to find yourself in the middle of Tooting*.

On arrival the hotel seemed small and cheap, but then it was a two star hotel, and we hadn’t expected much.  We blithely left our possessions, and excitedly headed out toward the Montemarte. It now seems to be our habit when touring a city to first find stairs to the highest point in the city and climb them immediately.

We spent a few hours perambulating about the Montmarte, a charming and quaint, if aggressively touristy part of the city, with the Moulin Rouge at its foot. At lunch we dined in a little cafe, with words of such illustrious artistes, as Kate Bush, Vanilla Ice and the Charlie Daniels Band scrawled across the wall. In addition to featuring good food and service, this cafe also had a most interesting solution to the eternal bathroom dilemma. We had a great time, and thought: “Paris is going to be swell.”

And this is what we thought right up to the moment we saw our hotel room. After lunch we went to check in properly at the Hotel Meryll. As, we trundled around to the elevator it became apparent that the building was under renovation. “Fair enough,” said M, “It probably needs it.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems pretty sketchy.” Then we found the smallest elevator we had ever seen. “Fair enough,” said M, “At least they have one in this old building.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems pretty sketchy.” We took the elevator up to the fourth floor and found our little Parisian garret room. It was a tiny room two-story  room with a spiral staircase up to a little loft with beds and a window that looked out at Sacré Cœr. The television and heater were plugged into a single extension cord which hung from the slanting ceiling, the only outlet on the second floor. It smelled stale and the heater didn’t work. “Fair enough,” said M, “It’s funky and charming. We’ll ask them how to turn on the heating.” “I don’t know,” said J, “Seems VERY sketchy.”

So we went out to see the sights of Paris. Sometimes you really need to go abroad to discover the glory of home. An example of this is the Paris Metro. It is dirty and infested by obnoxious teenagers, the trains are ancient and tiny, the maps are indecipherable, and the routes are unwieldy. God bless our lovely Underground.

But I digress. We wandered around the Ile d’Cité, taking in Notre Dame. J was delighted and M perplexed to find a chapel to Our Lady of Guadalupe, complete with Mexican flags, in one of the North Aisle of the Cathedral. It was getting dark as we left Notre Dame and we set our sights on seeing la Tour Eiffel by night.

So we set off on a march down the south bank of the Seine. Numerous times on our gruelling hike we stopped at a cafe for refreshment only to leave promptly upon being handed a menu that priced a cup of coffee at €4.60, only to finally arrive, too exhausted to protest, at the establishment that serves the €5 cup of coffee. Not special coffee. Not served by an albino rhinoceros. Just a cup of coffee.

Apparently there was a manifestation pro-Palestinian at some point during the afternoon (or so we managed to glean from some very cute if non-English-speaking cops), and the streets were lined with a battalion of armoured cop cars, full of riot-geared bazooka-toting policiers. We finally arrived at the foot of the big steel albatross. It looked exactly like it did in all the pictures, and was slightly more exciting than the daily shipping forecast.

Dejected, exhausted, and hungry we returned to the north. This was when we discovered the true character of our neighborhood. Gangs of menacing youths loitered in the train station. A small band of Catholics were serving soup to a crowd of homeless people under the eaves of the station. Drunk men fought in the street. All around were neon pink signs advertising “Sex,” the tawdry remnants of the once recherche Parisian tart scene. Fearing for our safety, we hastily purchased a baguette and cheese from an épicier, and raced to the relative safety of the hotel.

The night host at the desk was sweet but incompetent and could not make the heater work. He moved us downstairs to a room that smelled like cat pee, with a disintegrating mattress, and gray mold growing on the ceiling. “Oh well,” said M, “At least we’re warm, and safe, and can rest.” Then the electricity went off.

The fellow at the desk managed to turn it back on, but it kept going off periodically throughout the night. We spent a restless night, sleeping with one eye open in case the building should catch fire, a riot break out in the street, or the fumes of the renovation begin poisoning us.

Breakfast was as you might imagine, with nearly fossilized baguettes and a grossier breakfast lady who snarled, “un croissant, un person,” with all the smugness of the Soup Nazi, when we dared approach her for a replacement.

And so we prematurely checked out of the Hotel Meryll, assuring the staff we would be contacting their manager in true American fashion, and booked ourselves a night in a nice hotel in le Marais. Once at our clean, lovely, hotel, in the lovely if über touristy neighborhood, we were nearly kissing the ground with joy. The host at the desk was so chatty and accommodating, and we were given a room with a balcony overlooking the Rue de Rivoli.

From here we set off for the Louvre, where we took in the world’s great art until we were giddy and perhaps slightly high.

To be continued…

*South London neighborhood with a large Pakistani and Indian population.