Seeing Les Miserables one Saturday night in London with my dad was the perfect entree to my weekend getaway to Paris. Not that there was revolution in the air, or unrequited love, pursuits of prisoners or the rescue of orphans, but its antithesis - food, shopping, wine and carousing down the banks of the Seine.
With my dad in Europe for business meetings, and my sister staying in my little flat for a work conference, it was perfect timing to enjoy an autumn in Paris, and a great excuse to take off a Friday to take a long weekend. I couldn't have asked for a nicer start to my mini-holiday. A very civilised lunch in a local cafe with a very patient waiter - where triumphantly I ended up ordering herring (that was the only thing I could find in our tiny tourist dictionary) and a piece of porc. Then, a ride along the clackety metro taking us straight to the Eiffel Tower where my sister and I prodded my long-suffering dad into climbing the Eiffel Tower by foot. Funnily enough Dad did very well - we powered past some rather unfit people as they clutched the railing, panting for breath. Dad did get tired though, and we left him at the first level.
But it was all the way to the top for the rest of us. Having been to the top of the Tower before, I had seen it all before, but I did marvel at how beautiful Paris was, admiring the trees turning their colours in the cool autumn afternoon. A walk to the Arc de Triomph and a stroll along the Champs Elysees perfected a cruisy afternoon. I was however, very pleased to be able to do some shopping along the Champs Elysees. The first shop I entered I found a great duffle coat. Having searched the globe for a duffle jacket that would fit my rather skinny frame for the past 2 years, I knew I wanted the coat once I put it on, twirling in front of the mirrors. Another guy, stopped to look at me and my twirling and immediately put on the same jacket as I was wearing. We looked at each other and knew that the jacket was the goods. We both ended up buying the jacket, and wearing it out of the shop. Mutual validation - you should try it sometime.
Dinner was going to be the death of me. Having continued to snack on coffees and pastries all day, I continued on my path of gluttony with soup, duck and a very rich creme brulee. It was a rather uncomfortable night later as I lay in bed, a days worth of food churning in my stomach. But it was well worth it after months of eating supermarket sandwiches. Poor me.
The next day dawned with an early morning kwa-sson so we could beat the early morning crowds at the Notre Dame cathedral. We spent a little bit more money to go into the Cathedral's treasury where we saw a few of the more precious items on display, including the robes worn by one of the monsignors hundreds of years ago. I've always found cathedrals to be relaxing places (sans rude tourists taking flash pictures while people are in the middle of a prayer), and it was nice to take a moment to light a candle and think and reflect.
This rather mild form of contemplation continued on at the Musee D'Orsay with its excellent collection of contemporary art. I enjoyed seeing the Van Gogh collection again, and my sister, dad and I picked our favourite pictures so that we might buy some prints later. After a couple of hours however, the return on investment had its margins slashed (read: we got sick of art and wanted to eat lunch and go shopping) and on leaving, found that dad & sister had been to the gift shop and bought me a print which I had been wanting to get for a long time. Tres happy!
The rest of the afternoon was spent moseying through Parisian boutiques, ending up at the Galarie Lafayette - an enormous but very glitzy department store which on that day wasn't glitzy at all but completely packed out with hoardes of shoppers. Admittedly we did drop a few euros on some rather nice clothes here and there (well, the main beneficiary being my sister) but it was all good fun trying on the designer labels and making myself feel all ooh la la.
Voila.
On our final day of Paris we headed off to Versailles where we wanted to visit the Palace. An hour's drive netted us a big disappointment when we saw the line to get in to the Palace which we estimated to be at least a 2 hour wait. We decided against it given that time was against us and headed into the city centre where a very cute old little lady directed us to the centre and told us to visit the markets.
I am usually not a fan of markets, but it was quite fun to see the cakes, the cheese and all the fresh produce. I scored a bottle of red wine to bring back with me and a loaf of olive bread to bring back on the Eurostar home. But our Paris trip wasn't quite complete without a quick visit to an outlet shopping centre in suburban Paris (well, "outlet" is a bit too cheap a way to describe it given the first cab off the rank was Burberry, closely followed by Bally and then Ferragamo). There was some more twirling, and I scored a cool pair of Campers and a couple of designer ties for bargain prices. Go me.
However, as we soon found out we weren't going anywhere on the freeway back to central Paris for our train home to London. Stuck in a monumental traffic jam, we sweated and chewed our fingernails for 2 hours as we inched forward, killing us slowly with anxiety. We made it - just - after fighting through the chaos of everyone wanting to take the last 2 trains back to London. With a stamp at French immigration, a stamp at British immigration - we were off!
Only to arrive back to London and find ourselves in a massive queue for cabs. I have never been in a Black Cab before, and I don't think I will take another go after watching the spiralling meter chew through all my pounds. The cab driver laughed at me when I told him that I took the night bus rather than a cab - well, he should bloody well know how expensive it was.
The next day I dispatched my sister off to Heathrow with her suitcase in peak hour chaos - she was not a fan of London public transport having been jostled and pushed around on the trains. Having fought my way on to the Tube with her suitcase, I turned around and found my sister standing forlornly on the platform, people hustling her out of the way - like sharks circling fresh (tourist) blood. Needless to say, someone's poor brother had to haul his sister onto the Tube before she got left behind.
Just one final note to satisfy my ego. I won a reward and recognition award from the head of the Strategy Development and Projects Division for my suporting work on a few projects. Was a bit embarrassed, but pleased all the same. I ges I can spel and speek propa inglish arfta orl.
Onwards and upwards (to the top!)
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Thursday, 25 October 2007
the train journey
I usually love train journeys. There's the stressless boarding of trains without the security checks, the fact that you can watch the countryside roll past, and the chance to wander up and down the carriages to stretch your legs.
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.
Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.
Impressed, I was not.
Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.
I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?
Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?
Friday, 12 October 2007
the bright side of life
In the tearoom at work, someone has put up a list of suggestions for the national motto for Great Britain. The increasing number of scrawled lines include
"always look on the bright side of life"
"we apologise for the delay"
"i do not believe it"
"please complete this in triplicate, sign in all indicated places and initial all signatures"
"mustn't grumble"
"yeah?"
The list continues with lessening humour and wit. I however, was drawn to the motto of always looking on the bright side of life. For example, this morning while walking in the rain I unwittingly stepped in some doggie do, for when i got to work, there was a god-awful smell while sitting at my desk, and I wondered to myself having had a shower, and wearing a new shirt, whether I had sweated that much in on the train journey. Nevertheless, I found the offending shoe and cleaned it - simply by going outside and walking around in the puddles. Brilliant. No hike to the nearest park necessary.
I had a rather nice weekend actually, ending up in Covent Garden twice to gawk at the tourists. Covent Garden is actually quite a nice area to have a coffee, and there are markets (which I usually hate) and nice shops and a couple of nice cafes as well. Over the course of the weekend I have had 2 coffees (although, they don't do flat whites here. The sacrilege!), a chocolate eclair, and a piece of pie in a patisserie.
Just on patisseries. Albeit a Chinese one. A little Chinese cake shop has sprung up on the edges of Chinatown. It is the type of shop which brings you back to when you were 8 years old, begging your mum to buy more cakes, when she has already filled a little box with the cakes and pastries you wanted. The type of shop that inevitably brings a smile to any bitter and twisted old man. The type of shopfront where you stand with your nose pressed against the dirty window or linger in the doorway for a moment of warmth. The type of shop with custard tarts, swiss rolls, sesame balls and pineapple buns lining the windows, drawing you in with its temptations of deja vu.
These of course are a few of my favourite things.
It's going to be a busy next few weeks. I'm off to Leeds to watch the Scottish National Orchestra, then the following week my Dad arrives in town for work. And for sheer timing, my sister also arrives the same week for a conference. At the end of October, I am taking a long weekend off and will take my sister with me to Paris where we will meet Dad. Let me indulge myself for a moment as I contemplate a vision of me wandering around Montmartre in the cool autumn twilight, searching for the perfect coffee and French patisserie.
Now that is the bright side of life.
"always look on the bright side of life"
"we apologise for the delay"
"i do not believe it"
"please complete this in triplicate, sign in all indicated places and initial all signatures"
"mustn't grumble"
"yeah?"
The list continues with lessening humour and wit. I however, was drawn to the motto of always looking on the bright side of life. For example, this morning while walking in the rain I unwittingly stepped in some doggie do, for when i got to work, there was a god-awful smell while sitting at my desk, and I wondered to myself having had a shower, and wearing a new shirt, whether I had sweated that much in on the train journey. Nevertheless, I found the offending shoe and cleaned it - simply by going outside and walking around in the puddles. Brilliant. No hike to the nearest park necessary.
I had a rather nice weekend actually, ending up in Covent Garden twice to gawk at the tourists. Covent Garden is actually quite a nice area to have a coffee, and there are markets (which I usually hate) and nice shops and a couple of nice cafes as well. Over the course of the weekend I have had 2 coffees (although, they don't do flat whites here. The sacrilege!), a chocolate eclair, and a piece of pie in a patisserie.
Just on patisseries. Albeit a Chinese one. A little Chinese cake shop has sprung up on the edges of Chinatown. It is the type of shop which brings you back to when you were 8 years old, begging your mum to buy more cakes, when she has already filled a little box with the cakes and pastries you wanted. The type of shop that inevitably brings a smile to any bitter and twisted old man. The type of shopfront where you stand with your nose pressed against the dirty window or linger in the doorway for a moment of warmth. The type of shop with custard tarts, swiss rolls, sesame balls and pineapple buns lining the windows, drawing you in with its temptations of deja vu.
These of course are a few of my favourite things.
It's going to be a busy next few weeks. I'm off to Leeds to watch the Scottish National Orchestra, then the following week my Dad arrives in town for work. And for sheer timing, my sister also arrives the same week for a conference. At the end of October, I am taking a long weekend off and will take my sister with me to Paris where we will meet Dad. Let me indulge myself for a moment as I contemplate a vision of me wandering around Montmartre in the cool autumn twilight, searching for the perfect coffee and French patisserie.
Now that is the bright side of life.
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