Paris 3: Juju and Me
I don’t have a funny name for this one like I did with the last. The unfortunate thing about naming a sequel “________ 2: Electric Boogaloo” is that it doesn’t lend itself to a trilogy. I’ll brainstorm with my friends on arrival. They’re a fairly witty bunch, and I know Niamh in particular has a penchant for naming.
Well, I’m currently stood in the queue to board my flight to Paris, which is delayed by 40 minutes. I’ve spent that extra time productively I must say, by working on my teaching course and buying juliette a vintage yellow city shirt as a thank you for letting me complete the trilogy. The shirt is really quite tasteful, in a tacky way: it has that gritty, 90s Manchester aesthetic and it demands a bucket hat. I’m excited to make Juliette strut her stuff about Paris in Mancunian bloke core whilst I wear outfits I’ve painstakingly designed with sophisticated Parisien in mind. I’ll include some pictures later on.
I’m excited for my four day excursion for a number of reasons that go beyond the obvious fact of visiting the city of love. First, I’ve not seen Juliette in over a year; the last time was during her final year at Lancaster, where we met. I stopped by, as I was wont to do, on my way back to Manchester from St Andrews, which brings me to my second reason. Four (I think) of my friends from St Andrews are arriving in Paris tomorrow as the final stop on their Euro trip which has seen them move from Berlin to Austria to Budapest to here. I’ve been to none of those places, so I’m keen to hear their opinions. Anyway, the logistics of their trip explain my random mid-May holiday that has so dismayed my idiotic supervisor at work. I’m killing two birds with one stone, but here the birds are cherished friends and the action of killing them with a stone is visiting them in one of my favourite places. I don’t think I could kill a bird, I’ve grown very fond of them recently. Listening and watching out for the parakeets of Manchester has meant I've been noticing how elegant they are. Birds of prey are my favourite, obviously, though I feel that’s such a beginner bird-watcher opinion to express, so I’ll keep it to myself if I ever meet a pro.
I’m on the plane now. I didn’t bring a book unfortunately, so I’ll have to spend the flight listening to music. Ideally, I’d finish the rest of my course stuff, but I need wifi, so I’ll have to do it at Juliette’s house :(. I also have to plan a lesson I'm delivering Thursday night whilst I’m here, which is extremely peak. What can you do though?
I’ll give some more context for the trip, since I’ve nothing better to do for the moment. Please skip this paragraph if you’re not interested in what is entirely too much background information. There isn’t a great deal of context to give for mine and Juliette’s relationship as I’ve documented it pretty extensively over the years. We met on the first day of uni at Lancaster and almost immediately became best friends. Since then, we’ve remained close despite the fact that we’ve only spent 2 of the past 5 years living in the same country. She’s one of those people that you see after a while and warm up to again very quickly, so I hope things follow their usual routine. On top of that, I’m meeting her girlfriend of two years for the first time this week, which I’m excited for. In terms of the St Andrews mates, I’ll start with Marshall since I’m closest to him of bunch. Marshall and I met by virtue of him being my high school friend Eliah’s housemate at St Andrews. Over the course of my year there, we became effectively inseparable as he supported me through a tough break up and I offered a sympathetic perspective to his endless frustrations with life due to my exhibition of high functioning autistic traits nearly identical to his. Marshall is the smartest person I know and uncannily like me (see: smartest person I know), the primary differences being our physical build, fashion sense and nationality (he’s a Texan, or so he says). Anyone who read my road trip travel writing knows all of this, but if you’re new then this might help you understand whatever’s to come. I’ll quickly deal with Marshall’s girlfriend Irene, who I adore but haven’t spent nearly as much time with as the others. Irene, I don’t doubt, terrifies Marshall daily by demonstrating that he might be dating someone more intelligent than him. She’s a philosophy student that spends every moment of her life wearing a black leather duster and who has the driest, most dead pan sense of humour of anyone I’ve met. She cracks me up endlessly. Moving onto Jake: Jake is Marshall’s current housemate and another close friend of mine from my year in Scotland. Jake is a gay man with no legs from the knee down and a number of missing digits on each hand. Jake is also the twin brother of Hollywood actress Sophia Lillis. These are Jake’s least interesting qualities. He’s also twink-Prince-Charming handsome, staunchly confident in his wit, a dispassionate art scholar and a passionate complainer. Jake and Marshall clash constantlyly because Jake loves to complain and Marshall, despite knowing he’s mainly joking, can’t quite take his complaints as a joke due to him being fairly autistic. I’ve heard from an inside source (ALFIE, ALFIE IT WAS ALFIE, ALFIE TOLD ME) that the pair have clashed a little on this trip, which is to be expected. I hope an injection of energy from myself, a new face in Juliette and immense tension elsewhere (which I’ll elaborate presently) will tear them from each others throats for the duration of their time in Europe. I fear my relationship with the third friend, Niamh, will provide the aforementioned tension elsewhere. Niamh is Jake’s best friend and a close (I hope) friend of mine. We became friends at St Andrews, bonding over a shared love of literature and music enjoyed by the worst people you know (think Alex G, Elliot Smith, the Catcher in the Rye etc.). Niamh is searingly intelligent, very funny and completely unafraid to make you aware of both of those things at the same time. Niamh and I had an unspoken but widely observed crush on one another throughout the year, though neither of us acted on it because it never seemed to be the right time (at least that’s my perspective). Anyway, the last time I saw her was for Marshall’s birthday in January, after which I tried to subtly/ unsubtly bust a move by offering to walk her home. I did not walk her home and we haven’t spoken since, which I’m thinking is a case of causation rather than coincidental correlation. Niamh now has a boyfriend for the first time, who I thought was going to be accompanying the gang to Paris. I don’t think that’s the case now, which is ideal for the sole reason that it gives me a proper chance to clear the air. I’d very much like to do that because she’s rather dear to me as a friend. If my olive branch extension is a success, I’ll leave this section in the blog. If not, I’ll probably send it to Marshall for him to have a retrospective giggle at. There’s another girl with them called Olivia, though I can’t say I know much about her beyond that. I’m sure she’s lovely, but my attitude to new people is well documented on this website.
Well that essay about sets the scene. I’ll go back to my music for the duration of the flight. Oh, one note: there’s a kid a few seats ahead of me wearing a sunflower lanyard to let people know he’s autistic. The lanyard is a little superfluous because he’s spent the duration of the flight thus far slamming his head into the headrest over and over again. I’m not at all implying this is funny, but I think it’s important to give a true account of what I do and what I see. It is funny, though.
I’ve decided, on the recommendation of my friend Michael, to listen to “Strangeways here we come” by The Smiths. The current song is called “girlfriend in a coma.” God- it’s no surprise they’re so easy to make fun of, but that’s entirely the point. Even if he doesn’t know he's the most insufferable man alive, Morrisey is entirely aware that his music is quite silly. Mike said that the best song on the album is called “Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before” and he’s dead right. I’m listening to it now and man’s it’s good. “Nothing’s changed, I still love you, oh I still love you, only slightly only slightly less than I used to, my love.” Are you kidding me? Killer.
We landed safely and I’m now transitioning to the train station. The best thing about travelling alone is that I can go at my own pace, which is generally too fast for most people. The worst thing is that if I start walking in the wrong direction, there’s no one to correct me but myself. I’ve just walked 200 metres in the right direction, decided I was wrong, walked back, then realised I was right and headed back again. I still probably did all that quicker than it’d take most people to do the initial 200 metres.
One thing that I notice every time I’m in Paris is that the French are either the worst dressed, greasiest people you’ve ever seen, or the cleanest, most stylish, suave cunts on the planet. There is no in between. Strangely enough, I think I dress exactly the same whenever I’m here. My outfit is either the best or worst thing I’ve ever put on, and I couldn’t tell you which until I’ve had a year, minimum, to reflect on the pictures. As much as I hate on the French, I see a lot of French in me. I’m very stuck up, I’m intensely interested in existential philosophy and romance and I either look like a tosser or a catwalk model, depending on both the day and who exactly you ask.
I’m on the metro now, so I’ll do my obligatory metro rating. It’s alright. I’d say it’s better than the Manchester metro, but lacking the charm of the Boston metro and the efficiency of the bloody tube. It’s always full of characters and hot people though, so I can’t complain too much.
It smells of weed, flares and tear gas. Free Palestine.
As you might be able to tell from the sentence above, I’ve had a pretty full on day thus far. Last night, I arrived at Juliette’s around 11, attempted to give her a high five, missed terribly, then hugged her instead. Then we headed upstairs in the rickety old lift to her beautiful flat, where I finally met her girlfriend, Laura-May. Juliette has known her for years as she’s the cousin of a Lebanese family friend called Natalya (featured in Paris 2). It was soon after Paris 2 that they started dating, and they’ve been crazy about each other ever since. Laura-May is very chatty, with a fairly masculine vibe that’s accentuated when she’s around little Juliette. I only got to spend an hour or so with her, but so far so good.
After catching up for a while, they revealed they’d started watching game of thrones, so I suggested we watch that before bed. It was the episode where Robert Baratheon dies and Cerci turns the royal guard against Ned stark, which is pretty pivotal to the story. The only issue was that it contained a 10 minute lesbian sex scene. Juliette and Laura insisted that it was NOT accurate.
Anyway, we headed to bed after the episode, and I woke up 8 hours later ready to seize the day.
Naturally, we started the day with coffee and baked goods from the bakery downstairs, “Au petit pain.” I had a standard croissant and this delicious cream and chocolate chip thing. Juliette had a pain au chocolate. We came back upstairs and talked about the political and economic state of the world for a while and Juliette suggested we go to a Palestinian protest at 6.30. I agreed and we decided, given that we were protesting in the streets later and had already enjoyed fresh pastries for breakfast, that we’d have to make the rest of the day equally French. The plan was to lazily knock about the centre of Paris, wandering into quaint shops, drinking in quaint bars and eating at our favourite restaurant: “le petit bouillon Pharamond.”
Before that, though, I had to smash out a bit of work for my course, so Juliette retreated to her room to do something and left me to my tasks.
I finished my work, then assembled my first Parisian outfit of the trip: blue wide leg trousers, a white vest and a cream-grey argyle button up sweater vest. It put the boulder shoulders on show whilst also looking sophisticated and European. Juliette approved, just as I approved of her outfit: the vintage city shirt and jeans, with a keffiyeh tied around her waist and a huge gold pendant.
Having readied ourselves for the day, we took the metro to the area of Paris where we planned to grab lunch. Generally during these metro trips I tend to update my writing, but that only works when there’s another person in the group, since they can chat to each other. Unfortunately, this means that my current account has been written entirely on the toilet, as that presents the only opportunity to write whilst the memories are fresh in my mind.
Anyway, when we arrived at the restaurant we were greeted with a giant queue and decided we’d grab a drink somewhere else first. We strolled through the neighbouring streets, popping into vintage stores to fall in love with clothes (mainly leather jackets) then break off the affair after seeing the prices. I forget the name of the bar that we ended up in, but it was very quaint, wooden and nestled into a corner by a number of sex shops, which appear to be everywhere in this neighbourhood. It seems they make most of their money selling Eiffel Tower shaped dildos (at least they acknowledge that the tower looks like a big chopper).
Juliette ordered us two Monacos and we sat outside to people watch. I suggested we play “spot the bisexual,” which is about the easiest game in the world (especially in the city of love), but it does keep you entertained almost indefinitely. While we were playing this game, the heavens opened above us and let loose more rain than I’ve ever seen in Paris. It rained so hard that even when we moved under the shelter of a solid, brick roof, the weight of the rain drops meant that they bounced off the floor and nearby tables and continued to soak us. I thought I’d find Paris a little miserable in the rain, but I really don’t. I told juliette that it feels appropriate for the weather to be more like it usually is than the glorious sunshine I’ve experienced in the past, because this visit isn’t a visit to Paris per se, it’s a visit to Juliette, and I want a glimpse into what her life is like, not a romanticised image of the city she lives in.
Nonetheless, it was really chucking it down, so we waited until it subsided a little to move on. Once the rain stopped, we walked through a covered market (I know, counter-intuitive), where we found a charming little antique store absolutely loaded with old door knobs and other knick-knacks. Charming, that is, until we found two old timey money banks. They were metal sculptures of black men with huge red lips that you feed money to using a lever to control their hands. I had to drag Juliette away from the store because she was adamant that she needed one. I begged her not to buy one, reasoned that they were really quite out of fashion and certainly wouldn’t be a good look with her future kids, but she was certain it’d help her save money. After physically removing her from the store, she got the message.
Our next stop was one of the aforementioned sex shops, as Juliette wanted to buy vibrators for her friends. They’d never owned one, she said, so it was only fair that she open their minds to the concept. Unfortunately, the shop we tried didn’t stock the model she was looking for so, defeated, we moved on.
All the race hate and sexual debauchery seemed to work up an appetite, and we returned to le petit bouillon ready for everything France has to offer. We ordered a glass of red each, a honey Camembert, escargot, steak and roast ham. We seasoned this bountiful meal with conversations about particularly horny sex and some recent dating anecdotes, while the British couple next to us pretended not to hear. The food was as delicious as I remembered and the wine left us sufficiently loosened up for the shouting we were about to start doing.
Juliette’s sister’s best friend had asked her to meet up so we could go to the Palestinian protest together at 6.30. We found after dinner that it was already 6, so we took the metro to Place de la Madeleine to meet them. On arrival, Juliette bought an espresso at a nearby café so that I could go for a pre-protest piss, then we engaged in some keffiyeh spotting with a view to finding the protestors. After a lap of a huge building, we couldn’t seem to find the huge group of angry Parisians we’d expected. This was because the protest had been moved at the last minute, for whatever reason. However, we did find the girl we were supposed to be meeting, so we joined parties and moved towards the new spot in a group that became progressively bigger, like one of those big balls in Agar.io. It became fairly apparent fairly quickly that we were in the right place, as a tumult began to raise over the typical Parisian cacophony. The massive group of heavily armed police also gave it away. A state of emergency was declared in Paris after the Charlie hebdo terrorist attacks nearly ten years ago, and it still hasn’t been rescinded, which means the police have martial powers. How reassuring.
Anyway, Parisian protesters are about as creative as English football fans when it comes to chants, so there were a variety of French phrases that I’d learnt to shout by the end of the demonstration. These included the simple: 'liberez le Palestine, Israel assassins' and 'tout le monde deteste la police.' I don’t think you need a dictionary to translate those, so I’ll leave them there. We spent around two hours chanting and clapping, ten minutes of which Juliette spent on my shoulders, posing for the cameras and trying to start her own chants. Somehow, the atmosphere was as hopeful as it was angry, and the sheer number of people that turned up indicates what a seismic shift in public opinion there has been since October. Indeed, the only thing that dispersed the crowd was the police firing tear gas at everyone. Admittedly, it was nowhere near me, but after a few minutes it’d diffused to such an extent that I couldn’t breathe without covering my mouth. We took it as a sign that two hours was about long enough and headed home, disappointed only with the fact that the planned march on the Israeli embassy didn’t go ahead. Honestly though, that could’ve gotten very messy.
Well, I think I'd better be honest and admit that I didn't have time during or immediately after my trip to Paris to finish writing this. I had a heavy workload for my teaching course, worked the whole weekend after I got back and then took a train to London for another city break the following week. As such, I'm only getting round to finishing my account two weeks after the fact. I hope that's ok with everyone. I'll try my best to be as faithful to reality as I can. Anyway, on the way home from the protest I saved a family of four from a burning building and jumped in front of a car to push a child out of the way. I came away unscathed from both. That was just a little joke. A little Thursday afternoon fun. I didn't do those things at all.
Instead, we went back to Juliette's flat to change before heading to the 19th arrondisment (the name of the neighbourhoods in Paris) to pay a visit to a very cool jazz bar. Juliette did not change, actually, but I opted for wide leg black trousers, black leather boots, a vaguely cropped, almost sheer white long-sleeved t-shirt and Juliette's Dad's black leather jacket, which she kindly offered to me because my beige suede bomber would've killed the fit.
The metro took around 45 minutes as the 19th is on the outskirts of Paris. It's a notoriously dangerous part of town, so I was a little nervous stepping off the platform, but in the thirty second walk from the stop to the bar, we didn't encounter any trouble. The bar is in a derelict old brick building that resembles a large house. It's yellow with half a picture of a girl's face printed on the side, and a crepe stall just outside. The walls inside are covered in graffiti tags and Persian rugs that cover the crumbling paint job and exposed wooden beams. The drinks menu is printed onto a huge blackboard by the bar, which sits next to the entrance and in front of a seating area for watching the band perform. I ordered a pint of 6.7 percent Belgian blonde beer for a price that I don't care to admit, while Juliette opted for a half pint of something a little weaker. The band was pretty great. They were from New York and performed a number of ten minute long original songs involving countless solos from each instrument.
The only issue was that almost everyone in the bar was sat down like an audience rather than a crowd. But for the occasional leg twist by myself and Juliette, nobody was dancing to what was eminently danceable music. I think this was the main reason that, after around thirty minutes of spectating the show, we moved outside to the smoking area to sit on a nice brown leather sofa for a while. It was out here that Laura finally joined us. She'd been busy taking her pet rats to the vet (how Parisian is it to have pet rats, can I just say), and had agreed to join us later in the day once she was ready. We moved back inside once she arrived and stayed for another drink, then decided it'd be for the best to hit the crepe store before the blonde beers caught up with me. The crepe that I bought was significantly wider than my head, and finishing it was a serious challenge. It was tasty, mind you, but a challenge nonetheless. Knowing how big the crepes were, the girls both had burgers, which they seemed fairly happy with.
After that, we took the metro home so we could squeeze in some Game of Thrones before bed. I was really hoping we'd get to the episode in season one where a certain somebody dies (if you know, you know), but unfortunately, this was the last time we all hung out together, never mind watched the show. It will become apparent why fairly soon.
The next morning, we woke up and immediately got dressed. I'd decided not to do any work today, as I hoped I'd be able to do the bulk of it tomorrow on the train to Versailles, which takes an hour each way. So, I slipped into my blue Levis jeans and a blue and yellow striped Yves Saint Lauren rugby shirt that my mum used to horse ride in and I tied a grey Hugo Boss sweater around my shoulders. I looked so cataclysmically posh, but I think you really have to if you want to fit in here. That is, unless you choose to wear the most common outfit in Paris by orders of magnitude: a black leather jacket, black jeans and a black t-shirt. I felt more adventurous than that, so the posh gimp look was my only option.
Over breakfast, I belled Marshall so we could organise finally meeting up. He told me that Irene had had some trouble with her passport at the border and needed to visit the Spanish embassy. Apparently, border control told Irene that her passport had been reported missing, and they insisted this was the case even after she showed them that her passport was very much not missing and very much in her hand. Anyway, he said they needed to spend the morning and early afternoon tending to that mess to ensure Irene could actually leave the country, but that afterwards he'd like to meet us at a Café called Deux Magots, famous for being the place where Camus and Sartre would meet to discuss existentialism. Obviously that sounded like my wet dream, so I agreed. I suggested that after that, we visit Shakespeare and Company book store, which was famous for being the stomping ground of the modernists, most notably Ernest Hemmingway and James Joyce, whose magnum opus Ulysses was published for the first time by the bookstore's patron. We agreed that we'd meet later in the evening to go to a famous Jazz bar called Cave au la Huchette upon Juliette's recommendation. She promised that there would be far more dancing at this bar than the previous one, and I was simply itching to dance.
While talking to Marshall, I attempted to liase with Jake and Niamh so that we could meet for coffee in the morning, since they had no obligation to accompany Irene to the embassy and were planning to spend some time museum hopping, which happened to be Juliette and I's plan. I was pretty gassed to see that Jake responded to my text inviting him for lunch saying that they'd love to, and I extended an invitation to the jazz bar too. In the end, this was the extent of our text conversation, as Jake stopped replying after that. This meant that we couldn't organise meeting for lunch, which gave me the sneaky suspicion that his agreement was primarily lip service. Now, I know Jake saw my message because when we made our way to the jazz bar many hours later, we found him, Niamh and Olivia outside. Honestly, it bummed me out quite a lot. There's not much more you can do to make an effort to see people than fly to Paris at the same time they're there. I tried my best- what you can do?
I'm exaggerating, to be honest, because Juliette and I had a fantastic day in spite of this little hiccup. We started our day with two baguettes. A beginning as good as any.
Then, to really get the ball rolling, we [REDACTED] up in the Tuliers Gardens by the Louvre as a sort of pre-amble to visiting the Musee de l'Orangerie, a collection of impressionist paintings that Juliette insists rivals even the Orsay. Most importantly, Monet's water-lilies are on show there in a 360 degree display room. Needless to say, I was very excited. However, on arrival, we found that the museum happens to be closed on Tuesdays. Just Tuesdays. For some reason. FUCK. This was more than a little annoying, and we had to think on our feet to find a solution to this irritating curveball whilst in the state we'd gotten ourselves into with a view to looking at impressionism all morning. We decided we'd do the Orsay again, since I loved it so much the first time, but this time only look at the impressionism so that we could make it on time to meet Marshall once he was free. So, we strolled across the gardens and over the Seine to the Orsay. On arrival, we were faced with yet another curveball: this time in the form of a colossal, snaking queue. If I hadn't been before, I'd have been willing to wait in it, but waiting an hour in the rain to see an exhibition I've already seen seemed like a stupid idea. Again, we had to think on our feet. Juliette suggested we head to the nearby Musee de Rodin, Rodin being the sculptor famous for his 'thinker' collection. I've never been especially interested in sculptures, but the recent 'bro is not the thinker' meme, along with the general lack of alternative, convinced me that the museum would be worth seeing.
Surprisingly, I was right. It turns out there really is an appeal to looking at good sculptures, especially lifelike busts. The idea that you're looking directly into the face of someone that lived a century ago, carved by the hands of someone else that died a century ago, is really quite cool. We spent more time in the museum than I thought we would, and Juliette got some great pics of me by a wall of head cultures ENTJ-staring a thousand yards through the camera. The highlights we, of course, the thinker, and the other was the giant bronze sculpture based on Dante's Inferno: the Gates of Hell. Two years ago, I'd been mesmerised by the original plaster cast Rodin had used to make the sculpture, which is stored in the Musee D'Orsay, so the sculpture itself seemed uncannily familiar to us both. It's striking. You guys know I love all that kind of junk: hell stuff, depictions of suffering, anguished faces etc. and it seems Rodin is as good at that as anyone.
We were in a rush, however, so having had our fill of Rodin, we hopped on the metro to meet Marshall. Him and Irene had been to Deux Magots, been outraged by the prices of everything on the menu, and insisted it was hardly worth us coming. This was a shame, but I trust his judgement, especially since he's as big on existentialism as I am. We agreed to meet by Shakespeare and company, which is really the more suited of the two locations to me than Marshall, the literature scholar (Marshie being a philosopher). When we arrived at the bookstore, Marshall said he'd be another thirty minutes, so Juliette and I decided to grab a coffee at a nearby bar to kill the time. I ordered and Cappuccino, and, let me tell you, this was the worst, most pathetic attempt at a coffee that I've ever seen. It was rancid- the foam was an ugly grey colour, floating limply on top of a beige liquid that tasted more like dish water than coffee beans. I had half a mind to send it back, but I assumed they'd either say no or bring me another equally disgraceful excuse for a beverage, so I let it slide. I drank some tap water instead. The bar was called the red bar, if anyone was wondering, and it's right next to the bookstore. Do not go, under any circumstances.
Twenty minutes later, Marshall and Irene arrived, beaming cheesy smiles. I'd missed that guy far too much, and we shared a sweet embrace before I introduced them to Juliette and he recounted their misadventures over the past two weeks. They'd been to Berlin for a bit of K-fuelled techno clubbing, Austria for a few days in Irene's alpine lodge (she admitted that her parents do quite well for themselves- shock), Budapest for some ruin-bar hopping and now Paris to smoke a lot of cigarettes. They'd had a great time, he said, but there had been a lot of tension, most of which involved Alfie being a naughty gossip. What's he like?
Next, we hit the bookstore, where Marshall and I spent the entire time pointing out books that we'd read to show off, then explaining them to each other. The books were ludicrously expensive, as you'd expect, so I had no intention of buying one. My whole aim was to show off. I suppose the idea of walking in the footsteps of some of the pillars of literature is cool too, but I'm not the biggest fan of modernism, so it didn't hit me in quite the same way as Walden Pond had. In the end, I don't think anyone bought anything. We found a few things we would've liked to take home- such as Bonjour Tristesse, by Francoise Sagan, which I recommended to Juliette- but twenty euros was a serious pisstake for a 200 page paperback novella. Anyway, by this point it had gotten pretty late, and we all needed to head home for dinner before convening again at the jazz bar, which happened to be across the road from the bookstore. We said our goodbyes, then hopped on the metro home.
On our way, we picked up the food we'd need for dinner, which we decided would be Juliette's signature tuna pasta, and a bottle of sweet wine. I'd never tried it before, and Juliette insisted she'd treat us to a bottle in case I didn't like it, which was lovely of her. At home, we went straight to her room to whack a few vinyls on, drink the wine, smoke indoors and generally catch a vibe.
Juliette has some rogue albums on vinyl as well as some fairly standard picks. We started with the first half of Rodeo by Travis Scott, then a 4-song jazz tape. After that, I forget what we transitioned to (wine and two weeks of time passing will do that to your memory). Oh scratch that, we connected to the vinyl player via Bluetooth and went song for song on Spotify. Every song she showed me is now in my 25 hour summer playlist, which reminded me how similar our tastes can be. We forayed into the kitchen feeling slightly tipsy, and I provided conversation while my host provided food. Juliette insisted that I tell Laura just how good her pasta was, because she'd refused to try it thus far. Laura, I know you'll never read this, but you really should've tried her pasta. If anyone else reading this is ever offered fish pasta by Juliette- tuna or salmon (she'd always cook salmon pasta for me in first year)- I implore you to say yes. You won't regret it.
After dinner, I changed out of my posh cunt outfit and into my fruitcake outfit: the same black shoes, trousers and jacket as the previous night, but this time accompanied by a tight, cropped, black and white sweater vest that exposed a bit of V-line. The slutiness served no purpose in the end, but we'll get to that in due course.
We boarded the metro to the same station as earlier, which I forget the name of, as I am now updating this a whole month after I left Paris. Fortunately, I imagine I'll remember this evening for the rest of my life. When we got to the neighbourhood where the jazz club was located, we decided a cig moment was in order, and headed over to the Seine to watch it glisten. I'm quite certain we talked about something very philosophical, though the stronger memory I have of the moment was watching Marshall and Irene approach us, who had evidently had the same idea.
Post-cig, the four of us walked over to the club, only to find Jake, Niamh, Olivia and Jake's childhood friend stood outside. We exchanged hellos, hugs, introductions and all the usual pleasantries, as they informed us that the club was the coolest place ever and we absolutely had to join them. Luckily, this was already our plan, but their eager invite only increased my excitement to go inside. Five minutes after we arrived, Olivia said she was too tired to stay out any longer. Jake, Niamh and Jake's friend insisted they wanted to stay longer so, unfortunately, Irene, being Olivia's closest friend, drew the short straw and went home with her. That was the last time I saw Irene, which is a real shame. She'd have loved the bar and loved dancing with Marshall, I'm sure. Anyway, the bouncer charged us £10 and gave us a each a UV ink hand-stamp and let us in. The interior was very Parisian, a mix of stone and wooden beams, with a long bar stocked with every aperitif known to man. I was served very quickly at first, so naturally I spent 9 euros on a 6% pint. I think it was the same blonde I'd had in the previous jazz club, actually. The others all opted for white wine, which I imagine would have been the cheaper and more effective option, but I can't stand to drink cheap wine and places tend to stick to the cheap stuff when its by the glass. It was fairly loud in the bar, but I made effort to talk to the gang nonetheless, introducing them to Juliette a little more and catching up with their European escapades. This might just be hindsight and paranoia, but I think I felt a little as if they weren't all that interested in talking to me. I might be dead wrong, it might just have been loud, but the excitement seemed to mainly centre on the bar, rather than re-uniting with a friend they hadn't seen for months. Maybe it's selfish of me to expect that in such a dazzling location. I don't really know.
But enough of that. Once we'd all loaded up with drinks, we descended a flight of stairs, past a couple that were practically fucking on a sofa, and into the underground club. Like the bar, the club was mainly a kind of beige stone, with wooden beams to lean on, support the ceiling and load with various trinkets and used glasses. The club was utterly packed, leaving just enough space for the sardines to dance the Charleston, the jitterbug and the twist to some of the most exciting music I've ever heard, played by the live jazz band. As soon as we saw the mass of grooving bodies, Marshall and I beamed cheesy smiles at one another, Juliette looking on with a hint of smugness at the brilliance of her suggestion. It usually takes me a bit of time and a lot of booze to loosen up, but here I fell right into it (mind you, Juliette and I had polished off a bottle of wine and a few beers earlier, though that's beside the point). The bar oozed cool, and not a standoffish, arrogant cool, a welcoming cool that made you feel as though you were just as unfathomably cool as anybody else in there.
And the WOMEN. Oh my god… the women were stunning. Every single girl in there- 18 to 45 years old- was a model, or ought to have been one. The way they moved to the music was the most entrancing, romantic thing I've seen for a good while; you couldn't help but grin away. Marshall, Juliette and I starting grooving like you wouldn't believe, while the others moved somewhere with a little more space, on account of Jake needing the room to move and not get bumped. The basement was damp with the sweat of 100 dancers, and after 30 minutes had passed by in a flash, we decided a breath of fresh air and a top up were in order. I'd hoped the breath of fresh air might have provided another opportunity to talk to my friends, but again I didn't have much luck. Jake seemed more interested in talking to his high school friend, a tall, handsome brunette that he was so obviously twiddling his hair over, and Niamh was as uninterested as I'd hoped she wouldn't be. I didn't quite notice it all at the time as the booze and adrenaline meant I felt on top of the world, but the situation did bum me out quite a lot. I was so so close to them at St Andrews, and it began to hit me that that might not be the case forever, which is a real shame.
Again, enough of that. Whilst were out there, I noticed one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen stood a few metres from me, so I poked Juliette, told her 'watch this' and walked over. 'Do you have a lighter I can borrow?' I asked, to which Juliette chimed in: 'Oh Max, I have one right here,' and tapped me on the shoulder. The girl looked sympathetic but evidently knew I was only trying to make conversation. She passed me the lighter and, having had the wind swept from my sails, I gave it back and turned around grumpily to a giggling, apologetic Juliette who had realised the error of her ways. We headed back inside for a top up and another dance. This time, it took easily 10 minutes to get served by the jackass Parisian bartender who insisted on purposefully trying to wind up me and the obnoxious American man that'd started to talk myself, Juliette and Marshall's ears off. When we finally, mercifully got served, we were about ready to break it down stupid style. We descended the stairs, where I noted the couple seemed to have gone home, and began to dance. Again, the others moved somewhere with a little more room, though we followed them this time as I was still holding out hope that we might get some real quality time together. We danced for twenty minutes or so, but it quickly became apparent that the dance circle didn't *really* include Juliette and I, as much as Marshall tried to include us. We opted for a duo mission, since the alternative of Niamh's smiling cold shoulder and Jake's doe eyed stare at his friend didn't seem overly appetising. Juliette spent most of the time talking me up to the task of asking a girl to dance. Now, Juliette had tried to dance with me earlier, but had soon come to the conclusion that I have no natural rhythm and dance like a lanky scarecrow. Nonetheless, she seemed to have faith that a girl with a pure heart might see past that fault. Alternatively, a girl might think I was hot enough that it wouldn’t matter whether she felt as though she was dancing with the tin man. Anyway, Juliette and I spent another half an hour dancing the night away until I finally plucked a courage to tap a girl on the shoulder and tell her that I liked her dress. 'Thanks,' she said, shortly, and turned away as quickly as I've ever seen a human being turn. That was really it for me and my ego, so I suggested to Juliette that we might have danced quite enough, fetched the others and moved back outside.
Outside, Marshall suggested a group cig moment by the Seine before we got in our separate taxis and went home. Everyone agreed to it, taking a sombre stroll along the banks and talking about everything completely unimportant. I gave my friends a hug each- though I felt as though only Marshall's meant as much as I wanted it to- and promised to see them again soon. The taxi home was a deeply pathetic affair, as I told Juliette about my concerns regarding my departed friends before falling into my typical, frustrated spiel about how I don't quite understand the social interaction involved with romance in club environments (this happens after almost every club night, unfortunately). Juliette assured me that it'll come with practise and confidence, but I'm not sure. I think I was born without mating-ritual dimension of the brain. I can't comprehend the stolen glances, the smiles, the eye-contact, the shouted whispers over the booming music; none of it computes. Despite all of my relentless complaining, though, I had some of the most genuine fun I've had in my entire life in that club, and I'm desperate to go back.
The next morning, funnily enough, was less enjoyable. I woke Juliette up around 10 am and we soon realised we were going to miss our allocated timeslot at Versailles by a solid two hours. You see, Juliette might be the one person on this planet with a worse sense of time and direction than me, so our hangouts and outings tend to be horrendously disorganised. Oh, it was also chucking it down outside; perfect weather for exploring the famous grandeur of the Versailles gardens. None of this, neither the weather nor the lateness, dispelled our glee at having the opportunity to dress like members of the European lower-aristocracy and prance around a literal palace.
I put on my blue trousers, black boots, a white linen shirt and a very teeny tiny pink sweater vest (the same sweater vest I wore to my Aunty Edyta and Uncle Chris' wedding when I was 8, as a matter of fact). I also tied my hair up and let a little strand fall from the front to add to the air of insufferableness. To top it all off, we both grabbed umbrellas, then mobilised to catch our train out of the city.
The train from Paris to Versailles takes an hour, so I took the opportunity to crack on with my plan for the lesson I was to teach the next day. This gave Juliette chance to listen to some tunes from her fancy Marshall (I miss him) headphones and snap some pictures of me looking awfully intellectual.
On arrival, we strolled through a first set of gates into a huge courtyard, flanked by newer wings of the palace, where we found that due to our lateness we'd have to queue with the people who hadn't bought a ticket at all. We also found that there'd been a system error that day, and that they weren't admitting anyone for half an hour at least. This was incredibly welcome news given that it was still pissing it down and our legs were knackered from days of traversing the big city. In the end, the time passed in a flash, and boy was it worth it once (after circa 45 minutes) we got inside. I'll now hand you back to present tense Max, as I felt the need to record my thoughts when faced with spectacle that is the palace of Versailles, and then continued writing for most of the trip afterwards.
The scale of this place is mind blowing and that seems to be exactly what they had in mind. This is the home of a god king, infinitely wealthy and fundamentally luxurious. They called this man the sun king and he ruled alone until long after the monarchy was toppled in Britain. What a life. I’m very glad I took the time to visit Versailles. It’s France epitomised in stone and gold: massive, decadent, self-important and undeniably impressive.
And the gardens, man the gardens are something else. They stretch as far as the eye can see, adorned with marble statues of classical gods, intricate lawns and aquamarine water baths.
Juliette and I wandered into what looked like a hedge maze and found ourselves in one of the most comforting cafes I’ve ever been to. Nestled among the hedgerow of the Versailles gardens is an outdoor seating area that offered us shelter from the torrential rain that had been pelting us since we left the castle, and a place to rest our weary selves over a pint and an espresso. The rain trickled down off of umbrellas and leaves, as classical music played just far enough away from us that it mingled with the rain into a beautifully placid background noise for our riveting conversations.
After our stop in the forest café, we decided it’d be best to head home to give us some time to relax before meeting Marshall and Irene. Jake and Niamh are going clubbing tonight, so we won’t be seeing them. I’ve got the impression that they have no real interest in seeing me. Whether that’s because of the thing with me and Niamh, because they’re exhausted from two weeks of non-stop travel and socialising, or whether they’re really just that busy, I don’t know. But anyway, c’est la vie. People come and go, don’t they?
Returning to the narrative, though: the train home was fairly sombre. Juliette has been arguing over text with Laura-May. Relationships are hard, and whenever I talk to my friends that are in them, I’m reminded that being single really isn’t all that bad. It doesn’t offer the highs of dating someone, but the lows are rarely as bad either. I’m waiting for Juliette to finish doing whatever she’s doing at the moment to make a plan for the evening, hence updating this.
Juliette decided she was a little too low to go back to the jazz bar, which is understandable. Instead, we elected to convene with the fungal hive-mind. Now, Juliette’s flat, which is stocked floor to ceiling with abstract, colourful art and which offers a view of the Eiffel Tower illuminating the skyline, is quite the place to do such a thing. We sat on her sofa and chatted shit about politics, relationships, the fact that the majority of people live lives too precarious to allow time to think (about anything at all, really) and the inherent coolness of living in Paris (of London-Paris-New York fame) whilst sipping blonde beer and sweet wine. It wasn’t a hopeful conversation by any means, but somehow (I do wonder what it might be) we giggled all the way through. Nothing killed us more than looking at the wall of school and family photos in her hallway. There’s something so ridiculous about the silly faces kids pull when you put a camera in front of them, especially when the kid has an attitude of general disgust and disillusionment like little Juj. She found her grimacing face so amusing that I had to help her up after she collapsed in a heap of giggles on the hardwood floor.
As I update this, I’m stood on the RER B train to Charles de Gaulle airport, snacking on a croissant that I just pulled from my tote bag. The novelty of the concealed croissant never really gets old, in my experience. However, novelty loses out to 4 hours of sleep most of the time, so I’m still not in the best mood. It’s 8.28 am and leaving Paris and my dear friend is incredibly bitter, especially since I’m teaching tonight, then working Friday through Sunday. I’ve spent a lot this week, though, so getting a few shifts in is probably for the best.
Anyway, once we felt confident and energised enough, Juliette and I decided we simply HAD to walk to the Eiffel Tower. The way its light coloured the low clouds that night gave them a beautiful pink-orange hue that we had to inspect with greater care. I told Marshall that, regrettably, I wouldn’t be joining his party in a bar on the other side of Paris, then set off with my short-legged friend. I couldn’t tell you what we talked about, but presumably it was more of the same. When, in 10 minutes, we were stood at the entrance to Trocadero, I found myself mesmerised by the sight of the tower again. It’s such a brilliant spectacle, and the busker playing Coldplay and Sting (I noted that, contrary to what he was singing, he was in fact a Frenchman in Paris) to a circle of young American tourists dancing lent the scene an intimate romance.
I mimicked a shocked tourist seeing the tower for the first time to make Juliette laugh, but I really get it. I’m so glad we took the time to walk there again, even though the preparations for the upcoming Olympics made it frustratingly difficult to get around the area. In fact, the obstructions they caused to our journey simply meant we had to take bridges I’d never used before to get around the tower. One bridge, in particular, was stunning. It’s a road, but directly above the road is a metro line nested on top of it, running between the left and right lane. The sheer architectural achievement is a sight to behold, so much so that Christopher Nolan filmed a scene in Inception there. I’ll include a picture because my words evidently aren’t doing it justice. The Seine, as always, tops off every view in the city. It sparkles nothing else, and house boats lap gently against the river banks.
At around 1.30 am, we walked home through the drizzling, dark streets, waving to the innumerable rats out for a bite to eat. I think we both felt that awful feeling you only get when you’re desperate to stay up with someone for longer but know that, for practical reasons if nothing else, you’ll regret it the next day (I don’t, mind you). But, of course, you only get that feeling around someone you care deeply for, and I care very deeply for her. I’m genuinely in awe of the intelligent, confident, charismatic, stylish romantic she’s grown into over the years. Mostly, I’m impressed by the strength she’s demonstrated in the face of her country and her people experiencing effective apocalypse. I half expected her to be so broken by the whole situation that talking about it would bring her to tears, but people have to find a way to keep living, and she manages to spend every day trying to educate people- people who refused to listen until images of charred children woke them up to the existence of a 60 year old genocide- without letting it destroy her life and happiness too. I’m sure the temptation to sink wholly into the issue is beyond overpowering, but misery is paralysing and she refuses to stay still.
I packed my bad when I got back, and I said goodnight to my friend at around 3 am. This morning, I woke up at 7 am from a dream about a man stabbing me for giving him an orange with nothing besides the orange inside the peel. I don’t know what he wanted from me, but I didn’t have it and I paid the price in sheer terror. I dozed for another 15 minutes, hating the fact that I had to leave, then completed my final checks and woke up Juliette to come to the bakery with me. Me in whatever clothes I didn’t want to stuff into my bag, her in her pyjamas, we picked up a croissant and a goats cheese baguette, then returned to her kitchen for a farewell coffee. Neither of us had nearly enough energy for a conversation, but the warm atmosphere spoke for itself. I thanked her for having me, wished her good look with Laura and promised to see her soon. Now I’m in Charles de Gaulle, wondering when I’ll be back for Paris 4.
