Train de Nuit

I am getting the train to Paris tomorrow, and back home again at night. Somewhere in my deepest fairytale dreams it will be something like this...


So maybe I'm not going to Istanbul. And I don't get a sleeper cabin. I don't even wear No. 5 but maybe I should?! 

It makes me want to watch Amelie again, then go out and see Coco avant Chanel, which I've been too ashamed to do because of my poor French (and don't even mention subtitles, blasphemy!). Watching the Making Of (and the film in better quality) makes me want to pick up my textbook and absord every last grammatical exercise, every conjugation and vocabularly list, until I can ramble on about the flattery of being somebody's muse in the world's most beautiful advertisement.

So, back to reality. French exam tomorrow and I need to know my pendant from my depuis.

France in Miniature

Created using Tiltshift Maker 

The Harbour Muse

It's no wonder Honfleur was such an inspiration to so many artists - Courbet, Monet, Jongkind - nestled on the southern bank of The Estuary, it's as though little bits of Paris floated down the Seine and got caught up in the fishing nets. Bowls of steaming mussels with salty french fries, pastel sorbets melting in crisp waffle cones and the pink cheeks of sunkissed tourists paint a pretty picture of a town who's port is the centre of all activity. 

The clock on the Hôtel de Ville struck two, scattering the pigeons who were feeding on baguette crumbs. The fairy floss carousel glittered like a mirror ball, the many tiny mirrors reflecting the bright afternoon sun. Babies slept in prams or strapped safely to Daddy's chest.

Over on the eastern quai, the clink of healthy tip jars harmonised with wine glasses rattling on trays as the lunch service got into full swing. Menuboards were neatly hand-chalked and the tables laid with red gingham cloth and brown paper. The slow promenade of English tourists got in the way of the locals and their purposeful gait and one girl with a camera trotted along behind her friends, believing life to be pretty damn good.

Build a Bridge

I learnt something yesterday.

Today is a public holiday (The Ascension, 40 days after Easter) and as it's a Thursday, many people are taking the Friday off too, for an extra-long weekend. In French, they call this faire le pont, to 'make a bridge' (between the public holiday and the weekend).

And I thought it just meant to get over something. 

Fields of Gold

Ελλάδα το καλοκαίρι

Source: Antique Helper

June 13 - I'm running away to the Greek Islands for my birthday, for sunshine and seafood.

My old roommate from a trip to Hong Kong is joining me and a handful of other girls to float around Santorini, Mykonos and Crete. A quick search for Greece travel photos has my shutter-happy hands already shaking at the thought of golden sunsets, white-washed buildings and sapphire oceans.

I've a few other travel plans in the works but I think this one might be one of the most enjoyable. At the very least, the warmest. And I do miss a bit of warmth.

Sunday Stichin'

Who says us postmodern kids lack the skills of yesteryear?! Sick of the less-than-attractive undersink area in my kitchen, I set about fixing a cheap and cheery veil of hand-tacked fabric. 

Yes that's right. I used a needle and thread with such precision, my Home Economics teacher would be smiling down on my from Heaven, if she were there. And I thought I didn't need anything at the market this week...

I'd Rather Dance With You

So Alexander Rybak may be writing about his ex-girlfriend and taking Moskva 2009 by storm, but I just discovered a better Norwegian musical export, thanks to my best-ever Swedish girls.

They're not the latest thing, but they are cool. A bit Simon & Garfunkle meets Napoleon Dynamite with caemo by Billy Elliot but very cute! The rest of the album, Riot on an Empty Street, is just as adorably geeky.

Even if I could hear what you said
I doubt my reply would be interesting for you to hear
Because I haven't read a single book all year
And the only film I saw, I didn't like it at all

PS: Azerbaijan should have won. Not least because I can honestly say I've never heard of that country.

Wedding Crashers

Without meaning to, we crashed a wedding at the Abbaye aux Hommes (Hôtel de Ville) today. I don't think they minded.

Eurovision 2009 (Bayeux style)

Dear Mum

I bought you some flowers, Mum. They look lovely in my kitchen.

I don't think they'll last the 3 months and 1 day until you get here but by then I'll have saved enough for some new ones.

I miss all the weird and wonderful things we have that cannot be explained in a blog. Thanks for being there for me, all 16000kms away that you are. I still love that I can call you up on Skype and see you make stupid faces at me. Even though you're a bit pixelated, you still make me smile. I wish I could smell your Estee Lauder White Linen perfume the way I could when I was away on school camp and it hit me when I saw you again.

I promise I'm looking after myself. I don't walk the streets alone at night. I am eating my veggies and washing behind my ears. 

Love from your firstborn,

xx

A Quick List

Because we all love lists.

1. Start a list.
   
2. Schedule time to be spontaneous.
   
3. Accept the inevitabilities of the immediate future.
   
4. Eat more vegetables.
   
5. Take baby steps.
6. Petition Sarkozy for geographical relocation of France.
   
7. Check dumpsters for treasure.
   
8. Watch Alice in Wonderland.
   
9. Buy prom tickets.

On that note I'll depart.

Merci France - A Song

When in Paris... spend the day scouting vintage stores and drinking tea with lemon whilst watching passers-by. Have dinner in Montemarte (mais bien sûr!) but be sure to look out for amazing buskers selling CDs that are totally worth 10 euro. 

Taking the internal steps at Abbesses this afternoon, our legs, plagued with lactic acid build-up, were grateful to stop and rest while our ears where tickled with pleasure by Les Petites Bourrettes. Nothing is more French than to emerge from the Metro to the sound of a plastic bin bass and piano accordion, and 5 quirky French men singing the kind of songs that make you smile.

Still humming as I walked up to Sacre Coeur, my own silly rhymes replaced the lyrics I thought I heard and over the next few hours formed some kind of structured composition. Testament to my nonsensical grasp of the French language,  I present...

Merci France 

Nous habiton á Epron et Caen

et nous mangeon les champignons
Avec garçons dans pantalon
Et il est toujours vraiment bon

Prés Sacre Coeur il y a du beurre
Mais il n'y a pas une tour de fer
Il est six heures, le temps d'un verre
Vin rouge est ce que je préfère

Nous sommes heureux (nous sommes heureux)
Il rend la vie armoriaux
La tapisserie que dans Bayeaux
est presque trés contagieux

Lorsque vous êtes triste (lorsque vous êtes triste)
Si vous êtes pris à l'improviste
Il suffit de suivre ces pistes
Ce n'est pas une chanson raciste

Peut-être plus tard j’ai un mouchard
Assurer que vous êtes pochard
Une promenade à la rue Mouffetard
Faire un plaisir salopard

Nous sommes heureux (nous sommes heureux)
Il rend la vie armoriaux
La tapisserie que dans Bayeaux
est presque très contagieux

Lorsque vous êtes triste (lorsque vous êtes triste)
Si vous êtes pris à l'improviste
Il suffit de suivre ces pistes
Ce n'est pas une chanson raciste

Thankyou France (Translation)

We live in Epron and Caen
and we eat mushrooms
with boys in pants
and it is always really good

Near Sacre Coeur there's some butter
but there is not an iron tower
It's six o'clock, time for a drink
Red wine is what I prefer

We are happy (we're happy)
It makes life easier
The tapestry in Bayeaux
is almost very contagious

When you are sad (when you're sad)
If you are caught by surprise
Just follow these tracks
This is not a racist song

Maybe later, I have a spy
Ensure that you are drunk
A walk on Rue Mouffetard
Makes a happy bastard

We are happy (we're happy)
It makes life easier
The tapestry in Bayeaux
is almost very contagious

When you are sad (when you're sad)
If you are caught by surprise
Just follow these tracks
This is not a racist song