Paris, je t'aime

Dear blogging world,

I write this late at night in bed. For all those who doubt that it actually would be considered "late", knowing all too well of my granny-like nature, it is. It is 11pm though in Paris, where I have travelled from today, it is midnight. Usually it takes me a good couple of hours to be happy with a blog post, so to start writing this so late at night with an early start for work tomorrow morning... well, some might say some bad decision-making is in the process of happening on my behalf. However, if left until tomorrow the blog post is sure to be upset by my inevitable post long weekend/holiday/Paris depression, returning to reality with a bang.

For, dear readers, I have spent the last three glorious days in gay Paris, coinciding with the final leg of the 100th year anniversary of Le Tour de France. Casually jumping on the train after work on Friday, I arrived in Paris a mere two hours later and checked in to my favourite hostel in the Montmartre region of Paris. Unfortunately, being a hostel with a dormitory set up, this did mean receiving some disgruntled glares of those girls trying to sleep when I clumsily entered the room at 11:30pm and attempted to make my bed in the dark. Whispering apologies, I could only hope that they spoke English for heaven help me if I was left to communicate solely with my French-speaking skills. I never found out, as they all left early the next morning. One of the replacement dorm girls could speak broken English only too well, and proceeded in showing me all of her very average photos on her very expensive camera that she'd taken over the past week around Europe. That must have been enough for her, as she never seemed to leave the room for the whole time that I was there.

Filling my Saturday with general meandering around the city visiting my favourite food places, I couldn't help but think ahead to the next day in excited anticipation.

Now, for all those who aren't familiar with the Tour, it is possibly one of the toughest endurance sporting events there is. Three weeks of gruelling riding around some TOUGH French countryside means that it is not an event for the faint-hearted. Riders consume on average 8000 calories each day (normal recommended intake for a male is approximately 2000 calories) and even then end up being a sliver of themselves by the end of the Tour. Although the event is ranked on an individual basis, riders work within teams and are strategically selected according to their main strengths to support the key rider within the team aiming for overall success. There are mountain stages, sprint stages, individual and team time trials throughout all leading to the final ride into Paris. This of course is a gross generalisation which will appall die-hard fans such as my father, but seemed to impress those clueless English-speaking spectators surrounding me during Sunday's proceedings.

Where we pick up on the story. I had decided that rather than wait around the Champs Elysees for 12+ hours in the blistering heat in order to secure a good spot for the grand finale, I'd spend the day checking out Versailles, see the riders as they were leaving then race back to Paris and watch them ride on in.

Great in theory, right?

Well, Versailles was magnificent. I thoroughly enjoyed my walking tour of the Palace Gardens learning about the history and significance of the statues and sculptures around the place. The famous fountain show that only occurs twice a week during the summer months was spectacular.

However, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that THERE WAS SOMEWHERE ELSE I NEEDED TO BE. After the fountain show concluded, I excused myself from the group and RACED down to where action was starting to happen. The caravan parade can only be described as bizarre. Prior to the riders, sponsors of the Tour are given the opportunity to have a float in a parade and promote their goods. Ranging from cycling brands, to confectionery, to washing detergent, to newspapers... you name it. The drivers and passengers would wave their hands as if royalty and would receive an appropriate response (especially if throwing away free things). One guy who I was standing next to was getting increasingly frustrated at missing out on objects being thrown in his general direction. This is the kind of place you'd want an experience and top-quality "sale" shopper at, with their snatch and grab skills at the ready.

Once the caravan parade was over, I made my way up further towards where some of the music and general action was happening. I couldn't have picked a better spot if I'd tried. I'd somehow managed to fluke getting a spot just before the start line, which in two hours' time would provide the ultimate view of all of the riders before they take off towards Paris. Two looooong, hot, dry hours next to an American who was growing increasingly more obnoxious as our conversation went on. With toilet breaks being out of the question (already people were starting to line up behind me) I was also rationing my water intake to prevent any embarrassing situations from occurring.

It was all worth it though - seeing all of the riders line up and cheering them off was the most incredible buzz. As soon as they appeared all growing signs of dehydration like seeing spots and considering licking off my perspiration from, well, everywhere, just to feel as though I was getting some liquid intake... they all disappeared.

It was just as well that I had such a great view of the riders at Versailles as I didn't stand a hope in heck back in Paris. Cursing the fact that I hadn't inherited the Charlton tall genes, my little legs meant that I couldn't even see the road lining up behind a stadium-worth of people. To make matters worse, some of these people were standing on step ladders themselves. Season experts apparently, because I read no mention of BYO step ladders. Still, the vibe was something else and watching the fireworks from the Sacre Couer overlooking the city later on provided a much more manageable solution.

Le Tour aside, my weekend trip marked my third visit to Paris and I have to say I fall more in love with the city every time I visit. I had a moment of pure elation on Sunday night, when I'm sure I was walking around sporting a goofy grin not unlike one worn by a school girl thinking about her first crush. The music, the fashion, how aesthetically pleasing the buildings are, how ridiculously over the top their kings were, the bread, the butter, the bread with butter, the inclusion of fried potato on top of their salads, the continuing Parisian dedication to smoking as if to say Fuck It to the world, their abruptness at ignorant non-French speaking tourists, their openness of emotion, their belief in romance, that even a passing smile an onlooking man can make you the centre of their attention, even if for a moment.

Samuel Johnson, a significant 18th century English writer, once declared "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life...". Reflecting on this in my head-over-heels daze on Sunday night, I was determined to declare that in fact, it is not London but rather Paris that is more appropriate for this sentence. However, I have since decided that in fact the appropriate phrase is that "when a man is tired of travel, he is tired of life." New places have a way of invigorating the senses and exploding open the box that routine puts you in. New events, cities, people, cultures... the world is literally a tasting platter for your choosing. Having struggled with homesickness these past two weeks, the past weekend has only reminded me of why I'm here - to enjoy all of these things! And what a fabulous thing indeed :)

Love, Em xxx

In Sickness and in Sunshine

Forgive me for my two-week long silence, blog readers, those of you who are left standing after nearly three months of my nonsensical rambling.

Unfortunately, I had the misfortune of coming down with a rather short but intense stomach bug early last week that had me home-bound and grateful that I lived within walking distance of a pharmacy. That is, after I finally made it back home to the flat. I have decided that there is possibly nothing worse than needing to be sick whilst travelling on a London tube. There are no quick escapes, no bins to stick your head in at station stops and sometimes no other option but to use your handbag instead of spraying fellow passengers with your digested breakfast. Possibly my lowest moment thus far.

During moments of complete weakness and feeling very sorry for one's self, it is inevitable that homesickness rears its ugly head and says hello. There is only so much comfort that dry white toast with a scraping of Vegemite can achieve, or the overwhelmingly kind offers from my flatmate Graeme to pick me up anything I needed from the shop. And as fabulous as things are over here I do miss friends and family back home like an arm and a leg, though they continue to be my constant source of love and support. I've met some wonderful people over here, but there's nothing quite like "clicking" into place with someone and being able to exhale and let it all hang out, much like the moment of relief that comes from undoing the zip of a tight dress after a night out.

Wallowing will never get you anywhere in life though, and sometimes all you need is a bit of fresh sea air to clear the thoughts and snap yourself back into a good head space. With hot weather forecast for Saturday I took the opportunity to escape to Brighton for a day trip.

Departing London obscenely early by British standards (9am), I arrived with all of the other obvious tourists and managed to enjoy the seaside before millions of people came to take up all of the pebble space on the beach.

Unlike Australian beaches, swimming isn't the main feature of a day at the beach at Brighton with most people more interested in simply basking in the sun and drinking. Drinking, drinking, drinking. Always, the people drink. Brighton has much more to offer though, boasting the world's first electric train and many laneways filled with boutique shops and market spaces that buzz with life.

No trip to the beach is complete without a meal of fish and chips and as a history student I'd done my research. I was not going to settle for mediocre, overpriced fish and chips in popular tourist spots. No sirree. This smarty was going to get herself the BEST fish and chips in Brighton. Good old trusty Google led me to Bardsley's Fish and Chippery, an award winning fish and chip shop which has been family-run for four generations. A good start!

A half hour walk from the beachside later, Google maps led me to a less desirable part of Brighton. A little disturbed by the amount of flesh being "all let out" and strange smells wafting from locals, I forged on and finally found the infamous fish and chip shop. I needn't have been worried about queues, as it was empty. Had it not been for the massive effort that had gone in to finding the ruddy place, I would have walked passed but my increasingly urgent sense of hunger led me inside. The lady was probably disturbed at the red-faced, sweaty and rather loud Australian girl and wrapped up my lunch order rather hastily. Next was the mission of finding a piece of parkland to sit down and enjoy my bundle of joy. A further twenty minutes of desperate speed walking later and I have to say, it probably wasn't worth the effort. I was just grateful that I hadn't dragged along a companion with me on such a strained journey, as I wouldn't have heard the end of it once discovering the chips were quite soggy.

Catching up with my gorgeous cousin Emily after her mooting win was a recent highlight and delight, as was attending a 1950s themed Midsummer Ball at the Kensington Palace gardens with Maria.

Next weekend - PARIS - whereby I will feast and photograph my way around the city and cheer on the Tour de France cyclists as they make their way down the Champs Elysees. A trip to my favourite city could not come at a better time, and after recently testing out my Year 6 French skills on fluent speakers I am confident that there will be plenty of awkward material to consume next week's post :)

Love, Em xxx

Glares and Grand Weekends

It's been an interesting week to be an Australian living in London.

Tuesday morning began like any other - get up, get out, walk to work, sit down, check emails, get on with the working day. Take a moment to check the headlines of a top quality news website (cough cough) - news.com.au - and apparently old Kev has popped his old head up again and any moment the nation would discover whether we would have a change of Prime Minister.

Huh?

Fortunately most of the British population was more distracted by Nadal's shock exit from the Wimbledon Tennis Championships to focus on Australian politics, however BBC British journalists did take the opportunity to make quite scarring remarks about the state of affairs. My favourite description was perhaps comparing recent events to "a soap opera directed by Quentin Tarantino." Another was perhaps "Australian politics is just like Game of Thrones, except without the good bits." Head in hands, I began to practise my British accent under my breath at my work desk, channelling Emma Watson as Hermione Granger before growling in frustration as it would morph into a terrible Indian accent.

Learning that Lleyton Hewitt was also representing the country at Wimbledon did not help a sense of doom and gloom. Instead, I chose to share in the British excitement over Andy Murray's progression in the tournament. Fortunately the hustle and bustle around my usually-quiet work place area, which is very close to the Wimbledon tennis grounds, has meant that sharing in the excitement has been quite easy to manage. With Federer now out of the running too, the hype over Andy Murray is truly building.

There's nothing like Grand Weekend Plans to make the working week seem longer as usual. Remembering periodically during the working day that the lovely Sam would be visiting would send excited jitters down my spine. Perhaps I was distracted thinking about the weekend when, on Friday afternoon, I quickly zipped out to grab some afternoon tea. Crossing the road to Tesco's, I was rudely honked by a driver in a dark 4WD. Even more annoyingly, he decided a honk wasn't enough to tell me off for crossing the road in front of him (even though it was a safe moment to do so), but pointing his finger at me was necessary also. I decided that this would be an ideal opportunity to throw him my newly perfected London Glare.

London Glares, or fixed and angry stares, are generally directed at Tourists but can also be directed at:

• Slow walkers
• Illegal pedestrian road crossers
• Loud people
• Traffic lights
• Innocent bystanders
• Couples
• Pigeons
• The sun
• The rain
• The world

What makes London Glares different from standard ones is the intensity and frequency of delivery, which is second to no other. You cannot call yourself a true and impatient Londoner if you have not yet  mastered the glare.

I decided that this circumstance called for my newly mastered London Glare. I threw him my best and huffed off down the hill. Though I couldn't ignore the feeling that something wasn't right here. I'd seen that dark car before. Turning around, I see not only the dark car but my boss sitting in the driver's seat of the dark car, half confused and half amused by the moments of the last 60 seconds. Mortified, I started to call out my apologies but they came out in a stuttering mess, before I simply said, "let's not speak of this again."

After that incident, the weekend REALLY couldn't come soon enough. When it did though, how glorious it was! With perfect weather and an even better travel companion, I showed off my new-found local knowledge and led the way. Only a minor glitch involving blisters and a broken bag hindered our adventures and the only glares to be had were from the beaming sun. Watching a spectacular sunset from an open-aired cinema on Sunday night, we declared London life to be pretty swell.

Love, Em xxx

P.S. a massive thankyou once again to those who have sent the most incredible care packages over the last week. You are simply amazing - thanks to you I'm all stocked up for rainy days (whether they be literal or metaphorical!)