Looking Christmasy In Paris

As you may recall, we had initially intended to travel to Ireland from Scotland earlier on in our trip. Thanks to some Gallic football match, it was going to cost some ridiculous amount to do so at that time, so we decided instead to leave the Emerald Isle until the end of our trip when we were able to get a cheap flight from Paris. Paris was always going to be the final destination of our adventure as it is where we are flying out. It seemed fitting because Kaitlyn and I first met studying French in first year uni. Now, because of our flight to Dublin, we were splitting our time in Paris - two days to begin with, five days in Ireland, and our final week back in the City of Lights. Adding extra light to the first Parisienne sojourn was my friend Luke. I have known Luke (I call him Angel, he calls me Calista) since we were tiny little children and, now living in London and working as a flight attendant for Qantas, he was joining us in the French capital for a couple of days.

Arriving in Paris the night before Luke, direct from San Sebastián, we had booked into St Christopher’s Hostel – the same “chain” of hostels as the one we stayed at in Edinburgh. From Gare Montparnasse we had to catch one metro line several stops to Gare de l’Est where we had to swap to another metro line and travel a whole lot more stops until we arrived at Crimée where, after a short walk, we arrived at the hostel. I am aware that this sounds relatively straight forward, however, 40 minutes of travel on metros in peak-hour, backpacks strapped on, squashed up like sardines with Parisiennes openly cursing you for taking up too much room…incredibly stressful. How Kaitlyn didn’t throw a tantrum, I will never know…it was a real milestone for us – I felt like a proud mother.

We checked-in, showered and decided to have dinner and drinks in the bar downstairs which was already pumping. It was an excellent decision on our part as the drinks and food were both cheap and absolutely delicious. If only we had left after dinner and kicked-on somewhere else. We were sitting on our own after eating, making the most of the cheap, happy hour cocktails, when Kaitlyn’s eyes took on an Amy-like expression. ‘Oh. My. F@#%ing. God.’
‘What?!’ I swung around in my seat and, no doubt, mirrored her expression. ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Is this happening?’
‘I think so.’ Our worst fears were confirmed when, from across the room, we heard a shriek. Two shrieks. Two shrieks belonging to Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB. Flashdance and Rape Buddy were in Paris. At our hostel. Coming towards us. Pound-pound-peacing us. Hugging us. ‘Oh my GOD! *Pound-pound-peace*. You guys are here.’
Our thoughts exactly.
‘I knew we’d see each other again one day, but not so soon!’

The next thing we knew, they’d invited themselves over to our table and we were “catching up”. In the three and half weeks since we’d last seen them, they had spent three days in Lyon and three weeks in Nice – that’s three more weeks in Nice to go with the six weeks they’d been there beforehand. The good news was Flashdance had a new passport now and they were heading back to the States in the morning. ‘So...you’re not going to Korea anymore?’
‘No. Well we are. Just not right now.’
‘Yeah, turns out we don’t have the right visas and stuff.’
You didn’t think to check that before you left?
‘We didn’t actually realise we needed visas.’
Of course you didn’t. It appeared that, in the time since 
we’d seen them, Flashdance and *Pound-pound-Peace* RB had hit rock bottom. And started to dig.

We had to endure the entire evening with them, chatting about all the things we had done since we’d left Nice, along with all the things they hadn’t done in that time. Hours later, we were still sitting there, “laughing together” about all the “fun times we shared” in Nice. They were encouraging us to pick our “favourite memory” of our time together. Obviously, I had two – the moments they earned their nicknames. Instead, I settled for some lame story about having dinner together. Then *Pound-pound-peace* RB turned to Kaitlyn and, completely out of the blue goes, ‘So, I know you were calling me a slut to everyone at the hostel.’ I took this moment to snap a group picture of the four of us and send it to India and Chei. Somehow Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB tricked Kaitlyn into buying food for them. She got her own back though when she managed to spill a drink all over *Pound-pound-peace* RB’s archaic computer. It blinked-off, it hissed, it started freaking smoking. We used this opportunity to say our goodbyes and take our leave. ‘Well, Sarah and I are totally going to come and visit you two in Australia.’
Yeah, sure you are.
‘It’s going to be so great! How much fun will it be to road trip around the outback together?’
Honestly? I’d rather eat glue.

The next morning, Luke arrived. There is no way I can describe Luke and do him justice. Take every flight attendant stereotype you can think of, put them all on steroids, add equal parts of snobbery and pretention, shake hard and strain into a highball glass filled with cubes of hilarious, hedonistic fun. That, my friends, is Luke. He walked into the hostel in a navy, Ralph Lauren trench, threw his Louis Vuitton wallet and Prada-encased iPhone onto the table, unceremoniously threw himself into a chair, and complained about how tired he was. ‘OMG. I. Am. Exhausted.’

‘So work’s been stressful?’

‘Umm...yes. Well, stressful trying to look busy. And it’s not easy trying to look busy in First Class. Touch trolley. Tap galley. Run to cabin. Do a twirl. Run back to galley. Look important. Clink the ice. Pick up the phone. Touch the door. Big door. Heavy door. Look to economy. Purse lips. Close curtain. And touch up before touch down. So, this “hostel-thing”? How does it work, exactly?’ We explained to him how the “hostel thing” worked and, with that, we were off.

We spent the day being tourists – tourists with money. We wandered along the Champs-Élysées, Luke trying on leather cuffs in Louis Vuitton, €800.00 coats in Ralph Lauren and critiquing the attire of each and every passer-by. ‘Did you see that suburban monstrosity? LOL!’ (Yes, Luke uses “chatspeak” in everyday conversation.) We were sitting in Starbucks sipping our Venti-skim-salted-caramel-lattes when a lady walked in clutching a Versace for H&M bag. ‘OMFG. OMFG. Can you see that? She has one. It has started.’ “It” was the Versace-designed line of clothing and accessories for H&M and we had to rush straight to H&M where, while he waited to try on the 4,000 things he had in his arms, he gave us a running commentary of the women coming out of the change rooms. ‘I would baa-baa if it weren’t so unbecoming.’

‘...’

‘Mutton dressed as lamb, babe. ROTFL.’

From the Champs we made our way to the 4th arrondissement, checking out my favourite building in the city, Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame. On a previous trip, Luke had spent time on some play equipment outside the famous cathedral and was keen to play on it again. And we did, until some children turned up wanting to play. Luke begrudgingly vacated the equipment to let them have a turn, only after we practically had to force him off. He then proceeded to stand right next to the various apparatuses, staring the children down until they left.

From Notre Dame we headed back towards the hostel. Kaitlyn and I had both been hankering for haircuts, myself in particular as my usually monthly-trimmed fringe was down past my nose and, with my mutant wog eyebrows, pinning it back wasn’t an option. Kaitlyn was also keen to get rid of her “Vegemite stripe” (regrowth) before going to Ireland and recreating P.S I Love You. It was actually Flashdance and *Pound-pound-peace* RB who had told us about a hairdresser right near the hostel. Usually they would be the last two people I would ever take fashion and beauty tips from, however they did have very nice haircuts which were really quite cheap. Luke went back to the hostel for a powernap while we went to the hairdresser to see if she could fit us in. The lady who ran it was Vietnamese and, although she spoke French, it was so heavily-accented we could barely understand a word. She spoke no English, but her daughter arrived soon after us and, between the four of us, we were able to organise two haircuts.

I went first, while Kaitlyn flicked through a few magazines to try and find a picture she liked, still umming and ahhing about whether to have a fringe cut. The daughter sat in the chair next to me, translating everything her mother said in Vietnamese. ‘Mum says you have very nice hair. It is very…bien portant.’
‘Healthy?’
‘Yes. Very healthy. Mum says hair very soft.’  When it was Kaitlyn’s turn, Mum wasn’t quite as complimentary about her tresses, her comments not losing their bluntness in translation. ‘Mum says you have very bad hair. Very damaged. Mum says you not look after. Mum says you not had hair cut for long time.’
‘About three months.’
‘No. Mum says half a year. More than half a year.’

I was really, really happy with my haircut as was Kaitlyn who made an appointment to come back in the morning and have it coloured. We took our chic Parisienne haircuts back to the hostel and got ready to show them off. As we had the night before, we stayed in the hostel bar, drinking cheap cocktails and being generally fabuleux. We got to chatting again with two hommes britanniques we had been talking to the night before. Felix and Michael were almost as funny as Luke and we somehow ended up going back up to their room and taking it in turns showing each other our favourite YouTube clips, well into the early hours of the morning.


I don’t think Luke was particularly taken with the hostel breakfast. Arriving downstairs, even his sunglasses weren’t able to hide the look of disdain from his face.  ‘I can’t deal with this ATM. I need Starbucks.’ And, while Kaitlyn had her hair done, we went in search of Starbucks. The closest one to us was right opposite the Moulin Rouge, so we marched there, through some slightly seedier parts of the city. Luke nervously clutched at his phone, ‘Calista, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.’
‘As Hobartains, Angel, we can agree there’s “no place like home”.’
‘I’d LOL if I didn’t think it would attract attention and get us stabbed.’  We made it to Starbucks without being knifed, enjoying our beverages not 100 metres from the famous French cabaret. As two musical theatre and entertainment tragics, it was a bit of a moment for us. A moment Luke caught on camera, forgoing the pedestrian “say cheese” with the “look Christmasy, Calista”.

We walked back to collect Kaitlyn from the coiffeur. No longer sporting her Vegemite stripe, she was instead modelling locks she deemed “yellow, not f@#%ing blonde”. I, personally, didn’t see anything wrong with them, but she was far from impressed by her new shade. ‘Gerard Butler won’t even f@#%ing look at me with hair like this.’ I didn’t think the best way to console her would be to tell her I didn’t think Gerard Butler was going to be looking at her at all. Montmartre was the first stop on our itinerary, so up the famous hill we climbed. Paris is, undoubtedly, a city with which I feel a great affinity, and this attraction, this kinship is best felt in Montmartre. While I will admit that Amélie and its very personal connection to my parents and me has a lot to do with it, its Bohemian culture, rich artistic history and exquisite views down over the entire city are equally significant drawcards for me. Montmartre is as quintessentially Parisienne as you can get, albeit quite touristy – and we embraced that touristiness to the nth degree, eating crepes by Sacré Cœur and sipping mulled wine on the stairs of the Rue Foyatier.

We continued our touristy assault on the city, next taking on the Eiffel Tower. When we passed it on the train, Kaitlyn’s response was ‘It’s smaller than I thought it would be.’ But, as we walked towards it, its lattice iron shimmering in the setting-sun, it was impossible to not be swept-up in the majestic symbol of the city. Say what you will about treading the weary, hackneyed paths of tourism – things become popular attractions for a reason, and sometimes you have to join the masses and experience them for yourself.

Another night, another evening in the hostel bar – although an early one it was this time, as our flight to Dublin necessitated a 5.00am start for Kaitlyn and me. We had a fun few days with Luke, cocktails and laughs the appropriate way to finish it off. The failure of the barman to drop what he was doing and serve Luke immediately was a bone of contention with mon ami, his nail-tapping and exaggerated sighing an almost melodious accompaniment to our (very brief) wait. When we were served, Luke dropped the “Christmasy” expression he had been wearing all day, adopting instead the look he “usually reserves for the poor people in economy”. ‘You make me wait, I’ll make you regret it. Fighting ‘tude with ‘tude.’  

Au revoir, Angel; Paris, à bientôt – nous vous voir dans une semaine. Dublin, nous arrivons!

Basquing In Our Own Beauty

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

In the western Pyrenees, in the land where Spain and France meet the Atlantic, you will find the Basque Country. Although not a country in its own right, the Basque Country is completely different to Spain and France, with its own distinctive culture and language. Arguably, its two most famous locations are the industrial city of Bilbao, home to Frank Gehry's renowned architectural masterpiece, the Guggenheim Museum and the coastal town of San Sebastián. We planned to check out the Guggenheim before heading onto San Sebastian for a few relaxing days of recuperation before our hectic final stops of Paris, Ireland and Paris. 

We travelled from Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh to Zaragoza, before heading onto Bilbao. We had a few hours in Zaragoza and, after leaving our luggage in lockers at the station, walked into the town to explore. We had left Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh very early in the morning, not having time for a proper breakfast. It was after lunch when we arrived so we were ravenous and food was our first priority. We found a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona almost immediately, grabbing supplies for a delicious lunch and then a bench on which to enjoy it. We had only been there a few minutes when an old lady approached us. She said something to us in Spanish to which we replied we were Australian and didn’t speak Spanish. How about Basque? No, we’re two of the only Australians not fluent in Basque. Italian? No. She didn’t speak French either, so we had no way of communicating...although this didn’t deter her. She simply took another step closer and kept talking away in Spanish. 

Have you seen Drag Me To Hell? She looked like the insane gypsy lady and, as the conversation progressed and she started to finger Kaitlyn’s sandwich and painfully clutched my hand to “admire” my rings, I was starting to think she was going to banish us to hell for eternity like in the movie. I realise it probably doesn’t sound very frightening, one old lady and two fit young girls, but I assure you she was terrifying. She was trying to make us get up and follow her, we think maybe to her home, but we kept resisting. She started to get quite frustrated with us and then told us to stay as she ducked inside a shop. We didn’t even have to exchange words, grabbing our stuff and literally sprinting back towards the station. Oh, Zaragoza, hopefully one day I will be able to come back and see some of your wonderful Mudéjar architecture...so long as Grandma’s not waiting to drag me to hell. 

Just before we got on the train to Bilbao, I received an email from the hostel we had booked there. This is what it said:

We have 12 rooms for the day.
divert the pension book Bilbao. Under the same conditions. Sorryfor the inconvenience.
c/ Amistad nº2 4º izda.
Bilbao. tfn.: 944246943
mail:pensionbilbao@telefonica.net
Very close to us.
Its reserve is confirmed.

You can understand why we were confused. “Divert the pension book Bilbao”? I replied, nicely, asking them if they could explain this a bit better. We never heard back. When we arrived in Bilbao it was late and dark. We had chosen the hostel we had because of its close proximity to the train station. Finding the new place on a map and seeing it was further, we decided to take a cab there. It wasn’t too far away, but with all our things and at the late hour, a taxi was the safer, more sensible option. When we arrived, the man there was clearly not expecting us. He didn’t speak any English, but he phoned the location of the original booking and, thankfully, someone there did. I spoke to them on the phone. Apparently, they didn’t mean to send us that email, our reservation still at the original hostel. As it was a Saturday night, we had obviously fluked getting a taxi the first time around and had no such luck the second. We trudged all the way back to where we started, arriving at the first hostel which was right next door to the train station.

We spent the morning in the city, wandering around and checking out the Guggenheim, before catching the bus to San Sebastian. 

Puppy by Jeff Koons

Surfers flock to San Sebastian to enjoy the waves and the laid-back resort-like way of life – a blasé, carefree lifestyle evident in our hostel which, in its foyer, replaced the typical welcome sign with the poetic “Happy F@#%ing”. Although not surfers, we too were in San Sebastián to relax and have fun, instead using the beach and beachfront promenade for a wanky photoshoot, something we hadn’t done since Vienna.  

Despite the laid-back, carefree nature of the town and its activities, San San Sebastian wasn’t able to alleviate Kaitlyn of her tantrum syndrome. The first blow-up was less of a tantrum and more of a heated discussion with a New Zealand guy who worked at the hostel. Prior to dinner, the two of us had gone to the pub for a drink. The man there suggested we try the local cider and presented us with two large glasses each holding a very small amount of liquid. At first we thought he was taking the piss, but we soon realised that this was our beverage. It was bizarre but, it was what it was. Afterwards, we went back to the hostel to make dinner. A group of the guys who worked there were also in the kitchen preparing food and drinking – drinking cider. We told them about our experience, and the New Zealander explained it to us. Spanish cider, sidra, is typically poured in very small quantities into a wide glass from a considerable height in order to produce air bubbles in the drink. This apparently gives it a sparkling quality similar to that of champagne but, as it only lasts a short time, one must essentially “shot” the liquid in one go. Having had it explained to us, it made sense....to me, at least. ‘That’s f@#%ing ridiculous. If I wanted a shot, I would have ordered a f@#%ing shot.’
Kiwi was your typical laid-back surfer so he was non-plussed by her response, offering her some of his cider. ‘You really should try it, it’s great, ay. Here, I’ll give you some.’
‘I don’t want any. I want actual cider in an actual glass. An actual f@#%ing drink.’
‘You should try some while you’re here though. Experience a bit of the culture, ay.’ Now, I will concede that, while he did, in fact, say “ay” a lot, he didn’t say it quite as much as Kaitlyn let on.

‘I am experiencing some of the f@#%ing culture, ay. I just wanted a f@#%ing drink of f@#%ng cider that I could drink from for more than one f@#%ing second. Some f@#%ing Bulmers, ay. I don’t need you to tell me how to experience the f@#%ing culture. Ay.’ 

‘I just meant that, while you’re here, you might try some Spanish cider, ay. Because you’re in the country, especially up here in this region, it would be good to try the local drink.’
‘So you’re telling me I’m not being f@#%ing cultural enough ay? You have no idea what I’ve been f@#%ing doing culturally. And so, ay, I want a f@#%ing drink of proper f@#%ing cider, ay. If I wanted a f@#%ing sip of f@#%ing cider, ay, I would have f@#%ing ordered that, ay. AY.’ 

The rest of us all sat there eating and drinking, watching the exchange. Eventually, they stopped arguing, but Kaitlyn kept making little digs where possible. When one of them asked what we had planned for the night, her response was ‘Going out. Being all cultural and shit, ay.’ Just as we were about to leave, they discussed from whom they were going to buy their marijuana for the evening. ‘Oh! You’re going to go and get stoned are you, ay? How f@#%ing cultural of you. Nothing says “Spanish f@#%ing culture” more than smoking a joint, ay.’

The second incident came after a failed attempt to upload photos to Facebook on one of the hostel’s laptop computers. It wasn’t a complete failure – at least, it wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t given up on it for being too slow. I too was uploading pictures and finding the whole process slower than it typically is. I, however, persevered and eventually found success. Kaitlyn, after giving up on the first computer, tried a different one. Finding this to be just as sluggish, she went nuts. ‘THIS COMPUTER. F@#%ING ASSHOLE C@#%. I’M GOING TO F@#%ING RIP THIS ONE IN HALF.’ She slammed the lid down and stormed out, a complete basquet case. Only a few seconds later she returned, vocally calmer although still physically seething. She reached over me, ‘Excuse me. And I’ll rip this one in half as well because that one doesn’t work so let’s rip that one in half.’ And she slammed that one closed, focusing her attentions on the one I was using, narrowly missing my fingers as she slammed that one closed also. She made her way through the room roughly closing each laptop. ‘There we are, put that back in, close that. Annnnd sorted. Thank-you.’ And with that she left.  There was a guy sitting in the room on his own computer. He turned to me and said, ‘Do you know her?’ 
‘Yep. I’m travelling with her.’ He just looked at me and then back out at her retreating figure. I gave her ten minutes to cool off and then tracked her down in our room. I found her there, outburst seemingly forgotten, calmly selecting clothing items to be tossed so we arrived in the French capital with plenty of room for new, Parisenne purchases. 


Paris – get ready because we’re coming!