WELCOME TO LILLE

Well, I’m slowly finding my feet. They’re slipping about all over the place in the ice and snow, but my feet are there, nevertheless. And I haven’t gone bottoms down onto the pavement yet either, so I’m pretty proud of myself all in all.

ALL CHANGE


It's decided.
I've been accepted for my first temping assignment up in Lille, starting Monday. Monsieur, for his part, has two job interviews lined up before Christmas already, so if he manages to get himself something before my own placement is over (late February) then Lille is officially our new home.

So now I just need to go pack. Sigh! Again. I move way too often.

Merry Christmas all. :)

OLD BONES GET NO REST


Visiting damp tunnels full of centuries old skeletons is probably not everyones idea of a great day out, but there's something I rather like about roaming about in tunnels. And if there's one thing that Paris has got a lot of, it's tunnels. In this case, Paris' famed catacombes.

These particular tunnels were originally limestone quarries - some dating back to Roman occupation (of what was then Lutece). During the late 1700s, there were severe problems with overflowing graveyards and poor burials - especially in the region of Les Halles (once a famous marketplace, now a tragically designed commercial district). To combat the disease caused by these unsanitary conditions (becoming even more problematic during the revolution), it was decided to transfer the bodies to the former quarry sites and create mass graves.

There's something very anonymous about this sort of experience. Graveyards at least give you an indication of who each person was, but here I found myself wondering, as I looked at the rows and rows of skulls, who they were, how they lived, how they died. Though it's sure that these old bones get no rest with all us tourists wandering through day after day.

ADVENTURES IN PRAGUE

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty only staying a weekend in one city, in a country I've never visited. The backpacker in me wanted a good couple of weeks to follow the roads less travelled in this country I know nothing about, speaking a language I don't understand. That said, I have a pretty good talent for figuring out key foreign words pretty quickly. In this instance, though, I think it was limited to beer, wine, exit and thank you.

PICASSO MUSEUM

Europe on a shoestring travelling pro-tip: Museums in France are free on the first Sunday of every month. I recently took advantage of a free cultural day and strolled down to the Hôtel Salé to check out the Picasso Museum (and to compare it with the Barcelona collection...)

DAILY BREAD

Some new change that's been gnawing away at my daily routine and equilibrium. My favourite baker has shut up shop and her bakery has been taken over by new management.
Bakeries are probably the only establishment to outnumber pharmacies in a country where bread in plastic bags that is designed to last longer than 24 hours is relegated to some obscure back aisle of the supermarket. And choosing the right one is a tricky process. Bakery A does great pain au chocolat, but the croissants are too salty. Bakery B has superb buttery croissants but the chausson pommes is too gluey. Bakery C has lovely crusty baguettes, but their brioche isn't sweet enough. And even when they get it all fairly right, they also have to be NICE. You visit them every other day, so someone a bit more amiable than just tolerable is always welcome. My last local baker at Saint Ouen was fairly sour, and her pain au chocolats were underwhelming. So I was chuffed, upon moving, to find a lovely bakery very close to us, with great produce, not too expensive, and a charming funny lady running the place. It was with great dismay that I saw the 'closed - change of ownership' sign up in place a couple of weeks ago. It has recently reopened, and I have popped in once. But everything is more expensive now, the resident cat and kitten have departed, and strangely enough - I feel like a bit of a traitor.

SUMMER IN PROVENCE III

The wild Camargues horse is found only on the watery plains and salt marshes of southeastern France.
And now a quick tour around the Arles and the Camargues region, close to the Mediterranean coast - where bicycles were ridden in the wrong direction, I watched some men chasing bulls in an ancient Roman arena, wild flamingos were seen feeding in the depressingly polluted saltmarshes and I got a tan on my lower back that turned my skin a kind of deep mahogany colour that I did not know was possible...

SUMMER IN PROVENCE II

Such a cliché image, but I couldn't resist! What's Provence without a field of lavender after all...?

SUMMER IN PROVENCE



Old chateau converted into an open air cinema, Groeux les Bains

I've just returned from a short summer holiday in Provence (which, at this time of year, is overwhelmingly dominated by blonde Dutch families with their requisite 2.4 children in tow). I was so happy to revisit many of the spots I checked out during my backpacker adventure down here a year ago, plus a couple of new discoveries. I absolutely adore Provence. If I thought I could get work down this way I'd move here in a red hot minute. The pine trees, the oak forests, the cicadas, the apricots, the Roman architecture. Idyllic doesn't even begin to cover it.

30! HELP!

This is it.
The big three oh.
Had to happen eventually right? I remember as a teenager that I could never possibly image EVER being so old as 30. Well, it happened. All I had to do was wait, time did the rest.

YE OLDE


In between the annoyingly typical weekend rain showers, I popped over to Burgundy (Bourgogne) to check out the chateau of Guédelon, a project that's already 8 years in the making to build a 13th century castle using only the skills and technology available in the era. Already feeling like I'd taken a step back in time while trundling through the rural backwaters of the Yonne region, this just added a little extra flavour of medieval authenticity. Being as I am, in such a densely populated area now, I forget how sweet the country air smells. The smell of woodsmoke, damp leaf litter and clean air was worth the inconvenience of passing showers.

JUNE IN THE DUNES

This past weekend was a fun trip up to the northern coast to hang out at a seaside(ish) apartment in Merlimont (near Touquet)

SLOW

It's actually been a slow few days, and I must shamefully admit I have not been profiting at all from the sunshine nor life in Paris. The thing about living in such a famous city is that there's something of a self-imposed pressure to be constantly taking advantage of that fact. Especially when one makes the rash decision to blog their adventures online...

Even though I have been a hermit, there have been some daily life developments, mostly in the 'what now? department.

Without going into too much personal detail, the stress of our respective employment situations (in both the having and not having sense) has been taking a toll and we're both taking some time out to reconsider our quality of life here and whether a move to a more regional area might not be a better idea - maybe Toulouse (althought the previously mentioned job interview didn't pan out), or elsewhere.

In the meantime I'm working on my 20th reiteration of my employment 'motivation letter'...migrainus merdum, so unmotivated. Oh and I went to see Star Wars - apparently wookies are from Vietnam and Darth Vader is some kind of metaphor for George W. (if you're not with me, you're against me...)


NO TIME TOU-LOUSE

I've been waiting to use that line for ages, I must admit
Well, one weekend and a lot of kilometres later, and I can now say I've seen at least a little of southwestern France.

Leaving late on Thursday night, we drove the 700 odd kilometres down to Albi (a town just out of Toulouse where we had a free bed waiting). Arriving at around 2am, we didn't see much of the town, but opening the shutters to a hot southern sunny day, we were greeted with a very green view of the river Tarn, and more than a little jealous that this wasn't OUR daily view!

HIGH CLASS CONFECTION


At some point every couple of weeks or so, I'll find myself lost wandering nonchalantly through a posh area of Paris (no, not all areas of Paris are posh, promise), and will stumble across what I can only describe as an haute couture chocolate shop. This shrine to hedonism distinguishes itself from the normal riffraff of plain old amazing French chocolate shops by the addition of ridiculously too good to eat chocolate art.

With Easter approaching, there is already a torturous assortment of chickens, rabbits (and for some reason I can't fathom, gnomes...one chocognome I recently spotted was meant to have a chococarrot in his chocohand, except that it had sort of slipped down to his choconetheregions and he was looking pretty excited about Easter is all can say) in the window of pretty much every other patissier. Meanwhile, the High Class chocolate simply get on with their weird and wonderful creations as part of the day to day showing off, and they might chuck in the odd chicken to prove they're paying attention.

Yesterday night, while displaying my astute knowledge of the layout of inner Paris ('where the hell we NOW? And where's the putain de metro station gone?') to a visiting friend, we found ourselves (intentionally of course) on the impossibly chic Rue Saint Honore (think Cartier), I passed by the creme de la creme of all the chocolate concoctions I've seen thus far. A giant exotic bird made of dark and white chocolate with a chocolate waterfall in the background. Wonder if they've managed to scrub my nose print off the glass yet?

GO BIO

One of the things I love about food shopping in French supermarkets (or the old fashioned outside ones, when I get the chance) is the lovely choice to 'go bio' (organic) with almost all products on the shelf - particularly the important staples of rice, flour, coffee, sugar and milk. I kind of like it when my fresh produce doesn't come with a side serving of pesticides either, but you really need to go to produce markets for that.

SALAD DAYS

I really don't know what the recommended RDI for olive oil is, but I've surely passed my monthly quota in 3 days.

Despite the shuttle too-ing and fro-ing that a "cheap" low-budget airline flight involves (which becomes progressively less cheap once you tack on all the shuttle fares), plus the guilt of the carbon miles (am I redeemed cos I don't own a car?), my mental health is thanking me, though whining a bit that I couldn't stay longer.

BARTHELONA

I'm going to Barthhhelona for a few days next week - I've been informed that they talk that way thanks to some bygone king who had a lisp, and it sort of stuck. I haven't actually confirmed that story as true, and knowing how the story machine works, it probably isn't.

Anyway, I dappled in the capriciously priced universe known as budget airlines (whose terms and conditions can be paraphrased as 'it's your funeral buddy') but didn't bother with the insurance - like, what's the worst that can happen in under a week, man? (Watch this space)

I've had a hankering to go there since discovering Gaudi - you know that he died by being hit by a tramway - and that was back when they hardly existed, how unlucky is that? (reconsiders travel insurance)

Now would be a good time to start remembering those Spanish lessons I took last year (*searching memory banks*)

What's Spanish for 'hey that guy just nicked my wallet and passport!' ?

OW

My muscles and I are not on speaking terms. No, one does not move out of a second floor apartment with a narrow stairwell, and move into a 5 story apartment with no elevator, and stay on friendly terms with ones calf or bicep muscles. A slight error on the lease agreement means we don't have water or electricity connected yet, so we're still camping out in the old apartment, with only the essentials (internet access, chocolate and wine among them).

Still, I'm pleased to report that no-one collapsed in a pile of broken furniture with issues of blood pressure and heart failure, the apartment is very lovely and we were pleasantly thrilled to discover that we actually have a clear view across to the Sacre Coeur. Which we take turns at looking at, just to make sure it's still there.


TOOTLE, TOOTLE, PEEP! HONK, BEEP, BEEP!

Sometimes, if the timing is right, I will take the bus instead of the metro for the last section of my daily commute. I much prefer the bus, there's hardly anyone in it, and I can have a nice warm seat, breathe and read whatever book I'm engrossed in (with said book at normal distance from my nose rather than pressed up against my face).
While I wait for the bus, midway between the hellish stretch of road that links La Defense with L'Arc de Triomphe, I amuse myself watching the morning flow of vehicles where traffic merges at a horrific intersection. When I say 'merges', those cars can get themselves into such a tight crossweave that D&G could probably sew a garment out of it.
There is quite often a couple of traffic police in place to do the work that a set of traffic lights can no longer manage. I love to watch them whistling, pointing, waggling their white-gloved hands at naughty motorists. And I love to watch the motorists who, much in the way of children playing 'freeze', try and creep through unnoticed everytime the white-hands and whistles turn their backs. But they do a great job, considering the stunts drivers try and pull off even with the traffic police in full view (sometimes you've just got to give them points for sheer inventiveness).

WHEN IS A PUBLIC HOLIDAY NOT A PUBLIC HOLIDAY?

when the trains are on strike.

I have a choice of 3 different ways to get to work (outside of walking 6 km) using the public transport system. I like to mix it up a bit, to keep my brain mildly occupied with the thought that each time I probably should've chosen one of the OTHER two that morning. My most common is the RER, a regional rail system that extends a good distance to the surrounding Ile-de-France areas. I can generally get a seat (though, sometimes it's puzzlingly packed to the doors, and I've not yet discovered the causes of these random fluctuations) and it's a lot nicer than the bus or metro which are generally like a tin of sardines - packed to the brim, and funny smelling.