The curious cat was a victim of drowning; or, an illustrated lesson in button-pressing

Hopping on our local 88 bus and changing more or less as planned, we arrived at school in excellent time to have a look around before our oral tests. Now, these are not exactly high-pressure examinations - just a wee chat to see which class we will end up in. On the way in we ran into Aaron, another St Andrews student, and subsequently Matt and Alissa who were recovering from a demenage (removal - that's French!) immediately followed by a day on the train getting to Paris.

I had a test of bizarrely short duration, which on reflection I attribute to the fact that Stephane, my teacher last year, had taken detailed notes on the progress of his students and they pretty much knew where they were going to put me, which is as he said last summer.

Here's a picture of the courtyard that I really like, so much so in fact that I poached it from last year.

We had to pick up our bursaries - I know it's not the school's money and certainly not that of those handing it out, but I still felt awkward taking that much cash and counting it out as they requested!

Right outside the office there was an accessible toilet. I embraced it, not literally, but almost, given the extremely low loo in our flat and the fact I am missing my toilet frame quite badly. The seat was angled and high and my curiosity was piqued by the various buttons next to the seat. After flushing as normal I decided that the thing to do would be to test these buttons, in the spirit of science and experimentation. History rewards the thinkers but celebrates the doers, I felt.

There was a bidet function which was predictably squirty at a low level, accompanied by a bottom drying button that blasted air upwards for brief periods. All very sensible and toilet-appropriate. Then there was the button marked "shower". I pressed that one and stood well back, just in case. This little nozzle whirred forth and water began to flow down into the toilet bowl. Bemused by the description of this function as "shower", I leaned forward, at which point a jet d'eau that would rival Geneva's hit me right in the face and continued right up the wall.

I am told that from outside, my squeals and eventual soaked appearance were quite funny. I am sure I am going to suffer some sort of post-trauma and develop a fear of toilets, showers or buttons in due course.

In the book shop at reception they were advertising this book, which to my mind asks a very important question.

Just up the rue d'Assass is a very fine establishment into which we wandered, seeking sustenance. The proprietor, as it turned out, spoke fluent English and was interested in us as Divinity students. Not for a moment did I imagine that my first long-ish conversation in France would consist of someone asking if I knew whether Murphy-O' Connor's books on Paul had been translated into French, and someone who not only knew that he taught at the Ecole Biblique but who had known him growing up. If that sounds like enough of a small-world anecdote, you would be mistaken, as it transpired that he had lived in Israel for many years and was taught by Carmelites, something which made him vaguely aware of the community in Haifa in which Mary worked.

Something else that I discovered in this cafe I have taken up with evangelical zeal. I do not want to give too many details of this original creation, lest it be appropriated by too many who would not appreciate its wonder, but let me just say: Pizza. Cone. Veggies. Mmmm.

After a short ride on the 94 bus, we joined the upper tour at Madeleine. Passing the Opera again, I took this picture of the cafe at which we stopped the day before.

Ah. Trinite church was a favourite site on the commute going back home last year, but was under renovation at the time. Now it appears that you can go in, so I must do that this year. Best seen, in my opinion, up the street below.

A glimpse of Sacre Coeur from the Blanche area.

A really interesting frieze on a building by the Barbes-Rouchechouart metro station, which I kept trying to locate last year.

A couple of destination-representing statues on the Gare du Nord.

The commentary looped a couple of times here, and we heard part of the story about the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian war, during which the Parisians had to eat rats and Maxim's served elephant from the zoo. Apparently it was hoped that large hot air balloons could be sent outside the city and returned with cattle to eat. Unfortunately, we never heard if they got their cow. Seems a long wait for a beefburger, to me.

Below, to my shame, is a perfectly decent picture of Place de la Republique avec my finger. Oops.

Around the St Martin area, in the east,

Gratuitous Opera picture, because I like it and will bring it up given the least cause.

Before hopping on the final section of the loop, we stopped for refuelling at St-Michel again. Here's a picture of the rue de la Huchette, which I frequented last year but never once photographed.

I had my first crepe with nutella and banana, while Mary tried the nutella and whipped cream.

Here's Mary's photo out the window.

Before we left, we had a partially intelligible conversation with the Greek table attendant. We spoke to a lot of Greeks the first couple of days.

Walking back from Denfert Rochereau, a task for which I was entirely too tired, I spotted this broken mirror out on the pavement and decided it was there just for the benefit of passers-by with cameras. Welcome to the rue Victor Considerant, slightly fragmented.

Just like the photographer. I slept ten hours after this.

A very not-like-the-way-Cliff-did-it summer holiday

After a long and tiring day, we needed a lazy morning, and it was almost 12 by the time we set forth. Mary had suggested an open top bus tour, and I discovered that the four-loop city tour ran within a few minutes of our flat. We set off through our local cemetery (don't judge; it's one of the three main ones) and, after a grappling match with the ticket machine at Raspail metro station, we stood on the pavement and awaited the lime green bus.

Not only did Mary think that the buses were a great idea, she thought that they were my great idea. Everyone's a winner on this trip.

Mary's photos of the first day are far more exhaustive, partly because I myself was exhausted and partly because I had seen a lot of things last year and was selective, for me. However, you will see none of them until I can make blogger and my browser cooperate.

(update: browser not cooperating, however alternate browser now being used for blogging. Vague memories emerge of same last summer. Aaah! Mosquito! 'Scuse me while I close these parentheses.)

We stopped at the St Michel area, a favourite of mine, for lunch and a change of buses. After some browsing, we settled on spaghetti bolognese at an Italian restaurant. We were served by a German-speaking Greek waiter, who asked us, "If you're British, how come you can speak French?" We explained that you had to study it in school and we were students in Paris, but he was clearly still mystified as to why we would even bother. The other waiter walked up and placed sparkly hats on our heads, which we wore while we finished eating, though no explanation was ever offered.

Back on the (other) bus, we drove into eastern Paris. Very interesting route. I saw several new places to me even though we passed familiar sites like Bastille, where there was a boogying octogenarian wearing a bejeweled t-shirt that read, "Papa Danser".

The first major site we came to south of the river was this library - the Bibliotheque Nationale (named after Mitterand, the great builder of contemporary France, but I don't know where his name fits in, really). There's something megalithic about the four huge corner towers, even though they are meant to evoke open books. Meg compared them to the library in the library episodes of the most recent series of Dr Who, which didn't encourage me to visit - count the shadows...

We drove past the road to Bercy village, a revolutionised development of the old warehouse district.

Things were already starting to get a bit odd, with the commentary broken up by a rotating playlist of approximately ten songs that blasted randomly between anecdotes. Taking a leaf out of my tour-guide book, the guide turned to the helipad on the central taxation department.

"It is closed now, for security reasons." [pause to think of terrorist threat, then..] "Imagine a secretary gets out of his helicopter, you are driving below, and then there is a gust of wind and he is sitting in the seat next to you."

On the "grand tour" we were driven up the Champs Elysees to see the flaneur culture in action (when people go out strolling to see and be seen), before swinging the double-decker bus around the Arc de Triomphe which, for what I can honestly say is the only time in my life, made me feel like Cliff Richard. The commentary told us the familiar history of Victor Hugo lying in state, the unknown soldier and allied troops marching into Paris under the arch, then terrified everybody by telling us about daredevil pilots flying under the archway.

After I gave Mary my potted history of the Palais Chaillot while a chanteur de jazz yelled, "JE T'AIME!" in my ear rather alarmingly, we viewed the Eiffel Tower from every conceivable angle, and I must admit it was a lot of fun to have a contained group of people suddenly realising how mind-bogglingly huge it seems from below.

We got off at the Opera Garnier to ogle my favourite building and to recharge before taking the 68 bus (my old friend) down to Denfert Rochereau.

Look what we found in a shop there:

Yep, that says Jura.

Pausing for a drink and an excuse to use the loo, we ended up at the same cafe at which Tina and I enjoyed a pre-ballet meal last summer. Conjuring up a vague memory of prices having deterred me from Coke Lite, I ordered jus d'ananas, pineapple juice, with which I also remember having impressed the waiter last summer. He seemed to react, again, as if I were a great sommelier who had ordered an obscure yet excellent vintage from his own grandmother's vineyard. Unless his grandmother has a terrace in the Phillipines, the label of the juice bottle says this is not so. Even more strangely, when Mary asked me what I had ordered and both he and I replied, "Pineapple juice," something in his look congratulated me for my grasp of English. The waiters on rue Auber must have really low expectations.

After our €5 pineapple juice (seriously, you should see what they charge for a coffee), we explored the loo. I was excited that it was a proper Parisian cafe toilet with the phone cubicle, a la Charade. The light system in the loo was interesting - the bit that was glowing, almost inviting you to press it, turned out to be the flush. A few litres of water later, I found the switch lurking in darkness behind the door.

When we actually got on it, our bus terminated three stops down - another quintissential experience. There was, however, another just behind, so it was less of a frustrating experience than it might have been. I plonked Mary down in an appropriate seat and introduced her to my former commute - view of the opera, pyramid at the Louvre and Ile de la Cite included.

Denfert Rochereau is totally disorientating. This is my conclusion from first day. The key problem is that one swings around it for an ill-defined period of time, after which one screeches to a halt and is dumped along on side or another with an almost identical view of the misshapen islands within. Once we knew which way was north, we walked down rue Daguerre with the plan of picking up something to eat in the 8 a huit, but didn't even get that far before succumbing to the temptations of a traiteur asiatique and (in Mary's case) the supermarket full of wine across the street. We also stocked up on some delicious looking fruit.

Sore. Very sore, after the buses and their stairs. It was also much later than we thought.

Sleepy!

Nothing Ventured, No-one Pained...

Dragging oneself out of bed at 5am (ish) to set forth on a month-long study programme seems a self-punishing way to go about things. Really, one should have a limo pick one up at a decent hour and be conveyed to parts foreign on a cloud of candyfloss, but these things are so difficult to arrange at short notice. On three hours of sleep, I washed in running water (thus ensuring that I would be ritually pure come sunset) and Mary and I set off.

We parked some way from the terminal building to start with, a problem compounded by the need to walk the length of that building, out the other end and into terminal two. Naturally the gates were back in the other building. Glasgow Airport has grown since last I was there. Mary was concerned.

"Do you think the flight was so cheap because we're walking there?"

I had wanted to opt for priority boarding given my current mobility, but without the proper diagnoses and actually needing a wheelchair. it seemed petty. Nevertheless, I thought I might as well ask. I was given a brief lecture on how I "should have told them at the gate" in a not-very-helpful tone, but she still let us go through with the priority line, which was nice. I was a bit taken aback by the tone. However, I decided to be really nice and voice my appreciation, which made me feel pretty good which made me feel pretty shallow which made me feel like I should stop reflecting upon it. We agreed that it was worth asking, especially when we got to go straight to the back of the plane and ended up with three seats to ourselves.

We were just settling in and getting our bags into the overhead compartments when we heard the announcement,
"Good morning ladies and gentlement and welcome to this Easyjet flight to London Luton..."
I looked at Mary and said, "Luton?" I was a bit confused. "I hope that's a mistake."
"Ohh!" came a cry from behind me. "Paris! We're going to Paris!" [tannoy crackles back on] "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen; this is of course our flight to Paris Charles-de-Gaulle..."

Flight was fairly uneventful apart from a very nice member of the cabin crew stepping on my foot while I was dozing and discovering that the hand soap in the loo moonlighted as a moisturiser and an air freshener.

We had taken our time getting off the plane and after watching everyone else rush past in a flurry of "me-first", it was somewhat satisfying to find that everyone had been loaded on to a bus and was now waiting for us, when, naturally we would also be the first off the bus. First signs of the Parisian attitude in the tarmac director guy who waved off passengers dismissively as if they were ready to accost him at the first opportunity. Magic.

After a smooth taxi-run in, we arrived at our flat which, while the settee covers and bits of the kitchen could be cleaner, will do us quite nicely. After a few failed attempts to get the internet working, we discovered that all you need (apart from love) is a single successful attempt. Encouraged, we struck forth in search of food, both being quite hungry by that point. We staggered reasonably cheerfully down a main food and shopping street behind us before collapsing even more gratefully into an ambiguously Turkish establishment for a sandwich grec (me) and a panini. Best food ever. We admitted that we'd both had cold feet about the whole thing - the past few weeks being ever so stressful - but really felt we had to get on with it. Now that we're here we seem to have perked up with the excitement and the change of scenery!

Wandering the rue Daguerre:

Looks like there are quite a number of appealing places to eat around here, and a local 8 a huit (supermarket). Mary and the proprietor are already great friends, and we think he lived in Scotland for a year. Small world, Paris.

[pics to come]