Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Final Part

I assume that most of you know that I’m 17, and that I try to be as mature as I possibly can [bar the fart jokes, toilet jokes, and sex jokes]. With that in mind, would you think less of me if I said that I thought Disneyland Paris was MINDBLOWING?

I’ll admit now that I’m not much of a rollercoaster kind of guy: I’m the type of person who would rather get in a bumper car, and adhere to as many road traffic laws as I can, whilst displaying an air of decorum as every other person smashes into me and distracts me from my dream. Disneyland, however, may have just changed me. Waking up at eleven, we headed to the theme park on the train. Even from the outset, the place looks beautiful- upon entry to the park, you’re faced with primp and polished, cottage-like buildings, all clean and aligned to millimetre perfection, and sparkling; even in the dark of the clouds. Even I, a seventeen year old boy with testosterone raging through my veins, hardly managed to stop myself from jumping in a camp manner and screaming “OH EM GEE, I SSSSOOOO WANNA LIVE HERE!”

One of my friends, who was visibly ecstatic at the thought of being in Disneyland for her [wait for it, this pause is needed for the effect] SEVENTH time, led the charge for us to head to Space Mountain, Mission II. According to her, it’s “so much better than Mission I,” the coaster that is in the Florida Disney theme park. Me, in my pre-coaster state, was, and I’ll admit this, slightly afraid. Even though even the name “Space Mountain” sounds even more wussy than Graham Norton [or Richard Simmons for US readers] on a pink space hopper in a ballerina outfit, I was afraid that it’d go round a bend a little too fast, and would end up flinging me off to some far-fetched and little-known part of the Disneyland park, resulting in me waking up three days later with a weird Mickey-Mouse-shaped lump on the top of my noggin. As we got closer and closer, the feeling of being scared slowly adapted to the feeling of nervousness. Not a bad nervousness, like when you’re waiting outside a doctor’s office, and you know he’s going to tell you that the golf-ball you accidentally ingested was limiting you to six days of life, but a good nervousness.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
That quote was my own. During the whole ride, with my hair being tossed about more than a L’Oreal advert on acid, I cheered and whooped in amazement! It was AWESOME. Not content with riding just once, we ran round to the start of the queue once again, and re-rode the ride. Take two, however, was not so smooth. While boarding the ride, I accidentally pushed down the seat lock in front of me, causing my friend, who was getting into the seat, to trip slightly. After the ride was over, and everyone else’s seat lock came up, mine stayed on and kept me hostage. Touché, Disneyland, Touché.

We then made a run for the Finding Nemo ride. I’d give you the proper name for it, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten it. Although you may think it’s a pretty lame ride, it’s really not that bad! It’s not the most enthralling amusement available, but it’s certainly a bit of a surprise! I recommend sitting in the front seat- the first downhill left-hander’ll hit you off kilter, and that makes the ride so much more awesome!

Ride of the day, however, has to go to the Aerosmith ride. In the queue, you get to see tonnes of memorabilia from various artists [and surprisingly, even though it’s Disney, there were no Jonas Brothers collectibles. Oh, wait, I said ‘artists,’ didn’t I? My mistake!] , and you even get to see a video of the band explaining why and how they designed the rollercoaster. The ride itself, though, is phenomenal. There’s a countdown from 5 at the start of the ride, and then it truly does [with a bit of a jolt at the start], as the legendary rock quote states, go to 11. We repeated this ride three times before we headed to the star attraction, the well renowned, the infamous:
TOWER OF TERROR.
I’ll say right now that I didn’t find it to be “all that” [as all the ‘hip’ people say nowadays]. The ride itself is little more than a lift going up and down more than a yoyo at superspeed. The staff at that particular ride, though, are incredibly talented actors, who portray hotel workers, each with a little quirk [One of them gave me an extremely dirty look, and told me to “get off the carpet”, and another told my friend that they may meet their demise]. In fact, this caused one of my friends to be slightly infatuated with one of the ‘workers’, and to be honest, I thought the feeling was mutual- he was really hamming it up for my companions.

Although this was the end of our Disneyland trip, we headed back to the hotel, and then onto the Champs Elysée. We decided to dine at an Italian restaurant. Our waiter, a portly, goateed man, however, seemed to dislike our choice, and proved that there were chips on his shoulder, as well as in the kitchen. He also seemed to dislike my sudden comic turn over the “floating island” that was on the desert menu, deciding to shake the dish in my face before presenting it on the table; the giant, spherical marshmallow causing the yucky, viscous custard to splash out of the bowl.

After this, we decided to head to a club up the road, named “Queen.” The waiter at the restaurant laughed when he heard my friend’s plans to take me into the club, his outburst of laughter caused by the fact that the apparent target audience of the club was homosexual. Waiting outside, and viewing a shaggy-haired Asian man fall flat on his face from the sheer quantity of alcohol he had consumed, we decided to take a rain check on the club.

This was our last night in Paris, and it was an extremely cool trip. Although Paris may not live up to the hype that is cast on it, it is still an extremely cool city, with extremely cool photo opportunities, too. I recommend it, and if you plan on going at any point: Bonne voyage!

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Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Part 2

[Day 2]

The roads of Paris reminded me of a cross between the villages of Spain, and London. The driving conditions, however, reminded me of India. I don't know what French drivers have for breakfast, but it either makes them super-courageous, or super-blind. Upon returning to the more civilised roads of Britain, I thought that it was a miracle that, in the weekend I had spent in France, I had managed to escape with both my life, and without any tyre marks on my anatomy. Ducking, diving, and swerving; you feel like you're in somewhat of an action movie as you navigate your way. I think that if a Frenchman were to describe what he sees during his car journey, he'd say something like: “Aaaah! Zere are cars on ze left, cars on ze right, and a couple of passengers on ze bonnet.”
I worry for the pedestrians of France- there are no stop-lines for drivers on the roads, and the lights are about as visible as a chav at a Star Trek convention. Here, in Britain, we have the “THINK! Road Safety” campaign. I'm surprised that in France, they don't have the “Seriously... don't even bother...” campaign.
But for an even better view of how lax the French are at safety, you should take a cab. Firstly, there's a minimum charge of six euros. Considering the fact that I've frequented a place where cabbies would drive you half way up a mountain for fifteen euros, six euros for a couple of miles seems pretty out of order. But due to the fact that you could potentially suffer from three cardiac arrests, and a bout of hyperventilation on the way, I guess it's worth it. One cab driver, who we had on the second day, was so busy using his iPod, that he forgot that he was driving the cab.

On day two, after managing to still be alive, we decided to visit a small boulangerie [bakery, for those who didn't get past year 8 French] down the street from the hotel. My friends both got a pizza slice [which apparently tasted appalling], and a couple of sweet things, namely a chocolate chip bread stick, and a croissant aux amandes, which tasted great. The only problem is that the French shopkeepers are incredibly dull. I don't know whether they've had botox injected into their cheeks, but in my opinion, you'd need a couple of winches in order to force a smile onto those Parisian faces. You do them a good service by giving them an income, and they repay you by giving you a substandard good, and by throwing your change into your face [I mean it- there was one woman who flung her coins so hard that they almost ended up embedded into my visage]. What happened to service with a smile? Oh yeah, I forgot, we left it on the Eurostar.

We also decided to visit the Louvre. Yes, that's the one; the one with the Mona Lisa. The security there is CRAZY- with bag scanners on all of the wings of the museum/gallery, it's like they're EXPECTING you to smuggle the Mona Lisa out with you in your handbag as you leave. Unfortunately, the actual gallery was closed, but the shopping section [where there are various brand stores and even an Apple shop] was open, and so we wandered round there. Even without the art, the Louvre is a masterpiece in itself, with the Louvre pyramid, and the various pieces of architecture inside it being extremely beautiful [though I was lucky to hold the hand of the true masterpiece].
After a cab ride back, we decided to head to the eleven o'clock showing of the Moulin Rouge. I hadn't seen the movie, and although I had heard the title before, I had absolutely no idea of what was going to happen. Although we reserved three tickets for the show, we still had to wait in a horrendously long line. It seems that the French are no good at queueing, either- just like they like to drive three abreast, they like to line up three abreast, too. Thinking that the line would move about an inch in the half an hour before the show, my friends vanished to get a pizza from a shop that was down the road. As if by magic, while they were being given free shots and a pizza by the shopkeepers [who were Italian], the line moved up quickly. My friends and I were forced to quickly scoff the pizza, and donate half to various people who were wandering the street. Ironically, that was the best piece of food that we had while we were in France. After braving the freezing cold, we sat in the show.
Those who know me know that I really have no idea what to do when I'm faced with the prospect of having to dance and/or watch other people dance. Usually, I sit still as a statue while my head commentates: “Wow, you can put your left foot behind your right ear... Wow, that's... err... good...?”
So naturally, I was nervous at how I should react to the dancing in the show [which I must say is pretty good- even though I know absolutely nothing about dance and its intricacies.]
The part of my brain that controls reactions to nudity and ventriloquism, however, got a good workout that night. Obviously, the show is extremely tasteful- it's not just one French bird tottering onto the stage in ridiculously high stilettos going “Euuh! Feuhk Me!” It really is a well co-ordinated and well planned extravaganza.
The night ended with a ventriloquist taking to the stage and performing a mini stand-up routine with a few chosen members of the audience. Although there were times where he was obviously cheating by covering his mouth and delivering lines, he was a treat to watch, and was hilarious. Apparently, he was also a cunning linguist, conversing in French [obviously], English, Spanish, and German- though, admittedly, he did struggle when he called a Chinese man onto the stage to indulge in some audience participation.
If dance, comedy, and nudity isn't your sort of thing [even though, deep down inside, I believe that's what every human craves most- a wiggle, a giggle, and a flash], then you could just go for the champagne, or to meet new friends- both of which we did as well as watching the spectacular show.
After heading off for a couple of drinks with our new-found friends, we headed back to the hotel for a good night's sleep- for tomorrow, we would be a rollin' and a coastin'.

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Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Part 1

Being British, the stereotype of the French being narcissistic,  arrogant, overly-suave buggers has forever been around me, and like many others, I have also joined in with the playful banter about our southern neighbours without actually going to France. So my feelings were slightly mixed when I took up the opportunity to go to Paris for a  weekend.

[Day 1]

Leaving on the 4.31 Eurostar from St. Pancras International, bound for Paris, Gare du Nord, there was a sense of camaraderie between the passengers on the train. Whether this was an "Oh shit, I'm going down so I'm taking you all with me" bond, or a "Well... we have a four hour ride, let's make friends" bond is still unknown, but it seemed fun at the time, with my friends and I making friends with quite a few of the other English speakers that were huddled around us, and making little bets between ourselves on whether the dude with the bald head and funky goatee opposite us would finish his bottle of wine before we got to Paris.

Paris, though... Paris really is a different kettle of fish to what I was expecting. I fell into my own trap, and thought Paris would be quite a tiny place- just like quite a few foreigners think London's just a small little town, slap bang in the middle of England, with nothing but a row of shops, and a steady line of peasants all vying for the opportunity to have one sip of tea [and no more than that- it's against the law, y'know] with the oh-so-magnificent Queen. Paris, though, is massive. Having got to the Eurostar station, we needed to successfully navigate our way to our hotel. This, dear readers, is where I started to miss London. The French tube maps are largely the same as British ones- but with a couple of key differences: The lines have numbers, not names, and instead of using a proper key to display the line numbers, they're just in a minuscule circle on the end of the line itself. Now, that's just asking for trouble, isn't it?

Luckily, though, the information desk was manned, and we got three tickets to La Bastille, where our hotel is located.

I know I've complained about the London Underground system quite a lot [it's because I'm British, I swear!], but I have to say that given the choice between the "Underground" and the "Metro", I'd pick the "Underground" every time. Metro trains are tiny, and everyone inside looks deadpan, with literally no expression, even though they're being squashed against the walls, and the seats, and having their face violated by another passengers luggage.  The doors, too, don't open themselves, and are locked by a passenger via a tiny latch. If no passenger wants to get off at a stop, no-one opens the latch, and the doors stay closed. This was a source of great worry to me and my friends, who feared that we wouldn't be able to work the latch system at our stop, and we'd be stuck on the train to "insertfrenchterminusstationhere". What was more amazing, though, was the fact that French passengers [or Parisian ones, at least] don't like to pay for their tickets. Various passengers leapt across the turnstiles at stations, inspiring an "OH MY GOD! WE SHOULD DO THAT!" from my friends.

Getting to La Bastille metro station, you'll realise that although Old Street station has 9 exits, and Swiss Cottage has about 5, nothing is as complicated as a station in France that has roughly 4 exits. Making it to the main station concourse [after an incident where a blind woman on a mobile phone ended up clattering into our bags, causing a flurry of:

"OMG! SAY SORRY IN FRENCH!"

"...Je suis desolée!"]

we stood for a literal half an hour, and deliberated which exit to pick. It felt like we were in one of those horror movies where you need to pick the right way out to escape alive, or the zombies [or in this case, French people who looked pretty battered after their evening commute] would eat you. We finally opted for the exit that said "Boulevard de Bastille", and immediately felt sorry for doing so. We ended up in the Boulevard de Bastille wing of the station, looking like real travellers, and helpless ones at that. We stood near a map [which was the only thing available, seeing as the workers at the information desk seemed to adore the schadenfreude that occurred by leaving the desk unmanned, and watching several passengers (actually, I'm just saying that to feel better- it was really just us) scratching their heads and looking extremely scared], and seeing as we couldn't see the road of the hotel on it, we decided to ask the people that passed by.

"Excuse moi, Ou est la Rue Croazatier?" I asked various people. Helpfully, as if we hadn't tried that, all of them pointed to the map and walked off. Pas merde, Sherlock. We decided to traipse up the stairs, bags in tow, and try and find a cab driver, or at least anyone upstairs who would know the directions to the hotel. Luckily, a taxi rank was just nearby, and after being directed to the first cab in the line [I think it's a rule in the "Fellowship of the Cabbie" or something], we handed the driver the card, and zoomed off to the hotel.

While driving on a French road, you discover a lot about the place. For example, you see that various drivers consider "synchronised three-point-turning on a road narrower than a dark alley" a sport, not a death trap. There's also the fact that Parisian pedestrians seem to think that they're built like the iron man, and will be completely unharmed if they walk into the road. There's one think you can't deny, though, and that's that France is a beautiful city, especially at night. The architecture is plain awesome, and the blinking lights in the dead of night just enhance the beauty, and turn everything into a masterpiece.

After surviving the wreckless French roads, and putting our stuff in the hotel, we decided to wander. My friend wanted cigarettes, and I, wanting to put my B at GCSE French into use, decided to ask where to buy them. The only problem is that when I wanted to speak French, a little bit of Spanish kept popping out. I got "acheter" [French for 'Buy'] mixed up with "comprar" [Spanish for 'Buy'] and ended up creating "Ou on peut compris des cigarettes?", which I think may just mean "Where can one understand these... Cigarettes?"

French 1, Ravi 0.

You'd probably expecting French crepes to be the most brilliant crepes in the world. But it's at this point that I'll need to break your hearts and shatter your dreams: the best thing about the first creperie we went to, was the sweater that was being worn by the man making the crepes. I would rather have eaten my own leg that ordered the rubber [it was meant to be cheese] filled pancakes that were received. After covering the shame of the crepes [or should I say "craps"?] with a packet of hard haribo, and a can of Fanta, we headed back to the hotel to say goodnight to a good first day.

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