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15:47
Ravi Amruth
[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'.
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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Waheeey. Again, amazing! Bravo mon ami!
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