In France: Following Trick

Hello readers!

I do apologise for the lack of output lately but there has been little time or opportunity for it. Last time I recall just having met up with Timqth. That was aeons ago it seems so much has happened. Right now, we're relaxing at THE best hostel (definitively) in the ghetto in Marsaille and it is incredible! But let's take this slow and chronologically. Plus, there is no USB drive or memory card reader so no pictures. Very very dissappointing!

Ok so going out with nato was great her dad shouted us a couple of rounds at a hotel bar on Haymarket street, ending up nicely with some flaming absinth. And we haven't even reached the bloc yet! Then we stumbled (perhaps groggily) through street after street until we found 'ronnie scotts', a jazz joint that I had been reccommended to by an usher on the train earlier that week. It was cuban night, and it was so smooth. The band members interchanged all the time in front of our eyes and just went bass to sax to vocals it was mad. There were some really terrible (older) dancers who seemed to outwiegh us young ones, and none of us were game to dance let alone the great tiredness that had set in (by 0300). So we saw nat off (the second time for me) and caught a night train. I believe there's a photo of me sleeping, because we had about an hour to burn at the station. Then, because we couldn't figure the bus timetable out we walked home to Ian and Danielles for what was never going to be the last time. Sleep came swiftly at 0600.

We awoke at 1300, and went into town before heading through the sleepy rain to our football match. And the mood was just as we'd both hoped. Thousands upon thousands of fans yelling and cursing and gesturing as one. The kids were heaps worse then their fathers which was funny as! We put in a bit though chanting 'Sefky' with the row behind us whenever the striker came within a 20m radius of the ball. The game ended nil all, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. Not having spared any thought as to our route home, Tim and I headed for the nearest pub, humming with post game relaxed contentedness. Man, I miss those pints already. English pubs are so great I'll never forget them.

So we got picked up about 100m from home by E and D and went out to dinner with some of their equally quality friends for some additional beer and laughs. Oh man so much fun! The Gypsy Moth was the name of the pub and we were served by the most animated girl ever.

We tried to cram in a trip to the markets on Porto Bello road which were mostly antique and wholly devoid of activity, which ended up making us 10m late for our bus, rendering our 20 pound ticket useless. And needless to say, I was fuming. So we quietly rode out the wait until the next bus to Bath, eating our budget lunch from Sainsbury's. But Bath turned out to be a good call, crumbling stone cottages sprinkled over the deepest green of rolling hills, with crooked cobbled roads and clean country air. Fantastic. I, after getting fed up of not knowing where the hell we were, stormed into a pub to ask for directions to the hostel that had allegedly changed names, only to discover just how fateful our trip continues to be as it turned out to be the very one we had booked. So lucky!

There was only one other person in the room who was this New Zealander, and he was a freakin creep. He took like a minute to think of things to say and missed all the cues we were screaming at him. But we did survive and make it out with our innocence intact. We walked throught he markets, watching a man on a tall tall unicycle, a human statue, a really bad breakdancer who was tired every time we came back to see him, and a gaudy carousel which looked so impressive in the dusk scene.

Tim and I then wandered around, talking, finding places for me to 'find a release' for my notoriously inadequate bladder and filmed some stupid stunts around the parks. It was totally us, and totally lameass at the same time. We found out drinks were a pound fifty in the hostel bar and suffice it to say, by 1900 we realised just how liquered we were, and how embarrassingly early it was. But we pushed on, sobered up, saw some impressive avenues enjoyed by the wealthy populace and walked through the streets in the heavy cold until we found a pub that was free entry. I was talking to the bouncer and found out it was an open mike night, and after a combination of Tim pressuring me to go, the fact we were in YOUROPE, the (frankly) awkward efforts of preceding amatuer musicians and my own feelings of compulsion inspired by the thought that I wouldn't see anyone again, I took the guitar in one hand, a ruddy smile spilling across my face, and sung 'summers end' to the silent and enraptured onlookers. I got the privelidge of exiting to applause which I would like to presume was from the quality of my performance. So that was a good night.

Next day was the thermals themselves, where we soaked up the steam, atmosphere and bodily fluids of all the oldies that joined in and laughed because I, being unable to concieve an event 10m into the future, forgot swimwear and was 'forced' to stride around in my jocks. Many eyebrows and feeble heart rates were raised.

We then walked up a hillside overlooking the majestic splendour of Bath in the morning (with our encumbersome packs) and I serenaded the still scene with my trusty guitar. My alter ego itself. We actually did catch the bus this time and made our way back to England. I was left no choice but to stay at E and D's again because I couldn't reach my cousin, so we bought them some Bailey's (apparently the appropriate thing to do) and talked to the wee hours. Next stop was Paris, the city of light.

The weather was overwhelmingly underwhelming the whole time we were there, but it is a credit to this breathing, vibrant place that we still had a fantastic time. I've been trying to pick up as much French as possible and have had modest success when eating out, and will get the occassional laugh at my terrible prononciation. Our hostel here was a shi- hole. The taps were broken, the beds writhing, the rooms peeling and the bathrooms filled with a stale reek. A colony of Spanish people had commandeered half the facilities which left the rest of us in taco-less squalor. But all was well. We met many many Australians which was good and bad and got some good travel tips from a Belgiun which will undoubtedly come in handy. We are pretty ghetto savvy now, having seen more kebab outlets then Habibi and survived all the nights we were out. The first night we went to the church overlooking the hillside plaza where Amelie was filmed, and I was so excited. First day, we saw the conchord, champs de elsee, a stretch of the Seine, the louvre, and by then we were hammered. That night I went out walking cause Tim the big softy was le tired. I walked for a very very long time and got home at 0230 or something, feet soaked but heart contented.

The next day was the Eiffel tower and the Arc de Triumphe, which were incredible respectively. After that we tried to jump start some nightlife but the Parisians were also le tired and the metro, we discovered, closes very early so we walked again. Makes me so tired just thinking about it! The next day we washed our clothes (happy times for everyone), and then we split up. I hit the Palais de Luxembourg, then the Pantheon, then Notre Dame, then Seine, then Musee de Orsay which was sadly closed by the time I got there. Paris is so great I loved it! Then we bought a huge 2L bottle of Bordeaux's (truly) finest and set to enjoying our remaining hours in the world's worst hostel with a handful of boys from Oz, a smattering of New Zealanders, and a pinch of America.

Then there was this morning. That cocktail of savage hunger and uneasy stomach that I have not known for too long. We rolled out of our beds, moaning and staring at walls while each of us packed haphazardly and shoveled cereal through our tired lips. The TGV was perfectly timed, however, as we arrived at the station only to step directly onto the train.


Amidst sleep and wake I saw the increasingly sunny and magnificent countryside of Southern France, with its alps rising like spine across the flat plains and golden wheat rushing past us. We arrived in Marsaille, with the undeniable, indescribable, and uper promising scent of the sea, looking over the tops of graffiti painted cityscape to see a very coastal city with buldings tumbling down the slopes towards the waterfront and motorbikes whirring constantly in our ears. It's a beautiful place and I feel so much at home.

We walked right past out hostel as soon as we got here and were lost for many hours until locals and internet cafes steered us homeward to this exotic haven that I am currently typing in. This blog has been the product of a lot of time so for those who have read this far, thank you and know that despite me having my credit card eaten by an atm just before I began writing I am ok. All part of the ebb and flow of a perfectly unpredictable journey.

P.S we're in a Morroccan district so we ate for cheap tonight, our stomachs filled with meat and sauce that was so tasty I remembered where I was. France, the global hub of cuisine.

And I leave you with that! Too bad there are no pictures but I tried to be as lyrical as possible in compensation.

Au revoir!

Le fan.