Paris, again

Hey all,

took the Eurostar train back to Paris, which was in most ways a lot easier than getting the plane – take the train right there, get on another train, get off in Paris – only problem was that I kind of thought it would be like a plane security wise, in other words you could have a knife in your check in luggage, but that turned out not to be the case – was a big annoying drama when they saw the knife that I had carried from Australia and used all around Corsica and Sardinia etc – they unpacked all my stuff, went through all of it with gleeful slowness while I started to get visibly annoyed about the whole thing – oddly, they confiscated that knife but let me take the pocket knife I bought in Corsica.  When I asked if there was any way that I could pick it up when I came back to London, they said no, and it was going to take longer than we had before the train left to get the knife to the secure items area, so I just said, whatever, take it.

Then, taking weird to a whole new level, they gave the knife to K, but said that I wasn't allowed to have it (?), which I really don't understand, but wasn't going to complain about.  Because a villainous murderer would never think to say to his girlfriend. “Hey – give me back the weapon.”   Again, it seemed to make a difference that we were Australian, which they did mention; Australians being cretinous individuals who carry knives in a harmless Man-vs-Wild kind of way but aren't really that much of a drama otherwise.  Also don't understand why the hiking poles, which are long and extensible metal rods with tungsten spikes on the end of them don't seem to be an issue at all.

We were staying at Woodstock this time as Perfect was booked for the night, and as colorful as Woodstock looks from the outside it really did feel like we were on the wrong side of town inside the place – some polite staff, some flat out rude staff, and just a bit of a dodgy vibe all round – we stared longingly out the window at Perfect.

We tried to get in to Saint Chapelle, which was closed, then Notre Dame, which wasn't, then ambled more or less back in the direction of the hotel, getting cheap and fairly generic Asian food in a deserted restaurant, which might not have been a great move, as I spent the next 24 hours or so in one of those gastro things where you fall asleep for about half and hour, wake up and try not to throw up for about half an hour, and then to it again and again.  The following day K had to spend her last day in Paris all on her lonesome, again, just as she had her first.  She had a fun day, took lots of photos, but I will let her tell you about it if she gets around to it – also she looked after me, again – at this point she was becoming well practised at doing so.

Following day I could walk, at any rate, and accompanied K to the airport, where we said goodbye, which I found pretty hard – harder than when I left the country six months ago, when I was heading off.  When someone leaves they leave a hole in your life – when you leave you are going to a new place and everything is different and exciting or at least challenging and the people you leave remain a constant in your life, something you can rely on.  That's my theory anyway – it is always harder to be the one that is being left at the gate.

I waited around, got a flight back to London.

Photos.  1. Notre Dame.  2.  Inside.  3.  Really quite creepy statue.  4.  A mosaic graffiti artist I have always wanted to see in the wild.  5.  A church at night.  6.  We looked longingly at Perfect Hostel across the street....

Cheers, B.