Best Laid Plans

The best laid plans, and all that. I woke up, grabbed some breakfast, perhaps grabbed some more for the train ride later – if such a thing were to be allowed. Otherwise, I would never do such a thing. And then I used up the final thirty minutes of my internet card. Just as I started to rage that the network was down, it came back on. Fantastic.

So, after that was done I headed out to Pompidou Centre to spend the rest of my day watching internets, and reading. It was the perfect location: free washroom, close shops for food, and a warm place to spend some time outside. That, and there was net access, with a plug socket beside it on the second floor.



So there I was, sitting outside on the slanted brick watching the world go by. I picked through all the souvenir shops there, and played with all number of music boxes. Those open shelled ones, where you can see how turning the crank actually allows music to play are really quite something. And then I sat down to have myself a little read.

An hour passed before I looked up. Out of nowhere a giant line had formed from the door, past the road, and around the corner. Something was clearly afoot. I'd not seen the centre this busy in all my time here. Back to my book – I would wait until things died down before going inside.

Another thirty minutes, and I felt the pull to the washroom – still, the line outside was just too long to wait through. But I knew a secret. I would enter in through the library at the back, and head into the main centre that way.

Off I went – ohh, great, interesting. The library was closed. I would have to wait in the line. There'd be no way around that now. But reading a chapter here, a chapter there, I got through it all the way to the front. Where I learned that, of course, it was a private function. Some sort of art exhibit? And all this added time had not made my need to go to the washroom any lesser.

I had one extra metro ticket. I could subway over to Bastille where I knew there'd be a washroom – but, if I did that, I'd have no other exit plans. So off I walked to Republique. Surely I'd pass a WC, or a McDonalds, or find something at the station. I did not. So then I was off to Bastille. The walk was not a short one. And every passing moment made things all the more fun for me, I'll tell you that.

But, after my journey all over the place, through the most ridiculous of locations, I ended up where I needed to be. And with that I jumped the metro and headed straight back for the Centre. Sure, it was closed – but I could still connect to the wifi signal sitting against the window at the back of the P. Centre.

This was a most fortuative event. An hour was spent planning a possible meet up in Eastern Europe, a month from today. Perhaps a couple of friends from back home will be coming to visit was I make my way through that part of the world. Planning trips – never as easy when you're not doing it by yourself. But – far more fun.

And then back to my hostel. Banana gummies (delicious, except for the layer of sugar in which they were coated) were purchased and devoured on route.

To kill the final few hours, I decided to watch the movie Caprica. Really? How this came from something like Battlestar: Galactica I have no idea. But it did the trick. It killed the time, and from that point, I was able to grab my pack and head for the train station – ever closer to my departure time of 21:54.

Of course before that happened I would spend 20 minutes looking for my book, which I thought I lost – and I had – when I put it down outside. Where it still rested. Two and a half hours later. I need to relax. I need to sleep. I need to take it easy for a while – but it's just so hard!

Paris Graffiti: Place d'Italie

Snorelax is Gone!

Someone must have played that magic flute, that I don't know what it is – but you know who does? The student of mine who did a project on the history of Street Fighter games. That guy knows all the Pokemons (That's not Raichu! That's Snorelax! He's savin' all the Pokemons!) But yes, it's true – this morning Snorelax departed the hostel! I may finally have a full and quiet night's sleep. Sure the guy in the third bed has cycled three times, but I don't care – for one night, Snorelax is gone! ...Tomorrow I may be writing about how I miss him so. I seemed to have got used to his snore cycle, and been able to tune it out some, as the nights grew on.

But enough of that nonsense. I am in Paris – there is more to this city than my hostel, especially on my final day! And what a final day it was. This is, perhaps, the first time that I've looked around and thought, yup, I've done everything I wanted to here. I feel that I have cleared the level Paris, in the game of France. It took me seven days though – I hear the top score is 3. O.K. I'll be done with that soon enough too, because Spain is a callin'.

But, final day: I realized the problem with having a book you enjoy reading (unlike Sophie's World) is that even if it is eight hundred pages, you'll rip through it. I'm well over a third of the way there, and it's not like I have all that much reading time. To be fair, Tom Clancy's Red Storm Rising isn't perhaps as dense as Sophie's World either. Still. So I would need a new book, adding weight to my pack, lightened by the loss of my towel a week ago. Sigh. So I was off to Shakespeare and Company book store again!

It really is a fantastic place. If you see only one thing in Paris, see this store – the other things you've seen in pictures hundreds of times already. You'll be able to lie about those sights. But Shakespeare and Co. you need to have been there for. I thought about band-aiding a picture of myself up on their board, but then remembered the terrible idea that leaving passport pictures of yourself around could bring about. So what book did I pick up? One more monstrous than the previous – No, not Lord of the Rings, I'll have them waiting for me in Florida. I picked up Tom Clancey's Rainbow Six. Of course I did.

Today was a tricky day, set to confuse me sleep deprived mind. You see, one moment the weather was fine, and the sky was blue. I would sit down to read, only to look up from removing the book from my pack, to feel the cold wind cutting through my black thermals (not tights! Thermals!). Had I been mistaken? Was it not sunny and blue? Clearly the sky was grey – and no sign of colour whatsoever. So I would return the book to my pack, and grab my jacket only to find myself sweltering under the heat of the midday's sun. This went on for longer than I would like to admit, before I finally said forget it, broke out my laptop, and enjoyed some wifi hotspotting in the Parisian park. Yes, in the middle of a public park I can access the internet, but not at my hostel. That would just be ridiculous.

After spending some time keeping up with emails, and doing other things that are better left undiscussed, because it ruins the allure of travel being an activity completely removed from the everyday, where new experiences abound, and – i don't know – magical bunnies manage to smile and make the world a brighter place? So lets just say, I left the park after a moment or two enjoying the suns rays, tinted auburn by the autumn leaves barely hanging to the branches – quivering, as if afraid of the long fall which they knew must ultimately come. Yes, lets just say something like that and move on.

I walked to the Isle de St. Louis (or – use a harsh American accent here. Something from Wisconsin.) “The Isle of Saint Louis.” I know know doesn't look all that differnet in print. It's an auditory gag, and you need to conjure up the voice. Maybe practice it with a friend. One of you can be the pompous Frenchman, and the other can be the “I'm entitled!” American. It'll be great. There was a whole tour of them getting off the subway, trying to figure out how to get to the surface. “It says Sort-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I guess we just pick one exit and walk that way up!” As if it's not like that anywhere else in the world. I tell you, packs of tourists are great. And you know what? I know I'd sound the same way. That's why I keep my mouth shut as much as possible. Like a Beauty Queen trying to explain why Americans can't find America on the map – I could be as smart as anything – until I open my mouth.

I must have sounded quite the fool on my two Shirley days.

And what was on this Island? Fantastic things. Good shopping. The type I could even get behind, trendy though it was. They took everyday objects, and added an art to them, without damaging function. Umbrellas turned to dolls, folded up the fabric became their dresses. Cheese graters became clowns. Everything could be a toy! A dangerous, dangerous toy. But the prices matched the neighbourhood, so it was no place for me. That, and I could hardly pay attention, so great was my focus on finding a public washroom! None. There had been none since Shakespeare's, some hours back. And in Paris, this was unheard of! I barely had time to register, and gaze out at, the giant wall of eyes staring back at me. Yes, I found them after all, and my aren't they fantastic. Much like the giant lady plastered on the wall, these eyes were also several people tall, looking out over the river. And just for kicks, a little space invader was there to play too.

A washroom was found in the Bastille subway station – before you even had to enter the gates. With vision returning to normal, and tongue being released from the roof of my mouth, I was able to press on in this area to my final destination. Victor Hugo's house. It was Monday. It was close. Still – I saw it, and that was enough for me if I ever need to tell the story ages hence.

Back to Bastille, and off towards Place d'Itali. Apparently China Town was supposed to be around here.

It was not.

As I walked the streets of this area, so different, and equally as charming, as the rest of Paris' streets I was quite delighted I had made my way out this end. Wandering down the back alleys, and through the small streets I managed to fall upon another area rich with graffiti art. A final send off for my Paris collection. For a city in which I had to look and look for indications of street art, the city certainly did provide in the end. You just need to get out of the centre. This shouldn't have shocked me as much as it did.

By this point I could recognize the style of two of the artists. Some were completely new to me. It was delightful. Eventually I'll take a picture or two of myself with graffiti as a backdrop – because graffiti does make the best backgrounds for pictures. No matter what you wear, the colour is being brought out by something. There's a reason that street behind Queen in Toronto is used for what's-his-name's monologues. What with the tilting camera, whenever he stops to make a point. Hmm...

Though I never did find Chinatown, wandering a great number of streets, I was able to find something nearly as fantastic. A Quick Burger! Yes – my final stop at Quick Burger for their fourth milkshake. Would it be as delicious as the others? Finally my french ordering worked, and I was delivered the Strawberry shake. It was – well, not so good really. But the other three flavours were superb – so, it's ok. I miss my banana milkshake. Now, you think I'd be upset – but no, because they had a special on. Two cheese burgers for two euros. And what were the cheeseburgers like in the fabulous shake joint? As magical as one could ever have expected! My god, they were delicious. If you see a Quick Burger – do not walk by. Scarf down on their cheap burgers, and follow it up with a one euro shake. Value and flavour like this are not to be matched anywhere! It's never to early for a cheeseburger! (cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger. Pepsi, pepsi, pepsi!)

Sometimes I wonder how many people – if any – are getting the allusions I'm throwing out at them. I reckon I mostly come across mildly insane. But that's alright. It might just be true, to some degree anyway – I mean who leaves their home country refusing to come back before they've seen all seven continents anyway?

Now I was thinking of heading back to my hostel to end my night reading. As I had a new novel, I no longer had to worry about conserving the one I was currently reading. But there was something bothering me. A space on the bottom right of my map. It had been pulling at me for the past week, with its huge green field, and small blue lake with two islands smack in the middle. Though my guide said nothing of this place, and my walking cards left it alone, the tourist map too barely noting its existence I could not leave Paris without exploring it. There had to be something there, hadn't there?



And there was. Not only is the zoo and aquarium located there (I can't speak to the quality of these places, I just noted they existed when exiting the metro) but the park itself is beautiful. It was here that I saw all number of dogs, including those silly looking small ones that only appear in movies about Paris because people in the rest of the world would be embarrassed to be seen with them. They seemed to be taking their owners out for a walk, running ahead, doubling back, and going where they pleased. In Paris dogs are actually well trained. Shocking, I know.

There were girls running in their pants that looked remarkably similar to what I was wearing under my shorts – but, once again, I would like to point out that I am wearing thermals! Not tights! And high school boys were walking their potential girlfriends home to fish for a kiss. Others were trying to make out on benches, but there would be none of it – for the girl had a whole lot to say, and the boy was damned well going to listen. This was the impression I received, anyway, as she pushed his head away from her neck in the split second it took me to walk on past. The two rolling around on the grass, though – I just don't know. Ahh young love. Even the twenty and thirty somethings get into those emotions here in Paris. I'll bet it has to do with the water supply. It's always to do with the water supply. That's what early morning cartoons, and James Bond alike has taught me.

As I reached the end of the pond I noticed off to my side that there was a Buddhist Temple. It was fantastic to find right here in Paris, and completely without precedent. How could my guidebook, the cards, the map have not wanted to draw people to this area? Mind you – if I lived in Paris, I'd try to keep this park a heavily guarded secret too.

And just like that I was back at the hostel. Wifi up for once. I know, I'm shocked too. So here I am trying to burn through the 2 hour card I was given, and planning my next moves. In twenty six hours I'll be boarding my fifteen hour train for Spain. Where the rain, I hear, falls mainly on the plains. Which will be for the best. As I could use some nice weather – not tricky and confusing like the stuff in Paris.

My world – it's getting smaller by the day.

What I'm Thankful For

As I write this I picture my large extended family - large in the numerous amounts of people way, not in the rotund fashion – cobbling together the final pieces of their potluck meals. I check the time, allow for time zone differences, and yup – right about now my mother should be putting the cling wrap on her big clear bowl of coleslaw. One of my aunts will be frantically trying to get the bird cooked, and perhaps getting some ham set up. My cousin might be looking towards all the beers he'll drink, and my grandma will be setting up for another long night of stories, and tales, complete with her telltale laugh, reserved only for these such occasions. And why? Why will they be doing all this?

Because it's Thanksgiving, of course. Proper Thanksgiving. That's right America, I'm calling you out. You keep your NFL, and your ridiculous hats. We'll eat when the harvesting is good. And we'll be thankful for it to, thank you very much. There will be no children on stage dressed as little Indians – mind you, we will trace our hand on brown construction paper and turn that into a turkey. Maybe stick toothpick feathers into a gourd too. And claim our four day long weekend with pride.

That's what they'll be doing back home anyway. Here in France, it's just the 11th of October. But, back home, don't think you're the only ones eating well. No! I just had a feast myself. Four cups of egg cream pudding! That's right – four! And all for only one euro, ninety nine. Take that! And you know what? Later I'll probably have some left over orange drink from yesterday, left on my bunk's shelf all night.

So what am I thankful for? It's not like we actually say what we're thankful for. I don't know if anyone does. It's not like we're Jon and Kate. Well Kate anyway, you can see Jon cringe when she starts running her mouth. Free at last Jon, free at last. (that's right – half a world away, and I still can't escape their presence.) Sorry – so, it's not like we ever say what we're thankful for. But I think it. So what am I thankful for, on this day of days?

Well – for one, being able to have this opportunity. And for knowing that I have the support of my friends and family back home. I'm also thankful that I'm travelling on a Canadian passport, though if I could – by your powers combined – acquire a New Zealand one as well, that would be ideal. It covers some gaps in my visa checklist. And I'm thankful for discount night trains, last minute hostels, the end of tourist season, and – of course – the French Counter Terrorism units.

Today began with a quick breakfast, and a purchase of some metro tickets from the vending machine in the hostel. I tell you, this machine has everything (it's actually three machines, but it's more interesting if you think of it as one.) They sell notebooks, razors, toothbrushes, internet cards (that don't work – still down, people. Still down.) Batteries, French to English dictionaries, tickets to the Louvre, 52 card decks, 32 card decks (for Euchre, I imagine? Is that right?) 78 card tarot decks, maps, guidebooks, cameras, French badges, and all number of assorted treats, and beverages. Amazing. Everything you could ever want at prices that range from discounted, to normal, to absurd. All of this seemingly for the giggles of the staff. In fact that have one chocolate bar in two rows. In one row you can pay a euro twenty, but if you're feeling generous, or really jonesing for the one in B4 you could decide to pay a euro forty. Why not?!

With a pack of ten metro tickets – I wonder if I'll use them all – I headed off to the Hotel de Invalides. There was a set up of police, RAID, and other such forces. The fire department came too. Early in the day, as they were still setting up, you could see that the officers themselves were just as childlike as anyone else, taking pictures with their heads stuck through plywood stand-ups, and jumping around trying to get the best shot of the helicopters on display.

There was supposed to be a parachute jump from high altitude. That's what I showed up early for. So – of course – the jumps for the entire day were canceled. I don't know much about this stuff, but from my limited knowledge granted to be by Band of Brothers on HBO, and subsequently DVD, I would say that it was because there were low clouds. Limited visibility. “No jump tonight. Repeat, no jump tonight.”

But that was alright. It gave me a chance to admire all the police officers little hats. Do you think they look at our police and snicker to themselves about how foolish our caps look? Or do they recognize there is no escaping the error of their wardrobe choice, and just try to bring the best to it? I also watched a police dog attack a woman in a giant foam suit. That was pretty fantastic too.

I'll throw up all the videos from today in a separate post whenever I have suitable bandwidth – because, as I said, at the moment of writing this I have none. Oh the videos there will be. Some exciting, and others involving horses.

After the dog attack, I figured I'd take myself on two more walks around the area. At first this led me down a street lined with giant blown up covers from the history of Vogue magazine. I tried to fight the urge to take a picture – and I almost made it. The one with Alfred Hitchcock on it did me in. And, if something's worth taking one picture of, it's worth taking five. I quickly made my escape from this model filled madness and turned onto the next street. Which proved to be one of those “shopping streets.” If you're a woman, odds are you know them – and love them. If you're a husband, odds are you know them – and hate them. If you're an unmarried man, you've probably heard of them, or seen them in movies, or done your best to avoid them.

Gender stereotyping at work people.

I don't know – nor care – about a Pucci, or a Gucci, or – look I'm lucky I remembered two labels. And probably because I thought the former was a misspelling of the latter, until some repeat viewings of the brand. As I walked down this street a thought occurred to me about the culture here.

There are a lot of older – shall we say, average, looking – men, with young beautiful women walking the streets. And they seem to be very close. I'm not making a judgment call here, I'm sure these are great – salt of the earth – winning personality men, and the fact that they're wandering in and out of all these stores I'd dare not even stop in front of, is purely incidental. That, or they're just fathers out for a pleasurable walk with their daughters. One could say they seem a bit to physically close for that, but – you know - French.



I ended up at the Liberty Flame. This is a recreation of the flame held in the hand of the Statue of Liberty. It's also ever so close to where Princess Di died. As such it still acts as a memorial for people who want to pay tribute. And still they do. They also write messages to her on the stone ledge overlooking the motorway. Things like “Goodnight our English Rose,” and other things that cause you to roll your eyes. The best are for meetings where the cover up of her assassination will be discussed. And, new I'm sure, are messages to Michael Jackson. Did I miss something here? How are these two people possibly related? One pushed for a ban and removal of land minds so they wouldn't injure more and more people throughout the world. The other was a pedophile.

Just saying. Speaking of which (of musical celebrities – nothing else – that's the only transition I'm reaching for here) Prince is in town. He had a show at the Grand Palace tonight. And oh the line up to see him.

Right. So my walk finished back at the military fanfare. I joined the crowd on the bridge (because if there's a crowd, you know something good has to be coming) and was just in time to see a helicopter descend above a barge, dropping a rope, and allowing for three counter terrorist agents to slide down, and secure their objective, while a number of other officers clamored aboard from their high speed zodiacs now tethered alongside. Explosions rocked the water.

This was another demonstration – though one far grander than that seen earlier with the dog. Your French forces at work. See them, be impressed, then come by the tent for a free sticker, and possible enlistment. Hey, it's the best recruitment drive I've ever seen.

This festival of sorts would be my home for the rest of the day. I ran into Number Jonny 5 working as a bomb squad robot, and saw some Pacific Blue bike cops in action, taking down 'bad guys' and sliding along the ground, pulling their guns out in one clean motion, ready for action. And then there was another counter terrorism action, focused on securing a bus, rather than a boat. This too involved helicopters (one far larger than the previous incident) and a number of other officers. Fantastic! Truly it was a great display. One grand enough to make me forget my woes for not seeing the paratrooper drop.

After connecting to the press wifi connection, and downloading an ebook on tarot cards, I went for another little wander. And while crossing the road, finally got sick and tired of the French inability to drive rationally. They're not like the bikers in Scandinavia. It's not like they're trying to kill you – it's just that they won't really care so much when they – inevitably - do.

As I was crossing, quite legally – as the little green man said it was my turn – a car came speeding towards the intersection, slamming on its breaks at the last moment. In rage I threw my arms in the air, staring the driver down, and beginning our little dance. In response he threw his arms in the air, and then started bashing on his horn. I glared, and pointed towards the sign, still green showing I could walk, and he motioned to the ground to show that he had stopped before crushing me into little more than a smear of red and good on the pavement – an excellent A16 article for The Star. And thus we continued our fun and games, until the light changed, and off he speed – no doubt to murder someone else in my stead.

How do more car accidents not happen in this city, I wondered. As if to answer my question, the next corner I rounded led me to a man shouting at a woman about how she had smashed the bumper off his car. She claimed she did no such thing! She had not hit him. The bumper must have dented and fallen all of its own accord, at the precise moment she tried to maneuver around him.

No more than twenty meters away a police officer stood with her back to the whole ordeal, tapping her foot, hoping the light would change allowing her to escape this madness.

And then, once more, back to the military display where secret service agents demonstrated how to protect a V.I.P. in various situations. This knowledge would come in handy moments later when one such VIP was being interviewed throughout the crowd, moving from one area to the next. He was an older gentleman, bald on top, with fine pale yellow hair. Sound familiar to any of you? He was clearly of some great importance, as crowds were flocking around him. Though I couldn't tell you who he was. But hey, if everyone else was going to take pictures, well then so too was I. I elbowed past the short, chubby, Danny Devito, with bad teeth, professional photographer, and started to click away. It was a delight. How must he – whose job it is to think of people as obstacles, and nothing more, be treated as one himself? I stayed in front of him for most of the talks, blocking his camera when possible.

Look – all I'm saying, is he shouldn't have shoved me out of the way without so much as an excuse me. Maybe he'll learn next time. Or maybe he's trying to have me hunted down right now? Sorry – whomever he worked for. Choose photographers with more scruples next time. That that guy from the comic DMZ. Yeah, that would do you quite nicely.

And then came the end. With horses. Lots of horses. And on each horse a man playing a brass instrument. And oh how these horses walked together, to the music, with a checkerboard pattern shaved out on their butts (I don't know?) Their riders wore more goofy hats – for which, I'm now sure, the French are most famous for. They had long red manes, presumably to match the beasts on which they rode?

Round and around they marched. And finally, when they had left, I could feel good about the fact that I had seen the very beginning, the very end, and oh so much in between. A worthwhile day. Well, not worthless.

Something to be thankful for, at any rate.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

I lied at the beginning. The Egg Cream – it wasn't so delicious after all.

City Walks

Today was a long day. A long, long, walking filled day. The type I have not had in quite some time, and compounded with the half-filled walking days, it's getting to the point that I will need to take some time off. We'll see how that works out.

It should be said that this was the last day of use my 5-day metro pass had. From here on out, I'll need to buy tickets for every single journey I take. And the prospect of that does not appeal to me. Careful planning, and awareness of such things as, what walk will lead into another walk – thus allowing me to finish a final walk, before a precious ticket is used – these are not my strengths. But they are about to be put to the test.

Today I finally broke out my deck of City Walks: Paris (adventures on foot). What is a deck of City Walks: Paris (adventures on foot) you may ask? Well, I shall tell you. It is a collection of cards, each with a different walking tour on it. Each deck has fifty cards. On one side of the card is the text describing what sights you shall see, and on the other is a detailed map of the area with your journey all marked out on it. Why is this fantastic? Because rather than carrying around a book, you need have only one card in hand. And with the map turned towards you, you can prevent yourself from sticking out as an easy target (read: tourist.) For the record these cards are not the size of a deck of playing cards. They're about the length of a tarot card, and twice as wide. Unfamiliar with such measurements? Hmm – about the size of a paperback book cover, I'd wager.

Sound good to you? Fifty walking tours of a city – with a convenient fold out map, showing you the location of all the various tours, on a city overview (the back of which lists historical information and other neat stuff)? Wondering where you can pick them up? Well head on over to www.citywalkdecks.com and I'm sure that the fine people at Hunter and Hunter Inc. will be more than happy to sell you a deck or two.

Now, before I go on, you might be wondering – how good are they? How worthwhile can a walking trip be, if a city has fifty within it? Are these well plotted journeys, or are they an attempt to keep up with the “fifty per deck” mandate?

Excellent question! The answer is... well the answer varies. I'll tell you about my day, referring to the cards, now and then, and you'll get an idea.

[authors note: the hostel wifi is, of course, down.]

My day started off with card 37 – which claimed to be a perfect Sunday walk (it was Saturday.) It began by walking down a street which would have an open air market flooding the passage. It then led past two stationary stores of note (both, it explained) were closed on Sundays. If you had a walk, that needs to be experienced on Sundays, why note things that are closed on Sundays? It didn't matter to me, though, as the stores were closed Saturday too. And I'd seen enough paper stores these past few days, that I didn't relish the idea of seeing any more. Walking past other things of note such as bakeries (each one seeing the best more perfect wares – if one is to fully trust the card) I ended up where I actually wanted to. Montparnasse Cemetery.



More tourism of the dead! There were only two stones of note that I really felt the need to check out in this place. One was Sartre, and the other Beckett. Both proved quite easy to find, and neither indulged in the unnecessary opulence of Wilde's. Which was slightly disappointing, though also refreshing. This cemetery is well marked, and not difficult to make your way around in. It seems things changed between the planning of the one I visited yesterday, and the one I visited today. Good for them.

I will say this for the French: they really know how to pack in their dead. I guess that all their practice from the catacombs really paid off. Though at least these people still have their own personal space. And all their bones are together. And they haven't been turned into art pieces. Which was then turned into a tourist attraction. Which was then vandalized.

Which brings me to an important point... the catacombs have been vandalized, and as such are currently closed to the public! Argh. One thing – one thing, I wanted to see in this city, and nope, sorry, no can do. Now I am told these catacombs extend much farther than tourists are allowed to look. I wonder where the camouflaged entrances to these forbidden passages can be located.

Card 35 took me from the catacomb entrance, outside of the tourist district. And though it only pointed out cafes, and other such things (every now and then mixing up its left and rights for the location of noted buildings) it was well worth the journey, if only to enter a part of Paris where English seemed to not be spoken at all. The Parisian's Paris, one could venture.

It was here I purchased a tiny little can of coke, as I only had 95 cents, and the large one cost 100. This 15cl can was a mere 60 cents by comparison. Ridiculous though it may have been, it would also mean my search for a bathroom would come much later in the day. So there's that for it. Arriving at Plaisance station, I hopped on the train and headed to the Musee d'Orsay. Right as I hit the street, I was reminded I was back in the land of tourists, and tourism.

Not only could I eavesdrop on all number of conversations, I was also welcomed back into the world of my favourite locals. The ridiculous beggar-scamming culture. In front of me a woman dressed, as they all tend to dress, bent down and picked up a junk ring off the ground. It had clearly been dropped by someone who felt her tastes were far superior to such nonsense. But this woman, looking up, immediately, at me took a step forward and held it out, offering it for my purchase if I so desired. “Please,” she began. “I am so poor. Please.” I began to walk past. At this she switched tactics. “Please, it's gold! It's real gold.” I could not help but laugh. Though I attempted to cover this with a cough, with a relative degree of success.

It's gold. Please – I was right there. Right there when you picked the piece of garbage off the ground. Two steps quicker, and that seventy cent trinket could have been mine, were I not worried about the terrible diseases that it carried. It's gold. Go pawn it then! Remember folks, if someone on the street tells you something is gold, it is not.

Ahh back to the land of tourism. I quickly took a free advertising postcard out of my pack, and wrote a little note one it:

I am a traveller from
Canada – I have so little
money. Food n Paris is
so expensive. Please,
it's getting colder. Could
you help? Any donation
will do. Thanks!
-Sean Richtoff.

Now, next time I hear the words, “do you speak English?” I will be ready to take out said postcard, and launch my counter offensive. We shall see if they are a generous lot, or simply looking to take for themselves. That or they will gang up on me, raptor style, and steal my pack. Either way.

Now one might think that I am being heartless to the homeless. But keep in mind, these are not the homeless. To eat in Paris, for a day, costs only five euro. That's all. Five euro. Just be smart about it (and we're talking three meals here – not like I eat. I eat in Paris on two euro a day.) These are the scammers that make you dislike people you think of as “needy.” The real homeless here do not operate in the tourist districts. In fact, the ones I've come across have no game at all. They don't even have signs. They're just another part of the living city here.

Within moments card 21 ripped me from the Museum, and threw me down Rue du Bac. I am not a shopper. This area held nothing for me. If I see a line around the block for a bakery, I will not think it is a good tasty place, and join. I will assume a celebrity ate there once, and everyone wants in. In fact, if I see a bakery on the well to do street, I immediately think that they are more flash than substance. No thank you, I'll keep walking.

The best Chocolate Croissant I've ever had came from a bakery on a side street in the middle of nowhere in Paris (take that Don-Don!) Although, I'm thinking that North America invented the chocolate croissant, because people here don't seem to order them. They seem like a tourist only specialty.

I then wandered, wandered wandered, through the back streets following, kind of, card 22. It took me to the Hotel des Invalides. It was neat to look at. I have no desire to pay to see Napoleon's tomb though. I've seen enough graves for free this week, thank you very much. Still – I hear it's lovely. He was a crazy cat, that Napoleon. And not short at all. That was British propaganda that really managed to stick.

There were a number of canons here. Well over one hundred. So if you like to look at canons, then by all means, come to Hotel des Invalides (it's not a Hotel as we know it. It's a big ol' monument / museum / crypt / whatever else it wants to be.)

In the front lawn they were setting up for tomorrows military presentation. Perhaps I'll need to return? There are said to be paratroopers.

[author's note: the wifi is still down, but I've noticed the vending machine sells tarot cards for 4 euro. Tempting, tempting, tempting. I left my decks at home, for fear of loosing them. But six dollars is a steal, anyway you look at it.]

The walk ended up with me in front of the UNESCO building. If you travel you know UNESCO. In fact you can probably recount all the UNESCO sites, and objects, you've seen and all the ones you'd like to get to. Apparently it stands for United Nations Education Science Civilization Organization. Something to that effect anyway, it was in French, of course. And in french – where the headquarters are located – the letters do not properly connect.

On the plus side, I got a shot of the Eiffel tower in line with all the flags, so there's that.

That would be one of – oh, nearly forty – pictures of that blasted tower I would take before my day was at an end. Seriously. It's so hard to resist photographing it. Every angle, every backdrop – it's always different. How can you hate the tower? Only one group of people have ever hated that marvelous piece of construction. And, of course, it was the French. They wanted to tear it down a hundred and twenty years ago. Good for them.

I reckon the people who have to paint it aren't that fond of it either. But that's another matter entirely.

One of my final journeys would be to an island in the middle of the Seine. It's neither of the two built up ones. It's simply a strip of land with a walking path along it. Find yourself the statue of Liberty, and you'll have found yourself one of the nicest walks not listed in many guidebooks. Yeah, that's right – just look for the statue of Liberty.



It seems that this, like the odalisque, was given out in World Class City school. Except this time Tokyo was prepared, and made sure to show up early to receive its. But London was stuck home with the chicken pox. The doctors promised London if it had the pocks once, it would never have them again. So much for what doctors know. And lets not even get started on German Measles.

Near the statue of liberty you may find yourself walking through a tiny homeless tent city. It's nothing like the giant villages outside the Tokyo city limits, but with two or three tents set up, there's no denying that some sort of small community is coming together.

Do not worry. They will not throw themselves at your feet, whining, and crying for “some fruit, mister. Please, some fruit.” They will either be in their tents, sitting outside, or passed out on the ground. Either way, they wont bother you.

Best to go during the day though – just to be sure.

And from there, I walked to Trocadero to grab the tube to the Grand Passages to see the shopping arcade in all its glory. Located at Grand Boulevard how could they be anything but spectacular? Getting to Trocadero was not so easy a task.

There was a 20KM run set up, and it blocked all exits. With my feet throbbing, and my back aching, and me just being altogether tired, discovering that I had walked too far in, like some god awful lobster trapped at the back of a cage, I had to try and squirm my way back out again. This was not to be easy – but i made it – and I saw the best logo I've ever seen. It's for an African Race and it has the continent with five toes on top.

Just as I neared the metro station I passed – ohh good, a Tamil Tiger protest. Sure, they're not affiliated with the terrorist group, they say – but why are their two guns on the flag? If I was a country or an organization that wanted to be seen as peaceful, I would probably loose the automatic weapons from my official emblem. Just saying, is all. Still, with the Eiffel Tower in the background, it did make for a peachy picture.

Alright – last stop. The passages. Are they beautiful? Are they spectacular?! No! They are run down, unlit, full of pirated posters, dvds, and other junk. Most shops are boarded up, and the walls are covered in uninspired tags! Yay! Time to rush home.

And stop at the supermarket – where I prove that two euro is all you need for a good meal (well – a meal, at any rate.) I obtained 2L of orange drink (think McOrange crossed with Tang), 4 flans (like a piece of KFC chicken, the first was delicious – it was downhill from there), and a chicken salad sandwich. All for the sum of two euro. Fantastic!

Alright – that's it. Day over. Time to crash. Maybe enjoy some more Tom Clancy, or watch Resident Evil 3. Or maybe 2 again. I'll get to 1 when I'm good and ready for it. It's just so low budget by comparison. It's like “The Cube.” but with maybe three sets, instead of one.

I wonder if any fantastic new DS games have come out in the last month.

Two final points. In the basement someone is playing Stairway to Heaven in French, and that's fantastic! Second, I bough the tarot cards. It attempts to teach the “game of tarot” which is odd, because the actual game was lost some time ago. So I'm not sure who thought up these new rules. The audacity, one might cry, if one were prone to doing such things. The suits are clubs (wands), hearts (cups), spades (swords), and diamonds (coins) rather than their traditional suits. Which is mine. But the Major Arcana is void of names, and the images aren't related to the traditional tarot decks you've come to know. Which would be fine and well, if I could get the internet – as I'll just write them on. I believe I know them all by number – but I would be most embarrassed if I made a mistake. So I will wait. For the internet. Which, I know, is never going to come. Still – four euro. And I got myself a deck of cards now too – just have to remember to take out the four Pages. Now I return to my regularity scheduled Resident Evil 3 (which is fantastic for beginning the way it does.)

Paris Graffiti - Belleville 2/2

Paris Graffiti - Belleville 1/2