Unusual Paris

Unusual Paris comes from the train-lover Sophie from SophieOnTrack

I’d been to Paris once before. It was one of those rush around the museums by coach on a tight schedule affairs, one minute looking at bizarre hanging installations in the Pompidou Centre, the next being disappointed at how very tiny the Mona Lisa is and the implausibility of wading through the hundreds of tourists gazing at her at any one time to take a close enough look.

We stayed in the city on that trip in a hotel that, although a bit stuffy, was close to the action.

This time I was re-visiting for a couple of reasons. Firstly, a family friend wanted someone to cat-sit in her apartment in Bondy. She was off to visit her 92 year-old mother in Walsall. Secondly, I wanted to see the Pere Lachaise cemetery (I’m a big fan of cemeteries). But I was mainly there for a change of scenery from my London home while I worked.

It’s one thing staying in metropolitan Paris, with all the Parisians, who in order to get a flat in the city, need to have a guarantor who also lives in the city. It’s quite another staying ‘out there’ in the ghettoised suburbs.

The Ghettos of Paris

The family friend had left a map and a list of things to be done in the apartment, like taking the bins out on Monday evening and cleaning the cat’s litter tray. The cat was housebound because out in the suburbs motorways crisscross the area. The Bondy district and Noisy le Sec, where I stayed, is famous for its railway workers who went to war from the station and the ancient cemetery (which I have to admit discovering too late for a visit).

Travel into the city from the suburbs was by double-decker RER train and Metro and actually very easy. The RER took ten minutes to get into Magenta (which is actually Gard du Nord, for anyone else totally confused) or Haussman Saint Lazare. From there, after some getting used to the labyrinth of the Paris Metro and the people jumping the barriers and the occasional teenager smoking a joint in the carriage (at least he offered some to everyone around him if they wanted it) the colour-coded lines were quite simple to negotiate and the cemetery was easy to get to.

For anyone who has been to Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires, Pere Lachaise is right up there on the list of the best cemeteries in the world.

The Best Cemeteries in the World

Here lies Oscar Wilde in his suitably ostentatious graffitied tomb and Proust in his suitably un-ostentatious grave. Jim Morrison is surrounded by devoted fans most days, scrawling his lyrics on the tree by his resting place. It is worth noting that you need a map to find particular people, if that’s why you’re here. And there’s no need to buy one outside, you can go to the information office on-site and get a free one and there’s even a toilet next door.

Aside from the celebs, a visit to the Holocaust memorials with the beautiful, poignant sculptures on them is moving. It is easy to forget that France was occupied during the war before you’re standing here.

After the cemetery, it was easy to return to the apartment to do some work.

There’s a great blog about Bondy that I read while I stayed there. A whole culture lives out in the suburbs. It will be interesting to see whether central Paris and the suburbs ever become better integrated.

Unusual Paris – Ghosts & Ghettos first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

Absinthe & Albi

In the great sweep that’s been organising my photo archives and redesigning this website I came across one of my old articles. One that I’ll probably always remember as it was my very first feature commission.

In a corner of southwest France, surrounded by foie gras and fields of sunflowers, the city of Albi was waiting for its piece of big news. After years of preparation, research and no doubt a ridiculous amount of paperwork, the place stood poised to become a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

It had waited some time, as I realised when I arrived, all wide-eyed and breathless, excited at my own career landmark. Albi has bridges that are more than 1000 years old, where you can still see the impressions from people’s fingers as they pressed the clay into place. It has a cathedral that looks more like a giant fortress, a half-timbered medieval centre, idyllic French gardens and plenty of rich food.

Toulouse-Lautrec

Toulouse-Lautrec & the Moulin Rouge

It also has the world’s largest collection of work from Toulouse-Lautrec, the caricature tiny guy with a black hat and monocle you see in films about the Moulin Rouge. Here was an artist who suffered with a range of disabilities throughout his life, who broke boundaries to create work that people still buy on posters to this day. In fact, he was the man who introduced the idea of posters, with his series of prints about life around Montmartre and the Moulin rouge.

But his early work – is rubbish.

His early work – is rubbish

I think it’s easy to forget how much practice goes in to creating something amazing. When we think about legends in any genre (Al Pacino in the Godfather, Martin Luther King and “I have a dream,” Roger Bannister and the four minute mile,) we remember them at their best.

By forgetting the reality (that Al Pacino will have forgotten his lines, that Martin Luther King will have had audiences fall asleep and that Roger Bannister will have sprained his ankle,) we separate them from us and we dismiss the size of their achievement.

As I’ve been sorting through my earlier work, I’ve flinched at some of it. I’ve found stuff that I’d never publish today and that I almost can’t believe I wrote. I have no doubt that at some point in the future I’ll be reading this again and thinking the same thing.

Yet everyone has to start somewhere – and then keep on going.

Everyone has to start somewhere – and then keep on going

I’ve read a lot of articles lately that complain about the huge rise in self-publishing on the internet: be it in the form of books, blogs or facebook entries.

“Everyone thinks they’re a writer.” I keep hearing over and over again, with an implied weary or whiny tone. Well, so what?

Will everyone reach the level of Shakespeare and Dickens? No, of course not, but why should that stop people from trying? Neither of those men simply sat down one day and wrote a masterpiece straight out of thin air. They wrote to pay the bills, they wrote some iffy stuff, they said to themselves “be true to thyself, this is a loade of crappe.” (Alright, I made that last one up but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.)

As well as Toulouse-Lautrec’s cabaret singers and show-girls, Albi also has that cathedral I mentioned earlier. Built as a warning to the people, following the Albigensian crusade that resulted in genocide, this cathedral symbolised the power of the Inquisition. To let everyone know from miles around that non-conformity equalled death.

The Inquisition let everyone know that non-conformity equalled death

That’s not a price most of us have to pay any more if we want to follow our dreams. So, whether it’s writing, photography, music, art, excellence in sport or starting your own business, give it a try!

It seems that the path to success is simple, even if it’s not easy and even if you never reach the final destination:

The “Secret” to Success

1) Start

2) Keep improving

3) Keep going

And if you turn out to be rubbish? So what! Does the world really need another writer/artist/entrepreneur? Well, does the world really need another song?

“Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.” Henry Van Dyke.

And as for Albi? Well, I’d long since gone by then but in August 2010 they were granted their dream. More than 1000 years after people pushed those bricks into place, their work became a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Go for it.

The Secret to Success: Start, Keep Improving, Keep Going

The Secret to Success (Only Sometimes Involves Absinthe) first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

French Toasts - by Emilio Labrador

Raising a toast is no different (as evidenced by the fact that there’s not a slice of bread to be seen.)

However odd the notion of holding a glass of wine or beer in the air and saying “Cheers!”, I’d never given the matter any thought until I lived in France and realised how complicated the procedure could be.

In France, The Rules Are Complicated

In France, saying cheers is not enough (well, it’s santé for a start, which means health rather than happiness.) No, you must maintain eye contact, you must clink glasses individually with each person in your group and you must not cross anyone else’s arm as you do it. Time consuming and tedious.

So, why does everyone bother? Turns out there’s a pretty severe penalty for messing this one up.

“Seven years of bad sex,” said every Frenchman and woman I met.

Gulp.

So, there you have it. Don’t drink in France unless you’re willing to risk your future.

The Penalty, Severe

This was written as part of the Lonely Planet Blogsherpa Carnival on Toasting Customs Around the World. Read about more of them on Jennifer LoPrete’s Orange Polka Dot blog.

PS – I’ve also learned that the same rule applies in Spain. I wonder – is this superstition rampant across Europe? Across the world?! I wonder whether Britain is the only place that throws eye contact to the wind…

Wine, Health and Seven Years of Bad Sex: Toasting Traditions in France first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

Tho-Radia Powder...

The idea behind eating cardboard to stay size zero, having surgery to look young and all the other painful and dangerous practices people get up to in order to fit the current idea of “beauty” is nothing new…

I saw these in the Marie Curie Museum in Paris, where they serve as a gentle reminder to stop and pause before risking too much for appearance’s sake.

By the way, I don’t think that Marie Curie herself ever used or recommended these radioactive products.

Read more about the Marie Curie Museum and her incredible life history in this post: Girls Can’t Do Science.

A French Beauty Secret: Radioactive Skin Cream! first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

Toulouse’s Victor Hugo market is the largest in southwest France. It sells cheese from nearby Roquefort, peppers from Espelette and wine from neighbouring Bordeaux.

It also sells pre-prepared brain:

Brain Food

These are cervelles d’agneaux (lamb brains), nestling in between trays of rabbit in a prune sauce and a chunky beetroot salad. What’s a girl to do? Experiment, of course!

“You do know what these are?” asked the serveur as he loaded them into a container.

Cooking Brain - Stage 1

“Oh yes.”

“And what to do with them?”

“Er, no…”

Cooking Brain - Stage 2

As it turns out, brain should be heated gently in a saucepan to bring out the garlic and parsley seasoning…

Brain Food - the Finished Work

…and then served with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice as a final flourish.

So, I tried to forget about all those infectious diseases transmitted by eating central nervous tissue and tucked in, to discover a smooth, surprisingly melt-in-the-mouth texture.

Low marks for flavour, however: a kind of grey nothingness saved only by the garlic and lemon. And as for appearance? Well, the next time I’m in a French market, I’m just going to pick up a box of these instead:

Sugary Macarons - A Favourite

For more on foreign food finds, visit OrangePolkaDot, a Lonely Planet Blogsherpa blog. To buy some brain food yourself, visit Victor Hugo Market, Toulouse.

Brain Food first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

As it happens, the sentence was supposed to be positive.

“People will tell you that girls can’t do science,” my teacher said. “But don’t listen to them.”

I was bored. What were they on about? They might as well be saying, “Don’t let anyone tell you that girls can’t sing.” Some can, some can’t, much the same as boys…

Fast forward, er, let’s call it “several” years plus a few more life experiences and I thought of that teacher again.

Rue Pierre et Marie Curie

In the midst of a fresh Paris spring, I was standing in another building with scuffed wooden floors and a curious blend of dust and industrial cleaner. I was standing in Marie Curie’s office.

It’s a small and fairly quiet affair, a subdued museum in the leafy streets of the 5^th Arrondissement. The displays show a few posters, some yellowed leaflets and a terrifying collection of radioactive beauty products, endorsed by Miss France rather than Mme Curie, to help young girls get perfectly clear skin. Somehow, it didn’t do justice to the real story.

A young woman, Maria Sklodowska, flees from Warsaw to Kraków for her own safety. She then moves to France in the late 1800s to study further. Her husband dies in an accident, leaving her a single mother with two young children. When World War I breaks out, she teaches herself how to drive and travels to the front line to use X-rays to help treat wounded soldiers.

Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.

Marie Curie.

Institut du Radium

Marie becomes the first woman to receive a Nobel Prize but, far more importantly, the only person in history to have won a Nobel Prize in two different science subjects: physics and chemistry.

I’m going to say that again: the only person in history to have won a Nobel Prize in two different science subjects.

The only person in history to have won a Nobel Prize in two different science subjects.

Yet the French Academy of Sciences refused to admit her as a member, declaring that “women cannot be part of the Institute of France.”

It was that small postscript, those few words, that brought me back to my schoolteacher and my altogether less illustrious place of learning.

The problem has never been that girls can’t do science; it’s that people think that they can’t.

Disclosure: the author has two XX chromosomes plus a fair few scientific awards, although (alas!) none of them are Nobel Prizes.

The Marie Curie Museum

The Curie Museum is on the ground floor of the Curie Pavilion in the Institut Curie, 11 Rue Pierre et Marie Curie, Paris. Entrance is free.

Marie Curie's Office

Girls Can’t Do Science first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

A Romantic Tradition in Paris

“We’ll always have Paris,” as the immortal line goes. Now, it seems, Paris will always have something to remember as well.

A short while I ago, I blogged about a romantic tradition in Seville. Lovers fix padlocks to the side of the Puente Isabel II, write their names on the metal and cast the keys into the flowing Guadalquivir below.

As I paced across the Pont Des Arts this week, a telltale golden spark caught my eye.

Here, over the water of the Seine and under the watchful eye of Notre Dame, true love clings on.

According to the dates on the locks, the authorities are more forgiving here. Perhaps the legend extends beyond the tourist office blurb after all and Paris really is the city of romance.

Padlocks on the Pont des Arts, Paris

Tips on Paris

Read a series of tips on things to see and do in Paris on my sister site Cheap Weekend Breaks. It includes information on how to use the Paris Metro, Paris Sightseeing Essentials as well as some unusual tips on Paris.

A New Love Tradition in the City of Romance first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

A shiny pink intestine sits on the Charles-de-Fitte Avenue in Toulouse, reaching out of the ground to an overpowering height. I’ve always had the feeling that the museum curators don’t call it the intestine, but Toulousains certainly do.

It’s a handy landmark for giving directions – and it symbolizes the entrance to Toulouse’s museum of modern art, on the former site of the city’s abattoirs. Hence its name – Les Abattoirs - and also, perhaps, the inspiration for the sculpture.

The exhibits inside change frequently – from eyeballs on high chairs to glow-in-the-dark gimp suits, single coloured panels to animated videos – but the intestine is always there.

Intestines & The Abattoirs first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

Every country seems to have a slightly different hygiene fetish. In Japan, it’s changing shoes three times to cross one metre of floor space. In America, wrinkled plastic mechanically revolves around toilet seats.

France, meanwhile, forces men to pay to wear a stranger’s moist speedos. All in the name of hygiene.

It happened in the postcard-perfect village of Luchon, high in the Pyrenees. Surrounded by snowy mountains, purple-velvet flowers and air so fresh it abraded our lungs, we’d spent a virtuous day climbing mountain paths and appreciating the view.

The traditional reward for such self-inflicted exhaustion is bathing in the Luchon Spa, whose thermal waters promise to ease away muscle tension with their sulphuric properties.

Sadly, it took until we entered the rancid, dripping caves for me to remember from school chemistry that sulphur smells of decaying eggs. Never mind. What the spa lacked in traditional relaxation techniques, it made up for in absurd comedy.

France may not be strict about parking or cooking raw meat, but it is consumed with monitoring public swimming areas. Everyone must wear a bathing cap, a rule so vigorously enforced that attendants even chase and chastise bald men for daring to walk across the airy atrium scalp au naturel.

France, meanwhile, forces men to pay to wear a stranger’s moist speedos. All in the name of hygiene.

Next, swimwear. France has taken a stand against the boardshort, tearing off the cloak of modesty and demanding that men show everything they’ve got.

And it’s not a pretty sight.

In the name of hygiene, the boardshort ban applies to all French public swimming pools. In Luchon, where you’ve already paid for your ticket before you find this out, you must hire a pair of speedos – individually sized by a watchful attendant and still damp from the previous customer.

It’s the kind of thing you only do once. After that, men hotfoot it to the supermarkets to buy tiny lycra hotpants. It’s amazing how quickly your perception of social embarrassment adjusts.

It’s the kind of thing you only do once.

Perhaps that’s what people mean when they talk about integration…

France’s Speedo Fetish first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...

That’s why research is such a good idea – not to mention visiting a place yourself.

Instead of playboys in woollen bathing suits, Biarritz greeted me with a blend of ageing Victorian glory and a homeless surfing community. A Biarritz almost unsure of its own identity.

The centre has promenades, covered bandstands and dated ice-cream stalls, a sheltered beach and a finger of land that ushers visitors to the Rocher de la Vierge, a religious statue that juts into the ocean like a pier.

Biarritz is France, but it is not France.

Biarritz is France, but it is not France, seeded as it is in the Basque country that straddles the western franco-spanish border.

Yet compared to its neighbour, the dazzling scarlet-and-emerald St-Jean de Luz, its “basqueness” lacks lustre. Compared to mainland France, its mix of pizza parlours, souvenir shops and sloppy dressing lack that certain je ne sais quoi.

Yet one thing still carries the full energy of Biarritz: the surf. Massive, violent, enveloping surf that mesmerises as it terrifies. Biarritz still boasts a reputation as one of Europe’s finest surf spots, but it’s not for the faint-hearted. Nor for beginners – unless you’re with a proper surf school.

There’s something compelling, however, in watching the drama of faceless neoprene figures competing against nature, rising and falling, daring each other to commit to the waves.

Very few succeed. On the day that I shivered on the shore, only around one in 50 won their battle and sliced along the surface.

In the face of odds like that, I’d say that Biarritz still has a name for greatness.

PHOTO CREDITS: Biarritz Ice Cream by Filtran

Biarritz, Baby first appeared on Inside the Travel Lab. Head over there for more juicy fresh travel goodness. Or, you know, something you might like to read...