Crepe de Nutella

Heading outside Tuck was saying that it wasn’t that warm, I had decided that today it just HAD to be warm, so if I just didn’t bring a jumper somehow this will work out (I used to do this in winter at home and invariably ended up blue).  But today it worked. 25 degrees, sunshine and yes, now I am sunburnt.  Too long in England has lulled my skin into thinking it was safe. 

We stopped for fruit and coffee for breakfast and were on the hunt for nutella crepes.  Tuck believes that if you’re in Paris you are allowed, nay you must, have nutella crepes if possible for breakfast lunch and dinner...and desert.

First stop was Gare de Nord so the girls could get their tickets to Copenhagen; I waited outside and read my book in the sun watching the French policeman.   

Carli had not been to Paris before so we were headed to the Louvre, unfortunately when we arrived it was closed, but we told her all about the Mona Lisa and the other parts we liked, I’m not sure if that helped.

We have been walking everywhere in Paris, which means we are walking all day most of the time.  I think this is the best way to see a place and to get your bearings, you get to surround yourself and people watch. And watching French people (and tourists in France) can be one of the most amusing.

So we went on to the Notre Dame and left Carli to wait in the mammoth line as we had already been inside on previous trips.  Tuck and I had lunch duty and as I had been harping on about a picnic, the girls had finally agreed.  

We have decided that you can tell if someone is French by the way they hold their baguette.  Every French person holds their baguette as if they were oblivious to it, a habitual hold.  We have been trying to master this but I think we are trying too hard.

We ended up on the banks of the Seine with the concrete magnifying the heat and liquefying the brie.  But without utensils, I think we managed a fine lunch.

The girls had booked tickets to Moulin Rouge for the evening, and although I warned them of its touristy tackiness and lack of actual talent, it is something to see.

After a pitstop and a siesta back at the hotel, we headed to Montmartre to see the sunset at Sacre Coeur.  Passing the guys on the stairs on the way up, who try to get you to put your hand through some string and then sell it to you for who knows how many Euros, another memorable quote ensued.  Apparently, as well as trying to trap tourists they also pride themselves on their complements.  As I was passing one, he stated “I want that one. Sexy boom boom.”  The girls really did have to drag me away from his obvious charm.

 

We climbed the hundreds of stairs to Sacre Coeur and were in time to see the pale pink hue of the sun setting over the city, it looked like someone had sloshed a pink rosé over the seemingly white city. 

We entered Sacre Coeur and quietly walked around admiring the architecture and grandeur. I’m not a religious person and churches always make me feel uncomfortable.  I can appreciate their beauty and as a place for solace, but for some reason I never feel like I belong there. I was thinking how strange it was that I completed a pilgrimage in one of the most catholic countries in the world without ever really feeling like it was to do with religion.  I guess we all believe in something, and everyone has a different name for it. A major thing that puts me off about some of the main cathedrals and churches you see around the place is that inside there a vending machines so you can collect an imprinted coin, or buy a candle to light.  I know that some of this goes towards restoring the building, but I thought the whole point was that religion is not supposed to be materialistic.  This is one contradiction that has always got to me.

The view was spectacular and the people milling on the stairs playing music and drinking and talking is always nice to see.  It’s funny how people congregate on stairs or in high places.

We wandered back down to find a place for dinner and finally settled on a restaurant with an outside table only because we were so taken with the enormous bowls that the salads were served in.

French people, or perhaps Parisians, are renowned for their impertinence when dealing with foreigners and we were no way immune to it. After ordering (en parfait francais might I add) our waiter never looked us in the eye, slammed down plates and glasses, and generally ignored us. Feeling slightly paranoid, we also felt the table of French metrosexuals and ladies far more classy than us were laughing and pointing. So after a slight death stare from me, we decided to laugh although we had our own secret joke.  We decided later that they were perhaps just pointing at our salads (which they then ordered later) and were probably laughing about their own lives and not ours. Ah well, what can you do. 

After dinner, of course the girls got another nutella crepe (as Tucky is a connoisseur now, she informed me that it was slightly undercooked and perhaps needed a little more nutella, but whether it’s ice cream or undercooked nutella crepes, she’s still happy).

Montmartre at night is funny to see, it’s kind of like Sydney’s King’s Cross, but French.  We kept our belongings to ourselves and wandered past sex shops and strippers appropriately called ‘pussy’s’, which we endeavoured to see at a later date.

I left the girls at the Moulin rouge, passed the police (arresting an unwilling Frenchman) and made my way back to the hotel.  I had to let the girls in at 2.00am so I kept myself awake by watching one of my favourite French movies ‘Hunting and Gathering’.

The girls arrived to act out the show they had just seen, which entailed ‘je t’aime Paris’ being sung over and over (lip-synched by the real ‘’dancers’), twirling on the spot (out of time) and miniature ponies being pulled across the stage.  Apparently there was a lack of dancing, singing, nudity, male nudity, and general talent. The Moulin Rouge was not like the movie and had apparently not changed since I had seen it 5 years ago.