hanging with dead dudes in paris

What impression did Paris leave on me? One of romance, love, flirtatious men, golden statues and grand structures?

No, Paris is not the city of love, it is the city of staircases. Last night, after getting back to London, I went to sleep and did not dream of romance or men or golden statues; I dreamt of stairs.

I went to Paris to see Diamanda Galas in concert. She is known as ‘Hell’s Angel’ because she sounds the way one would expect an angel from Hell to sound. Her voice is truly incredible, reverberating around the hall in terrifying swirling decibels. Well worth the trip to a city I wasn’t entirely enamoured of, one of my travel goals achieved with ease.

My five days in Paris were spent wandering, stumbling across yet another breathtaking building (breathtaking as much for the walk up various hills as for anything else) and delving into the morbid catacombs under the city, lined with the bones of Parisians long-dead. I visited two of my favourite men in one afternoon – Rodin for lunch and Oscar Wilde for...dessert? Rodin’s garden was as beautiful as I remember (I took a rather delightful shot of some rather delightful statuesque bottoms) and Oscar was, predictably, smothered in kisses. I wonder if his belipsticked fans know he was (mostly) gay. Accompanying the kisses are little love notes scrawled in various languages. Perhaps defacing the grave of the object of your affection might not be the best way to show gratitude for his wit and wisdoms, but given his penchant for breaking with tradition, he might not mind too much.

So, after visiting the catacombs decorated in skulls, the Gates of Hell in Rodin’s garden, and the cemetery that houses Wilde, Morrison, Piaf and many others, it was into the world of surreality at the Dali museum. My favourite piece is the statue of the woman in flames, with drawers coming out of her body. Most of you aren’t into sculpture the way I am, so I’ll leave it at that. Between Rodin, Wilde, and Dali, I was more than happy with the improvements in my love life. Ok, so they’re all dead, but it’s a minor detail.

One afternoon, ambling around my neighbourhood of Montmartre, I followed some crowds and staggered up some steps to find myself suddenly confronted with...the Taj Mahal! Or, wait, no, the Sacre Cour. It was blinding white in the sunshine, but while I did my best to feel all spiritual and pious, I have to admit that I paid more attention to the hot guys busking on the steps than I did to the ‘Sacred Heart’. Heading back downhill, I passed many men asking to draw me (I told one that he could but that he would have to pay me, he laughed and I grinned at him and ran) and ended up at the Moulin Rouge. I took a photo of the long line of tourists feeling smug that I wasn’t one of them, and went on my way.

I spent a day wearing blisters into my feet around the city centre, checking out all the places I’ve been to before. I was disappointed that the white gravel under the Eiffel Tower my friends and I once made snow angels in, has been replaced by bitumen. Shame. At the Tower, I was stalked. A young guy in a stripey yellow and black jumper asked me to take his photo, and he returned the favour with a far-too-close close up. My laughing face and crooked tooth were deemed ‘bon’. Finally recapturing my camera I went to take a few shots of the tower and noticed his bee-stripes following me. In the corner of my eye, I saw him follow me, so I went to cross the street. He followed me there too, I slowed down when the pedestrian light went green and he turned to look for me, then turned back once he found me and kept walked. I about-faced, went back across the street and peeked out from behind a van. There he was, on the other side of the street, looking around in confusion.

Dear French Dudes: If you are going to stalk foreign tourists, don’t wear bright yellow and black stripes.

I ate the best yoghurt I’ve ever tasted, upped and downed over the steps throughout Montmartre, sailed around the many merry-go-rounds that seem to dot that part of Paris, dodged the pickpockets and suspicious guys trying to put bits of string on my finger for ‘good luck’ (their good luck, not mine, apparently the string doesn’t come off and then you have to pay for it). On Saturday I climbed the tower with Paul and Amber who joined me for a romantic weekend. We went to the Notre Dame, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomph, ate a lot of food and drank not nearly enough wine. I saw someone get run over outside my cafe (don’t know if he was ok, he was taken away in an ambulance).

I hung out with some cool dead guys, stepped up and up and up and now fit back into my pants, found the perfect hat (didn’t buy it but I’m going to do a millinery course in Italy if I can find one, so perhaps I will make one like it) and, most importantly, had romantic evenings with wine and friends.

I’d never admit it in person, but I actually enjoyed my time in Paris.

Back in London now, looking forward to catching up with Chris, Peta, Blake (if he gets here in time) and of course Paul and Amber. Am crashing on Paul’s floor until next Tuesday, when it’s on to Bologna and the trip will start for real.

New photos should be on flickr tomorrow sometime.