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This says 'I'll give you a
quarter if you pick up the
goddamned dog doo'

I'm in Paris!

Paris in winter
Don't hit me with your moped!
Stop and look both ways.

I arrived in Paris yesterday. Both the subway system and the streets seem to have been designed by Jackson Pollock after a weekend bender spent with his hand in Hunter S. Thompson's cookie jar, so it's a miracle I managed to find the hotel after a hike across the vast expanse of Orly airport, three subway line changes, multiple wrong turns and a brief ride on a donkey. Paris itself is beautiful, far more so than I remember. I take back everything I've ever said about Paris except for the smell. I'm not sure where I stayed in Paris the last time I was here, but I have a feeling that my intense dislike was partly due to my location and partly due to the fact that I was a not-particularly-worldly American at the time. My hotel is fantastic, with all of the rooms overlooking a central garden. The hotel room is fairly small--this is Paris, after all--but well-appointed and comfortable.

The people I have met so far are quite friendly--more so than in Toronto, I'd say--and service folk are downright solicitous. When you enter an establishment they immediately greet you with a "bonjour" or "bonsoir", and when you leave they say "merci, au revoir." Because of their form of address it even sounds nice when they insult you: everybody here calls me "madame", which I find charming in the same way that I find it charming when southern men call me "miss" or "lady". "Oui, madame." "Bonjour, madame." "Au revoir, madame." I could get used to this. In fact, I hereby issue an edict stating that you all must call me Madame from now on.

The Seine at night.
You really have to see
Paris to understand
how beautiful it is.

Well, I say that now, but the guy at the Picasso museum was somewhat less than polite when I tried to put my scarf in the arm of my coat. "No, no, no, madame!" he said, but it was fine because he called me madame in that Parisian accent. Oui! Je suis une chienne stupide! Merci!

The Picasso museum is in a gorgeous 17th century mansion. When I say mansion I don't mean a large house, I mean a BIG FUCKING HOUSE with a courtyard surrounded by walls, 15' ceilings and a maze-like basement construction that had me tying a string before I entered and staying ever-vigilant with my eyes peeled for an angry minotaur. It took me about 20 minutes to find the museum, which is a five minute walk from my hotel, because when Pollock designed this part of Paris it must have been about three hours after taking an extra three hits of acid because the first two weren't kicking in fast enough. Streets dead end into nowhere, change names with a randomness that would be charming if it weren't so disorienting, and often exist without street names printed on either the map or the corners. It's amazing that anybody can find their way around Paris. Their taxi drivers must have to pass some sort of entrance exam, though the exam would seem to have little to do with conducting oneself appropriately on the streets.

Paris is divided into districts, inexplicably spiralling outwards from the centre rather than being allocated in some sort of grid. I'm staying on the border of the 11th and 3rd districts in the Marais, the formerly run-down but now hip area which has also become homo central. I've seen disappointingly few fags so far, but let me tell you, the restaurant selection and concentration of excellent decor stores is unrivalled by anything I've seen anywhere in my travels. Aside from the Picasso museum I'm not planning on seeing any other tourist sites, so if my digestive system co-operates then I will spend my day shopping and walking around Paris.

It's raining today, a fairly gentle drizzle, the first I've had to deal with on my whole trip. Like the Swissotel, my hotel provides me with an umbrella to use to keep my pretty little head dry. It's convenient.

I don't think I'm going to be eating anything for a while. I tried a breakfast of yogurt and fruit today but it's not agreeing with me, so I had to stop by the pharmacy and ask for something to treat myself. The label is all in French, so hopefully they gave me something that will take care of my stomach and not that will make me see God.

Right now I will go back to the hotel for a bit and have a snooze, wait for the drugs to kick in, and stagger my way around the Marais and 1e. Get back, you fiend!

I spent most of the afternoon in bed doubled up with cramps. I repeat, it sucks that I'm in Paris and I can't eat anything. I finished an entire cheeseball Ludlum espionage novel while lying in bed. You know I'm desperate when....

Around 6pm I finally felt good enough to get out, so I piled my intestines back into my abdominal cavity and set off in search of real Parisian experience.

This is my kind of city. People in Paris love their doggies. They really do bring them into restaurants and sit them under the table. Nobody bats an eye (including the dogs, who stare unblinkingly at their owners awaiting table scraps). Parisians don't have an overly developed sense of responsibility when it comes to their dogs, though: just like in Barcelona, they tend to leave the poopies where they fall. I saw a woman picking up after her dog and almost took a picture of it because it stood out against the backdrop of doody-littered Paris.

This is either a giant
disaster requiring civil
engineers or it's art.

The subway system in Paris is bizarre. Its subway lines begin and end right in the middle of the city, sometimes looping around on themselves. You have to change trains 150 times to get ten blocks... and those are the spastic Parisian blocks, the ones that begin and end suddenly in a different spatial dimension while travelling briefly through ours. Speaking of dimensions, many of the Metro's walkway tunnels seem to have been designed for hobbits or, at best, dwarves: I'm 5'5" and in some tunnels I'm convinced that I'm going to come away with a big red mark on my forehead.

I'm leaving on the jet train to London tomorrow afternoon. I'll definitely be coming back to Paris, though.

I don't have anything else to report except that my current hotel bed is comfortable (though not Swissotel-comfortable), Robert Ludlum is an adequate espionage writer, and I am very hungry.

Okay, I love Paris. It REALLY FUCKING SUCKS that I was sick the whole time and didn't get to experience much of it. I'm sitting at Gare du Nord right now, waiting for my train to London. They have wireless access. YES!

I got up early, had an apple, a banana, some toast and some orange juice at the free breakfast, and checked out. I took the Metro to Gare du Nord and dropped my stuff in a locker, then headed back to 6e and did some more walking around. The highlight of my morning was meeting an exceptionally friendly daschund puppy on Pl. St Germain des Prés who gave me all sorts of kisses with puppy breath (which is less stinky than Loki breath). I am definitely, definitely going to come back to Paris some day. My first judgments of the city were too hasty. I am not too proud to admit that I was completely wrong about it... except for the assertion that Paris smells funny, which is true.

Even though they live in one of the fashion capitals of the world, Parisians themselves don't dress particularly well. For example, one would think that, with their proximity to Italy, they'd have better shoes. The Manolo, he would feel very much the disappointment. With the exception of those worn by the young Italian men I've seen (Italian women wear those hideous elf shoes that the Manolo, he likes, but that the Alaina, the shoes make her do the gagging with spoons), my Fluevogs have been the coolest shoes in Paris. Barcelonins are far, far better dressed than Parisians. Even Berliners are better dressed than most Parisians, and that's saying something. Parisians dress like North Americans. Hang your heads in shame, svp.

Gare du Nord

Anyway, on to London. Bummed that I didn't get to experience more of Paris. I'll come back in warmer weather, though.

One of the great things about being me is that I get excited by the dumbest little thing. I'm now getting excited about sitting on a train to London for two and a half hours. I love trains.

Oh, and the weather in London is beautiful: a low of 12C and a high of 14C.

I love trains! Wheeee!

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