The Slow and the Furious take Paris

Monny: Ahh shit… here we go again.

Phoebe and I are on the laptop in August, looking at “cute places to go” for a winter getaway.

There are only a couple of options. You see, we have a Eurostar discount code to use up. If you read our last blog, you’ll know why we have this.

What time should we book? I ask.Surely we should get the early train. Don’t want to waste a day on travel. I want to get the most out of my holibobs….

Day 1

Monny: Fast forward to a cold, damp, foggy morning in November, and I find myself getting up at 5am ON SATURDAY.

Phoebe: 7.30 AM and we are all aboard to Paris. Working backward, this meant a wake up time at 5 AM, the trustee 63 to Kings Cross and a foot tapping wait for Mon who was delayed—the cheek! Absolutely no need for us (me) to have arrived when I did: zero queues and a sign saying that ticket gates close 30 minutes before departure. Why then, does it say to arrive at 6.15 am on the tickets??

M: After faffing around for 45 minutes, I need to get the first train to King’s Cross. Just about to step outside, and I look around for my wallet, which is still at my bedside table alongside my house keys.

My co-host and I have a mandatory checklist call the night before to double-check we have everything we need. I also mention that we need to be at St Pancras at 6.15 am sharp…

After grabbing my essentials, I start hauling ass to my local underground station

Phoebe is bright-eyed and tail bushed at the station while I am deep underground somewhere, thinking of a good excuse as to why I'm late. I arrive 15 minutes later than promised: A slap on the wrist for being late, and another slap on the wrist for making my co-host arrive so early.

Wrists bruised. We then proceed through security and passport control. All pretty seamless.

P: Once sat on our train it was with absolute delight that we realised we were sharing our carriage with a gaggle of girls from Essex all celebrating a hen do. After the customary selfies and screechy greetings they were handing out cardboard boxes adorned with pink and white stripes, an Eiffel tower and the words ‘Gemma in Paris’. No prizes for guessing the name of the bride to be. There were squeals of delight as they all discovered their gin and tonic/ aperol spritz/other generic cocktail in said boxes. After the cocktails, next thing to do was hair and make up and, for this, a certain level of respect for the girlos is due: Witnessing GHD’s being passed up and down a Eurostar carriage is definitely a first for me.

M: I was looking forward to a nice, calm train journey to Paris, but those dreams were shattered by a large group of middle-aged women on a hen do, walking towards the same carriage as us.Hoo-ha-ing, whooping, and overly loud for 7 am in the morning. “No worries, bab” “You look amazing, bab”. “How’s my eyelashes, bab?”. Hair straightener and willy straws at the ready… Some passengers left our carriage as the noise was unbearable. The stench of hairspray and slightly burnt hair still haunts my nostrils.

Despite the chaos, we left bang on time.

P: Himself was initially very unimpressed and had his ear plugs firmly plugged in but soon entertained himself by doing a tally of the girls’ designer clobber. He informed me, with a mixture of awe and jealousy, that one was wearing a Rolex watch. A fellow passenger (whom we soon learnt was French) promptly found herself a different seat on the next carriage in order to avoid their noise. She had made eyes with us and in her signal we understood: ‘Vot zee fuck, eez literally 7 in zee morning vot iz with zees English girls?’

M: After what seemed like endless cackling and gossip from our Hen-do friends, we somehow made it to Gard du Nord with our eardrums still intact. We bolt it down to the metro to get another train to our hotel which is situated in the charming neighbourhood of Nation. Highly recommend staying around here. Many metro lines pass through this station and it is a stone’s throw away from the centre of town.

A confident “Bonjour!” from my cohost. “Ahhh, réservation pour Mon….”

For every sentence she said in French, they replied in English.

After some confusion and a bit of bad French, we are informed that we can check into our room earlier than expected. Result !

P: Our bag drop happily turned into a recharge power hour and then, we were off in search of moules frites and adventure.

M: Before any kind of lunch is on the cards, we need to sort out my beloved, limited-edition Paris Olympics 2024 Navigo card. To spare you a long sob story, we were eventually informed by a French man that my (all together now) beloved, limited-edition Paris Olympics 2024 Navigo card was outdated and that the French transport system is now all aboard an app called “Bonjour RATP”. If you’re in Paris anytime soon, download this app and from there buy all the metro, bus and tram tickets your heart could desire.

P: We ate in a seafood restaurant called ‘Huguette’ and ordered moules frites each along with oysters and, naturellement, a glass of white wine. Simply parfait. After this we set off in the direction of Notre Dame—the last time either of us were in the city this cathedral was closed and all one could see was a blown up picture on top of cladding. Not ideal. This time the completed cathedral came with a mile long queue and thousands of iphone cameras so we still didn’t linger.

The evening turned into an aimless but lovely wander through Parisian streets and me oohing and aaahing over the vine covered buildings, haussmanian apartments, lit up squares and bistrots. Still feeling like two overstuffed canards from our lunch we opted for a more liquid dinner. Ultimately, we found ourselves in Chez Lui, a wine bar recommended by my Paris obsessed sister who had described it as ‘great wine and snacks—good people watching’. Three things I love so had it marked pronto. I can’t comment on the snacks, the people watching was mediocre but the natural wine from Alsace was so enjoyable it soon meant that our planned early rise for Versaille the next day became a write off. You can fill in the blanks yourself.

M: Fast forward a couple hours and we’re in an uber back to the hotel and about to order a Parisian maccy d’s. So classy.

Day 2

P: Day two then, rather than being filled with Marie Antoinette’s many bedrooms turned instead into a local exploration of Belle Ville, Père Lachaise and good croissants. Arguably equally as enjoyable. Himself was delighted as the area seems to be filled with a host of friendly cats, keen to wind their way around your leg and purr at you in French

M: Annoyingly, Sunday was the only day we actually had a plan to get up at 7am and embrace the day. I am obsessed with the Palace of Versailles, and I always make a point of visiting it when I come to Paris. Alas, another reason to return. Instead, it is early afternoon, and we find ourselves wandering around a cemetery, sulking and dreaming about what our Sunday could have been. Saying that, we saw a lot of Parisian cats roaming around the city, and in my books, that’s a good day.

To shake off our Sunday blues, we decided that 'Hair of the dog' might be the cure for our problems. We found ourselves in a really cool speakeasy called Kissproof in Belleville, complete with walls decorated in lipstick and red mood lighting. I chose their version of a spicy margarita, featuring a whole heap of strange and wonderful ingredients that I can't quite recall. My co-host, still tender from the night before, opted for a mocktail.

We meet up with our good friend, Serena, who takes us to a lovely little Georgian restaurant called Supra. We feast mainly on a stuffed cheese bread called “Imeruli Khachapuri” and other little mezze dishes. In consequence of the stuffed cheese bread, we are also stuffed. Waddling down to the metro, my co-host decides it’s a good time to stuff herself even more by getting a greasy-looking crepe beside the metro station. Sitting on a busy metro ride home, she would occasionally offer me a bite which I would happily decline after seeing the state of the seller’s stall.

Day 3

P: Day three was our more ‘touristic’ day and included a visit to Jardin du Luxembourg, a filling lunch of French onion soup and Foie gras (feeling guilty) and a trustee ‘free tour’ (a mainstay of any of our city trips).

This one was called ‘Magnificent Montmartre’ and had us ambling around the many back alleys and cutesy pie streets of this past artists’ haunt and current tourist anthill. Nonetheless, the tour gave us lots to chew over including the fun fact that residents of Montmartre deteste le Sacré-Cœur .

The church was built ‘in penance’ for the nation’s ‘sins’ which included The French Revolution and later the Commune uprising. Montmartre, being a left-wing bohemian hot spot, was also home of the Paris commune so, unsurprisingly, past and present residents see this stonking white church as a bit of a kick in the teeth. I did always think it was a bit drab to be fair…

M: Now, one of the reasons why we decided to book Paris for our “cute places to go” for a winter getaway was to see a very controversial band in the UK. Kneecap.

I personally love their “stick it to the man” attitude. These guys have been through the works with the UK courts. Terror charges? Honestly, grow up.

Obviously, their case was dismissed, but it has impacted where the band can and cannot perform. Festivals are dropping them, and certain countries are barring them from entering. France, not so much.

P: Later that evening we found ourselves back in Montmartre but for two things it is perhaps not so associated with these days: Afghan food and Irish rap. Oh yes, we dined on Mantu and Kabuli Pulao in ‘Au Gout Afghan’ and then high tailed it over to Elysee Montmartre for the infamous Kneecap. It was my first time seeing them live and although I always knew I loved what they stood for I’m not a big listener of their music. Himself is also not a listener and, being a bit of a music snob, he has also pronounced that he is not a fan: “they’re just not my kind of thing”.

Regardless of whether they’re my thing or not, I am firmly in the camp of fandom purely based on my nationality and their wonderful anarchism. Legends.

We were also joined by Serena who was sporting a Father Ted t-shirt in honour of the occasion and her two friends who, despite being from Tunisia and Colombia respectively, are also massive kneecap heads. As controversial as they may be, they certainly bring together a mixed salad of people. Paris was perhaps a perfect location for them because, in the words of Kneecap on November 10^th in Elysee Montmartre: “the French. Great lads for a protest”.

M: I thought they put on a really good show. Sound, lighting, and Back of House staff were excellent. They had me bobbing along to a few tunes, and even got my co-host throwing shapes like a white grandma at a 70^th birthday party. The scene was a sight to behold. Jumping, bobbing and clapping OUT of time with the music and waving arms in the opposite direction of the crowd. Now, as a drummer, being in time with the music is everything. Looking at my co-host. It felt like she was in a free jazz concert.

We end our night the only way one should after a gig: A proper greasy takeaway. In the form of a kebab.  (Or a Spice bag for my Irish friends)We’ve walked past this place a couple of times now, and it makes me chuckle every time. ‘NAAN NATION’

Day 4

P:  Final day! Himself awoke first as if it was Christmas morning, keen to make the most out of the day and to make it on time to our brunch. This had been booked ahead of time by our most wonderful hostess for 10.30 in the AM which, in my book, is more of a ‘breakfast’. We were headed to ‘Echo’ which she had been waxing lyrical about the night before. Parisians, she had explained, do not do brunch well. Over her many years in the city she has been carrying out in-depth research into its brunch spots and has crowned ‘Echo’ as the very best. The food was certainly good but I did not order well and was glad of the generous scraps from my co-hosts plates. 

M: Sadly, we wake up to our final day in Paris. We only have half a day before we need to get the Eurostar back home, so I want to make the most of it.

We meet our friend again, Serena, who’s been a wonderful host, at a great brunch spot. Naturally, my co-host eats out of my plate as well as hers.

P: After brunch himself had some ‘sleuth’ work to do in the Parisian branch of the brand he works for. He was keen to do some quality control of Paris’ ‘made to measure’ services.  All I can say is, this boy does not have a future career as a spy. Subtle as a brick is another way of putting it.

In his extremely London accent he tells the French sales assistants that he is suit shopping ‘for a wedding’. This is stated with a blank expression and not an ounce of the associated emotions such as excitement, joy or nervousness. When asked where he is from he does not try to hide the fact that he is from London (Useful to know at this stage is that London is home to multiple different branches of this particular store). At this point, an assistant sensibly suggests that any of these branches may be ‘more convenient for him’. Himself, beginning to realise that his story perhaps contains some holes, begins to explain unconvincingly that ‘Paris would be easier’. Eyebrows raised the sales assistant disappears upstairs in order to book an appointment for this strange Englishman.

At this point, and not a moment too soon, himself decides to come clean and admit to his victim that, in fact, he too works for this brand and has no intention of booking a made to measure appointment but has been, for all intensive purposes, ‘testing them’. The assistant seems entirely unsurprised and, in that very French way, shrugs and tells him ‘eez not mine’ when himself, in a consolatory manner, tells him “you have a very nice store”.

***

The afternoon drifted on in a delightfully aimless way as the three of us wandered boulevards, sipped coffee’s and visited two of the cities beautiful covered passageways—each lined with boutiques, restaurants and coffee shops. We ended the afternoon with some chocolate mousse and after indulging in this it was sadly time for hugs, goodbyes and plans to come again before himself and I made our way back to ‘Nation’ to collect our bags and bundle onto the Eurostar. This time the journey was quiet: no noisy hen parties just the sound of our munching on takeaway baguettes. A bientot Paris!

M: I would like to mention that our journey back went swimmingly. Until the very end, when Phoebe's water bottle started to leak from the overhead shelves, and a few passengers in front of us found themselves in a pool of water. Frantically, everyone was trying to look for where the water source was coming from. As I realise, we are the problem I quietly take Phoebe’s soaking wet bag down and place it on the floor in front of me to avoid revealing the culprit to the other passengers.We arrive in London with a few more damp, angry passengers than there had been in Paris...