Back to work...

...by which, I mean fencing.

The very next morning after the fencing, I travelled back to Paris on the 7am flight.

I trained as usual on Tuesday and Wednesday. I wasn't to be alone in Paris long at least as my friend, Martin, was visiting for the end of the week.

He arrived on Wednesday afternoon (and I still went to training) but afterwards we to the Chameleon Jazz bar, near St. Michel. Over the next couple of days we did all the touristy stuff that I've all but ignored since I've been in Paris - The Eiffel Tower, Musé D'Orsay, The Louvre (although I go there pretty regularly) and all that sort of thing.

...

Thursday night we ate in the Refuge De Fondue. I'd invited David from the Irish College along the day before but for some reason he thought it wasn't a fondue restaurant. I still maintain this was the fault of the temporary insomnia he was suffering when I invited him, rather than my sarcasm. Words cannot express the guilt I felt when after coming all the way over to the restaurant he decided to leave, as he hates fondue.

Eventually we were seated next to a group of Americans, who we got talking to throughout the meal. They'd been there 3 times in a month which is a true testament to Americans fondness for cholesterol. The loudest and most drunk soon pronounced herself to be Irish-American, her parents having left Belfast when the getting was good. A conversation soon erupted, spewed if you will, over the nature of origins. The other Americans, Two Jewish Americans (one Croatian-Jewish American man and one quiet polite Jewish-American girl) and one loud Romanian-American.

Like the congealing cheese in front of us, the conversation soon turned far too heavy, for our tastes and became some sort of rant on the meaning of existence by Romanian-American who was countered by the Irish-American girl telling him he was full of crap. Then there was some sort of debate over the validity of national identities - this nearly crept into questioning the validity of the Jewish-American identity, which was immediately rebuked by the Zionist Croatian-Jewish-American.

Myself and Martin, watched on amused at how these people who were obviously American to us could tie themselves in knots over such a trivial matter such as where their ancestors came from. Anyway, that provided plenty of entertainment for us for the rest of the evening.

...

Hungary Day 6 Continued: Drowning my Sorrows

The Saturday evening I joined the British team, since they were not taking any further part in the competition either, for a few drinks. After a dinner of wild boar in a local restaurant and much pointing to the fact that I was a potatoe munching deviant, we headed to a local bar and then a night club. I assume that is what we did as there were a great many blanks in the night which will never be remembered.

The first bar we went to bar was really odd. We followed Chris, who lives in Budapest, off down random side streets until we came to a gateway with a small sign above it. Passing through the gateway we turned immediately into an old building which seemed like some sort of derelict house. There was two old arm-chairs and a pile of old childrens' tricycles in the corner. We passed through some plastic curtains, like you would find in a butchers, and through another and came out in this really trendy bar. There was salsa music playing, a balcony with green plants hanging down into the bar below, the furniture was all mismatched and the floor uneven. It was a fantastic spot.

After a few drinks there we took a tram to a nightclub not so far away. Again this was a bizarre building. First, you entered a large corrigated iron shed which contained the cloakroom and the first bar. After putting in our coats we passed through more plastic curtains through a tunnel with gravel underfoot and out the otherside through more curtains and past a tree. The club seems to have been in a roofed in courtyard. The surrounding buildings to the courtyard were gutted and contained tables and chairs. The courtyard was in an L shape and besides the entrance ran a long bar and at the bottom of the bar a packed dance floor. It all got a bit blurry at that stage - there was dancing, there was beer spilling constantly when trying to cross the dance floor. To the best of my knowledge a good night was had by all.

I parted ways with the British at a square near their hotel and continued on in the taxi to my own hotel.

Parting is...

During the week, one of the best friends I have made since coming to Paris, Phil, left for Borneo - crazy fool.

To mark this tumultuous time there were a couple of drinks over a couple of days culminating in a steak at 5am in the morning on Wednesday on St. Michel (which is apparently becoming where I go to mark any sort of ending).

Turkish Delight: Epilogue - Getting out of Dodge

So that night I went for a bite to eat and a few drinks with Trev in Tacsim. Later on we met up some of his work colleagues and went for a couple beers in a micro-brewery nearby. I had to get up quite early the next morning as I was getting a shuttle across to the airport at 6am.

At about 2am I headed back to my hotel and before I went to sleep set my alarm for 5am as I still needed to pack a bit. At 5am my alarm woke me but I decided to forgo a shower and take an extra 20 minutes in bed, so I reset my alarm and went back to sleep...

I woke up again at 7am, my flight was at 9am. I threw my things together and headed downstairs as fast as I could.

"Did a shuttle bus call for me. Would no one have thought of calling my room", I started at the receptionist, knowing full well what was coming.
"klakbedabiakkliajhiehiuhe ihekiuhaeikujhihl xiluhxauihliu!"
"I'm late for my flight, could you order me a taxi?"
"Tacsi IUiudhfoiih awekeoiuh asoiuhelkuh liusehriuh"
They wouldn't call me a taxi - I had to give them my Irish mobile.
"Do you realise how much that is going to cost me, you dick?", I smiled at the half-wit.

As I've mentioned previously there is a constant traffic jam in Istanbul. 7am is is no excpetion this and I found myself in the middle of the morning high-rush. I sat in the taxi for 2 hours as we crawled through the city.

When we eventually arrived, I threw whatever Lira I still had at the taxi driver and ran into the airport. Slowly through the security check just to get into the airport and finally up to the monitors - my flight was boarding. I frantically searched for the Air France desk.

Luckily enough my flight tickets were transferable, something I didn't know previously, and I was put on the next flight back to Paris.

I found a bench to sleep on for three hours, until it was time to board. My third visit to Turkey in one year was over and there was a strange mixture of sadness but mainly relief that I wouldn't be back for at least another year.

Oh, the memories...

Istanbul Jan '07

The Longest Weekend Part 5: Hidden Bonus Track or Monday

Monday Keith and David were to leave for Madrid and deliver me from the hell i'd been living in for the last couple of days.

As it happened Dave had to stay behind to give his keys to his parents on Tuesday...

That evening I'd agreed to sit for Mick O'Dea in the Irish College, so at least that delayed the onslaught somewhat. I posed for two drawing in my fencing gear. Funny things happen to your body when you stand still for that long. The blood pooled in my feet and my arms ached from supporting the mask. While all this was going on Kerry as me questions around the night she had spent at training and about fencing in general. These artists were determined to capture every interesting detail of me - in return I demanded 10%. They still haven't got back to me on that.

The result of the evenings work were two fantastic large pencil sketches on hand made paper. The first one is a fantastic drawing (pictures to follow shortly) of me looking particulalry serious and menancing, the second is a variation of this from a different angle. What is particularly exciting about the seconf is that Mick is allowing me keep it.

At about 11.30 we decided to call it a day and have a pint to relax for a bit. David joined us and we enjoyed some of the excellent Leffe bear Mick had in his fridge. Just to draw a line under proceeding we went for one down at the Bombardier down the road. After a half-hearted attempt to think of another pub open nearby and with no results, Mick decided that was enough for him and we probably should have done the same.

...

There was apparently only one pub open in city centre Paris at that time. The highlander. We sat back reminiscing on what seemed like a decade of in-jokes and memories from the weekend until it was finally time to go.

Just for old times sake we had one last steak au poivre at an all night restaurant at 5am. In hindsight that may have been a steak too far...

The Longest Weekend Part 4: Sunday At Le Stade

Sunday awoke a bright but chilly December morning. When we awoke Sunday morning was long but the chill had remained. Furthermore, it was nearly time for the Stade Francais Vs. Sale Sharks Heineken Cup match at Parc de Prince. The other two had bought tickets several weeks earlier and I intended to try and get one at the gate.

We were packed like sardines on the long metro journey back to Porte De St. Cloud as the crowds swelled because of match day. As if by magic, I found a man selling unwanted tickets at face value right next to the gates and gladly parted with a poultry €10 for unreserved seating. I was in a segment on my own for the match, in my thin fleece, but it was a great atmosphere and quite an exciting match.

When given the choice between supporting Le Stade de France or PSG over the coming year, I think I'll side with the prawn-sandwich brigade rather than the anti-semmatic murderous facist hooligan brigade. This decision ways heavily against the chip on my shoulder developed through a hatred of South Dublin rugby playing schools but I feel that this situation is sufficiently detachted so as to reduce much of the inner turmoil which would otherwise exist.

...

We stopped for a few bites of sushi as an entree to our main meal of steak au poivre in the Old Navy. Two Parisien guitarists and €5 bottled water (after the last place's warm tap water) accompanied our meal. It was all very pleasent.

It was unilaterally decided that we needed to take it easy that night. So myself, Keith, David and Phil went bowling with a few beers just to ween ourselves off rather than going cold turkey. The bowling alley was in a basement off Moufftard and was excellent value compared to the Leisureplex(i?) back home.

This was the first time since Thursday that I'd got to bed before 1, just barely.

The Longest Weekend Part 3: Saturday Fencing and Drinking

The next morning David and Keith awoke on a floor in the Irish College to discover they were covered in pink permanent marker. A crude drawing of a penis seemed to be the most popular design with one or two each adorning their foreheads. There was also an address to a Bebo site scrawled down one arm and multiple penis down the other. It wasn't until the next day the Keith spotted the large pink swazkita on his shoulder, however. That being said he didn't realise about his forehead till well after he'd enter a bakery to get a baguette at 8 o'clock that morning.

I had spent the night in my own bed (which was still a sleeping bag on top of a bed, as they had interupted my house shopping on Thursday). My plan for the day was to head for the French National fencing championships which were to be held in a large stadium near Parc de Prince at Porte de St. Cloud (home of Paris St. Germain Football Club and the recent riots after the shooting dead of PSG fan as he was part of a mob attacking a Jewish Tel Aviv fan by a plain clothes police officer).

But I digress. The top 32 in France were fighting it out for bragging rights over one another. I arrived around 2pm with the finals at four so got to see all the semi-finals across the six weapons. By the time of the finals it was amazing how few of the national teams across the weapons had actually reached them. All in all the finals were disappointing, save for the Men's Sabre. The lads who had dragged themselves in just before four and who had found me during a break in the women's epee agreed. When I get a chance I'll try and post the final of the Men's sabre somewhere (Julien Pillet Vs Nicolas Lopez) - it was a very exciting match.

...

Once the dust had settled, it was agreed that we all needed sushi. Paris is littered with sushi restaraunts of various standards, we found a cheap one and tucked in.

There was business to be taken care of however and we were soon back at my place for an impromptu house warming and some wine. With the six of us in my tiny apartment it was pretty much packed so at around 11 we decided to seek out more space. Keith and David returned to the Long Hop (where the staff there would continue their attempts to kill the two of them). I decided to go with Phil, Liz and Rachel to a Reggae club that Phil had heard of.

Thinking that the club was only at Nation I decided not to bring a coat and wore only a light fleece instead. The club was actually near Mo Nationale, which is much further away in the South of the city. We found it slightly amusing that there was a reggae club on a road called Rue Des Noirs (french racial segregation in full flow), less funny when the road actually Rue Dunois and even less funny when after travelling the length of the road we found nothing resembling a club or even an open pub on it's entire length. On the return voyage the result was exactly the same.

Phil rang his friend from the jazz club to find out where it was. Apparently the small community hall we had passed was the place where the gig was on and it finished at 11 O'clock, not started at eleven o'clock. Either which way it was very much closed when we reached it at twelve. Suspicions that the rasta who gave him the information may well have bin praisin' de almighty Ja wit dem holiest mari-ji-juana spread quickly about the group as we wondered how the hell we'd get back to civilisation, or at least the proto-civilisation that was the Long Hop.

We ventured forth to Place D'Italie where a massive taxi queue left us pondering our next move - until we saw a bus to Gare de Lyon. This was in the general direction that we were going and we thought we could get that towards the Long Hop. Although the bus said Gare Du Lyon on it several stops later we realised we were heading out towards the Banlieue. Rather than go through a midnight stroll in some of the most dangerous areas in France, maybe in Europe, we decided we needed to get off the bus. The minute we had, we saw another bus for Gare Du Lyon heading the opposite direction and hopped onto it without a second thought.

On this extra-pleasent, journey a woman threw-up at our feet and a drunk who smelled of petrol approached us for a light. Declining we got off at Place D'Italie, where we'd started, and began to walk. Highlights of the walk included the Paris zoo where we saw some ostriches and the several times where I felt I might be coming down with hypothermia (see my mention of only wearing a light fleece).

Eventually, we reached the Long Hop only to find it closed. David and Keith were at the lock-in ongoing inside. While the staff of the Long Hop did their level best to end the lives of my two friends, the rest of us went to the Pomme D'Eve to wait for them. It was at this point, as I sat down in a chair in the cave that three nights of excess began to catch up with me and my eyelids became intolerably heavy. When the lads arrived they were in a similar state perhaps induced more by having vodka poured directly into their mouths rather than tiredness but none the less the spirit of the evening had turned distinctly tired and/or emotional.

Whatever was going on in David's head he decided that we should leave, minus Keith, and having no more energy to resist I gave in a followed him out of the bar. We paused briefly to have a photo taken with the South African flag outside and then headed back to David's for a respite before tomorrows fun. Keith eventually followed after an hour or two later with the assistance of Phil. This didn't stop him from trying the door code on the wrong door for a good while but that is a story for another day...

The Longest Weekend Part 2: Friday Night

Friday began with the stiffness of a night lying on the floor, it also began around 1pm.

The search for food began immediately and lead us to our first steak au poivre of the week. David knew a little place just off the Champs Elysee which did €14 steak au poivre with unlimited chips (yes, that's right, unlimited). By the time we had walked there from the Assemblie Nationale we were all starving.

After asking for a non-smoking table we were directed upstairs where we stood waiting for about ten minutes. Eventually we asked the young thin waiter with greasy slicked back black hair, dressed all in black with far too tight trousers for a seat. He gestured vaguely towards some seats directly in front of us besides the stairs. Spying the large comfortable booths behind him by the wall we asked could we sit in there instead - we were informed that that area was closed.

With no other choice we sat in the small table and began looking at the menu. A fruitless venture since we were all going to get the cheap steak and chips but none the less it turned out to be a lengthy one as our friend in black systematically ignored us. At one stage David nodded and waved at him to get his attention and he nodded and waved back, then just turned around and continued with what he was doing - which may as well have been cloud-watching for all the work he was doing.

Eventually a waitress who had been frantically running around are section picking up the slack left by the moron in black. Came to take our order - "Three steaks and chips please."

Hours seemed to pass before the steaks and chips were delivered on a large platter. We were also given tepid tap water to drink when we ask for a jug of water so struggled through the feast with little or no rehydration. When we had a fill we settled down for the wait for the bill...

...

That evening our plan was to return to the Long Hop. I headed to the Irish College to gather a possy while David and Keith checked there bank balances at a local internet café. With David, Liz, Phil, Rachel and Suze in tow I headed for the Long Hop to meet up with the lads - who weren't there.

They arrived after a brief trip to VD's where a friend of David's had provided an early jump-start to the nights festivities. The night began to pick up momentum as the bars profit for that night was being cancelled out by the free drinks and shots which Dave was receiving.

It was getting late by human standards but as we left the Long Hop spirits were high and we were all miraculously still standing considering that enough alcohol to kill a rhino had probably been consumed. The Villen Dingue (VD's) was the next port of call. The weirdest and possibly seediest little cave club in Paris was probably what this pub was but not without its charm as David once again new a barman.

The night was whiled away with witty stories and occasional polite jokes until it was time to leave. Back to the Irish College for some tea and crumpets. As my senses returned to me I realised what a terrible mistake I had made bringing these drunken fools into a place where people like to sleep at 3am in the morning. I tried for a while to convince them to leave but pinning me down to draw genitals on my face was the last straw and I decided to leave them to their own devices.

The Longest Weekend Part 1: Thursday Night After Training

...Some friends visit and I undo any training I've done over the last 6 months.

Although I was aware of their impending arrival, nothing could prepare me for the exhausting terror that lay before us.

After training on Thursday evening, I received a text from David and Keith prompting me to meet them on the quays by Notre Dame. At about 10.30pm I reached the agreed spot on the Seine to find them enoying smuggled contraband. Yes, that's right... Red Bull (it's illegal in France and rightly so). There may have been some Aldi or equivalently cheap vodka in their Volvic bottle but I neglected to ask them. Either way they seemed pleased with themselves.

Our first port of call was to the Long Hop, a bar where David used to work. His friends there (friends I would later compare to being friends with your heroine dealer) were so pleased to see him they decided to try and kill the three of us with alcohol.

As the evening wore on and the Long Hop was preparing to close we began to plan our next move. David lead us to a night club with a student night somewhere near the 7th via another bar with some friends of his, the Vileune Dingue (or VD's -lovely). Unfortunately, the lovely bouncers on the door informed us we couldn't get in. This all lead to our first taxi journey of the evening and undoubtedly the most ridiculous.

I knew that my friends from the Irish College were heading to a big student night in a place called Mix by Montparnasse, so I suggested we try and head that direction. Eventually, we got a taxi and we tried to explain where we were going. He seemed to make up his mind after a while and started off. He dropped us a very small bar. Our suspicions should have been raised when the bar only had a small porthole window in it, through which the bouncer looked out. We walked in the door, myself in the rear. The taxi driver had brought us to a brothel, we made a sharp u-turn, we walked out of the door.

After several minutes of hysterical laughter, we paused to wonder what to do next. In the end we did what comes naturally to people at that hour of the night - we went to get a kebab.

As myself and Keith tucked into our Kebabs it became apparent to us that David had disappeared. As I reached for my French Mobile to call him it also becamse apparent that my French mobile had disappeared and as Keith reached for his, that his mobile was out of credit. I tried calling him several times on my Irish phone but couldn't get a connection. I sent him several texts in the hope that he couldn't answer because he had no credit and told him to meet us at the Irish College, which was nearby and which we all knew how to find.

When we got to the Irish College we managed to get in and to regroup for a while in the Kitchen - it was now pouring rain. Eventually, I heard someone calling my name from outside the window. David had found his way to the Irish College - he didn't seem best pleased. Apparently public urination is frowned upon in France, along with most of the western world. When a plane clothes policeman approached Dave and told him as much, David's natural reaction was to suggest that he should go away in no uncertain terms. David spent the next hour in a room in the police station.

With the three of us united once again we set off for David's where I spent the night sleeping on the floor. In the morning David explained there was some cushion which could be arranged into a mattress in the wardrobe...

The French Way of Life

A member of the club very kindly gave me a ticket to a wine festival.

It was a ticket for two so myself and Phil, from the Irish College, went on our way to get pissed, under the vague pretence of sampling French culture. The festival was of independent wine-makers and was at the exhibition halls at Porte de Versailles. It is apparently quite a well known event that attracts huge crowds each year. This year was no exception except that two Paddies had crept in unnoticed beneath the radar of the French Cultural Police.

...
Details of the exhibition can be found at www.vigneron-independant.com under Paris 2006. There were roughly 972 stands. Each of the 12 or so French wine regions were represented.
...

The hall was enormous, stretching out in every direction along corridors and corridors of stands. At the door we were each given a wine glass for sampling. The layout was absolutely bewildering, with no order to it whatsoever. They weren't ordered by region or price or by reputation, just spread out randomly across this huge hall. In order to get what we wanted as quickly as possible we bought a catalogue and quickly headed out to our first destination - champagne.

As if to celebrate our newly found pig-in-shit status we stared by sampling one or two champagnes. You must imagine that it was quite evident to these wily vintners that these two student-types, although one of them spoke quite good French (not me), that it was perhaps unlikely that they were going to walk away with a few crates a piece. This seriously cut in to the samples we were given at some stands - most notably perhaps the €70 a bottle Armangnac where we given, after a considerable length of time left standing there, a dribble in the bottom of the Brandy glass. Colour, bouquet, taste, acidity all were carefully mulled over at each stand until we felt we had made it seem like we were considering buying but wanted to shop around just a bit more.

We sampled wines from every region of France - Alsace-Lorrain, Beaujolais, Champagne, Loire Valley, the South-West, Rhone Valley, Loire Valley, Bourgogne - or at least the ones we felt deserved our patronage. Eventually, with a much fuller sense of at least the great range of tastes in wine we decided to call it a day. Chuffed with ourselves, we wandered perhaps slightly less steadily into the sunset to get a Kebab to wash away the sense of pretension which risked consuming us in that place.