History Repeating

On Monday night, while I was hanging around the Irish College on Monday evening, one of the inmates there, David, cut his finger quite badly. Well used to the situation I to wash the wound, elevate it and roll up some gauze in his clenched fist to stop the bleeding. The night-attendant in the Irish college insisted on holding the wound open while he doused it in sterile solution, which must have been excruciating but we were soon on our way.

Myself and one of the girls from the college, Suze, went down to the hospital with him to keep him company. It turns out he two had nicked a tendon, albeit on the ring rather than little finger, and required pretty much the exact same surgery as I needed.

I think the most important detail of the story though is that why did this grievous act of self mutilation with a brand new lethal samurai bread knife, he did it with that other great mortal enemy of man... a can of corn!

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).

Ch-Ch-Changes

I must leave the Centre Culturel Irlandais this Friday and I can't but help the feeling that living on my own is going to be a lot less comfortable in many ways.

I just started to really get to know people here and get into the swing of things when now I have to leave. I've made some good friends here already and that's a massive asset to have here in this country with it's crazy language and people and I'm sure I'll call back regularly.

Yesterday, I collected my keys for the apartment from my land-lady. I met her at the apartment and with all the furniture removed and cleaning materials strewn all over the place for the first time I was slightly less excited by the novelty of having my own place. It really reminded me of Brian Keenan's "Sugar Cube" cell in an Evil Cradling - there wasn't even curtains up at the time and the walls are absolutely plain white. I'm quite convinced I'll go mad there. I suppose it's only natural when I've become confortable where I am to dread changing my surroundings again. Hopefully when I settle into a rythmn there and make it a bit more personal a space then everything will be fine.

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In terms of training, I feel I'm fencing a bit better this week. The long break over the weekend did me good and I feel fully recovered and ready to get right back into it. Again, last night I fenced a series of matches until I could fence no longer. I feel a bit sharper but I need to start fencing more cleverly and being more conscious of correcting the mistakes I'm making. Hopefully, that'll come with a bit more coaching as well as expanding my repetoir of tactics.

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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.

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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.
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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.