One day, two girls and a Priest.

Yesterday I travelled with a friend over an hour out of Paris to meet an 85 year old Priest who spoke no English and had no idea we were coming.

This may sound like a bad idea, but it was one of the more interesting experiences I've ever had, and if you can't do things like that in France, where can you?

We got a late train out of Paris to Chartres, a small quaint town about 75 minutes out of Paris known for its medieval cathedral, Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres. It is considered to be the finest example of a High Gothic style cathedral in France and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has to be one of the most exquisitely detailed cathedrals I've seen yet.

Our mission when we arrived was to find a man my friend had met on her plane back to Paris from Malaga a couple of weeks ago. She had sat next to this nice old man, got chatting to him, and he had written down his address and phone number for her to contact when she came to Chartres. So two weeks later, here we were, arriving in a tiny town at almost dinner time having failed to contact him whatsoever with the only plan to search a town ("which must be small enough to find an old guy in white robes, right?). My chastizing of her plan, or lack thereof, turned out to be pointless as we entered the cathedral and while reading the information board, found out he was THE priest. As in, he was the priest of one of the finest cathedrals of all or France. Right.

Sure enough, as we were walking around, and I was asking some questions which thorougly entertained my Catholic (ish) friend such as: "So they hang out in those confession boxes all day just waiting for someone to come in?", followed by "but what if they fall asleep? Does that mean your confession doesn't count?" and met with amused stifled giggles. But these questions were abruptly stopped when we spotted our priest praying his Rosary (I let slip "why is he talking to himself?" before I could stop myself.)

After a quick reintroduction on my friend's part and an awkward introduction on my part due to one of the initial questions being "are you Catholic?" in which there was a prolonged silence as I struggled to decide whether to lie and say yes or be honest and possibly disrespect/anger this Holy He. I finally decided there was something wrong about lying in a cathedral to a priest and in the end stumbled out that I was Presbyterian but "open". I was starting to think I'd be the first person to get kicked out of this cathedral.

But we got chatting to him and he was the nicest man who seemed intent on us coming back when the renovations were finished and being 'alter hands' and helping him with Mass. I thought this was a nice gesture and equally the most terrifying concept, imagining myself in those large white robes, tripping up the stairs holding a tray of candles. But he was incredible to talk to and his slow, old man speak meant I understood everything he said. I felt like high-fiving him.

He told us he had to go but asked us to stay for Mass which he was taking in fifteen minutes. Ten minutes later I'm sitting in a gigantic, elaborate cathedral in the middle of France singing French hymns for my first ever Catholic Mass service. Now, THAT is something I never thought I'd say. It even included Communion (which I later discovered all services do) and so we all went up to the front and got given our cracker/token/plastic playing peice. The moment I put it in my mouth I suddenly had a sense of dread that that wasn't what you did here as it seemed hard and unchewable. However, I think that might have just been a stale packet as sure enough everyone else was popping them in their mouth.

When the service was over and we bidded au revoir to our charming new friend, we spent the rest of the time walking around Chartres discovering the tiny but pretty town and I used this time to scratch up on my Catholic knowledge with questions like "how many times do Catholic's go to Church?", "what is Mass?", and the most embarrasing, "Is being a Priest handed down the generations?", quickly being told just why this wouldn't be the case. Turns out this trip to Chartres was quite the religious schooling.

Nevertheless, the town was quaint and a wonderful relief from Paris. We had coffee at a cute resto during a random downpour, and my favourite smell ever came about as the rain hit the hot concrete and once it had passed we continued to wander with the smell of burning tar wafting about. We even fitted in dinner and dessert before boarding the train and heading home.

As I was biking home somewhere around midnight, I suddenly thought about how the priest had said he was going to pray for us and wondered just what he was going to pray 'for' for me. I'm thinking perhaps I should have left being 'open' out of my religious affiliations.

Merci Ascension Catholique.

To sum it up, my trip down South with my brother "to catch the sun" involved rain, tolls, driving and rain. But other than that, it was a total success.

We left Paris late, after I gave my brother the shortest tour of Paris in the history of short Paris tours which pretty much involved driving from Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Élysées, around the Arc de Triomphe (twice, actually, but not really for shits and giggles) and down the Seine, past Musée D'Orsay and Musee Quai Branly and ending at the holy dome of Paris, la Tour Eiffel. By this stage all that he'd really got a taste of was Paris traffic, which isn't going to leave the best lasting impression (read: it is a mixture of constant tooting, dangerous stunts and near death experiences).

But after getting out of Paris the landscape opened up and the French countryside beamed its beautiful brilliance under the shining sun and we were able to drive the 6 hours to Bordeaux eating Speculoos and admiring, in my opinion, one of the best landscapes in the world.

About 6 hours later we arrived in the world's major wine industry capital, Bordeaux, which also happens to be a historic city on the UNESCO world hertiage list, which I was about to find out was not at all a misplaced honour. It is one of the most visually arresting places I have been, and certainly so in France, as driving through the central streets, it is impossible not to feel the 18th century presence (and somewhat claustraphobic simultaneously). The buildings are built up right at the edge of the street, practically on the footpaths, with no gaps in between each building and all stopping at the exact same height, making driving through seem like a looming optical illusion in which the building's are getting closer together and starting to bend over on top of you. Amazingly, people still live in these buildings as if it's just another apartment, but I couldn't fathom making a home in what was clearly waiting to crumple. To be a UNESCO world heritage sight, and therefore obviously untouchable to some to degree is great, but they seriously need a case of the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

After making a quick tour through, and having now be able to claim I've stayed there by spending one glorious night in a lovely hotel, we got our drive on and battled the constant rain on our way to Biarritz, a town slightly out of our way on our way down to Spain, but a stop I've been dying to make since I got to France. And it was worth the detour.

A wonderful tangle of tiny streets lead to the edge of the coast, which garners the most fantastic views along the edge of France down a rocky outcrop of golden cliffs and terra cotta style roofs. I think I may have found my Achilles heel of France. Apparently I wasn't the first, it was pumping. Despite the gloomy weather, there were droves of tourists clearly equally stunned by the sight I was captured by. This meant finding a park was like trying to make a fat kid eat brocolli. The only option was to force it in. So we did. We found the tiniest park and managed to swindle the little Deutsche car in.

The town was quaint, historic and one of those places that pulls your eyes in every which direction (with which lack of looking at the ground and France's cobblestones makes for a dicey situation. Unforunately one German couple found this out the hard way. I'm not going to say I laughed. I'm also not going to lie.) It was a town with an abundance of everything, history, people and glamour, this was a glaringly wealthy town. The views when walking through the town onto the shorefront were stunning and the beach was incredible. It had an incredible natural set up with the cliffs jutting up straight from the end of the sand and a long stretch of beach winding round the edges, complete with promenade to accustom the sand-dislikers. There was even a walk stretching all the way around the edge of the cliffs (much like Coogee to Bondi if you've ever been lucky enough to make that trek) with the idyllic ocean views keeping 'les yeux' happy.

I was more than sad to leave. Unfortunately the ceremonial, wanderlust, longing departure was made that much more real by our leaving present, un contravention. A parking ticket. Turns out we'd missed the 'payant' signs more than 5 metres away from where we parked. Merde.

We ignored this glitch (or I did) and made our way on to Spain, driving further into the rain. Now the one thing B had told me was that he could not take the car into Spain, he had hired it in Germany and had it insured to take into France but Spain cost a lot extra and therefore our plan was to drive to France's border (in Hendaye, more specifically). I was aware. I was also designated navigator (in lieu of anyone else being able to, in which I'm sure they would have been), and I was in charge of making this happen. Directions have never been my strong suit. Needless to say, after going through a toll bridge (which we had been through a lot of, so didn't ring any bells. Nor did the strange Hispanic looking uniformed officials standing at the entrances), I suddenly realised I could no longer read the signs. "So, I think we're in Spain" was not met welcomely. Nor will I repeat how it was met. But by the speed with which we turned the car around and went back through the toll bridge in the other direction, I'm fairly confident that's my shortest stay in any country. Ever.

We managed to make it to Hendaye (in no part from my help) which happened to have extremely inviting surf on our arrival and I cursed our short stay, parked the car (checking the ground repeatedly for the evil 'payant' signs) and loaded ourselves on the Euskotren to San Sebastian. It was just a short trip, about 20 minutes in which I spent the majority staring avidly at our neighbours and their strange language.

Our arrival was met with more rain but San Sebastian was instantly stunning. A beautiful town of mixed colour and standard of buildings and a large inlet of beach with shiny, inviting, golden sand. Our hostel was located right in the heart in what I'm assuming was one of the hot spots for a late night drink and mere metres from the beach. We spent our time there eating (more applicable to me), staring at the surf (again, more applicable to me), and orientating ourselves to this small, but beautiful town. I managed to walk to the top of the closest hill (something I have grown accustomed to doing while travelling, the motto 'if there's a hill, I'll climb it' is not an inaccurate way to describe my travelling technique. Nor is it actually a motto, but that's not the point.) Anyway, the weather somewhat hindered the view from the top but regardless, what I could see was stunning. There was also a museum at the top which I slowly walked past, which ensued the ticket man inside to come running outside chasing me and yelling something in fluid Spanish, from which all I picked up was espere (wait) and libre (free) and followed him inside to the most useless museum I've ever been to. And that's really saying something. Not that it wasn't interesting, but I'm not going to get much out of a largely written based history of a town with only Spanish and Basque translations. But I appreciated the man's dedication to get me to go and forced myself to stay for as long as I could possible look at a selection of about 4 pictures and a 3 minute film.

We bidded 'despedida' to San Sebastian but with the look of the surf etched into my mind, it won't be my last trip. We caught the train back, picked up our car (sans parking ticket, hoorah!) and headed back up France for a night in Toulouse. The 'ville rose' or pink city, was just that and its colours gave it an enchanting, romantic feel which shined through the relentless downpours. (The joke about the 'ville rose' is that it is also reknowned for being a gay town, hence the double entendre in its stereotype.) A night there and a dinner near its beautiful centre, which lit up at night made me feel like I had a case of the 'caught in a romantic movie' syndrome, its light casting some beautiful images against 'les batiments rose'.

Again, leaving came too soon and our trip back to Paris was plagued with queues (and I mean, queues (!!), half of NZ was making the trip back up central France. Luckily we were kept entertained with a bus full of teenage boys who had nothing better to do than moon us (I'm hoping this term is lost on some...) and I managed to inappropriately take a picture (or three..)

Our return to Paris was met with a setting sun, the Eiffel Tower looming large against the dusty rose tinted skyline.

Ready to riiiide.

San Sebastian's central square.

Toulouse by night.

So pretty.

Boredom.

Strange Spanish food.

Beautiful Spanish coastline.

Rainbow! We saw a lot of these, even a double rainbow.

France's landscape/power

Our entertaining ride home.

So Spain...

Beautiful Spain, even in overcast.

View from the top of my hill.

Prendre La Vie Dans Les Mains.

I realised a fascinating thing when my brother graced the City of Lights with his presence. I have subtely, unwittingly become accustomed to the way of the French. Now this may sound all, I-wear-berets, eat-baguettes, and ride-a-velib delicious, enchantingly wrapped up in images of red, white and blue and the sounds of Carla Bruni wafting out, but the reality is, well, not that.

I have become somewhat aware of this over the passing of time. You can't live in a city for 8 months and not get caught up in its web of culture, way of life, and various bemusing functions, but suddenly, having someone new to the environment made me all the more aware.

It happened while he was driving. Paris is not an easy place to drive. I wouldn't want to learn to drive here, in fact I think most of the people on the roads skipped that step too, judging by their daring manoeuvres. But, B was managing pretty successfully to navigate his way through the notorious jungle which makes up Paris' labyrinth of 'rue's'.

Trying to desperately to get out of the city (this was the plan, not a "holy shit I want out" reflex which would be equally understanding), we came to a intersection. And I use this word, "intersection", loosely. It is perhaps telling that the French barely use this word which is the equivalent in English, in fact the other word for intersection, or crossroads "carrefour" has been so left behind that it is only referred to when mentioning the chain of supermarkets with that apt title.

At this particular 'carrefour' there were four different streets all coming from different directions like a normal junction. However, what this intersection lacked was traffic lights, stop signs, give-way signs, in fact it lacked any signage to guide the drivers through. As we approached, B's hands tightened around the steering wheel, his hand whipping back and forth like he was watching a tennis game on fast forward, trying to decipher what to do.

His brow was furrowed in concern and frustration. "But who goes here?" He demanded, at no one in particular. My knowledge of French was not going to help here, with no French to observe.

It was then that I realised I have left behind so many idiosyncracies attached to my place of birth, adapting to, for now, the way of 'les Français'.

Because for me, the real question was: "but who stops here?"

This is a French custom I have woven into my approach to navigating the streets by cycle.

Déménager.

How do you move your mattresses?

Toulouse.

San Sebastian, Spain.

Tonight's accommodation. Not on the beach, though that wouldn't be too bad.

Stunning here.

I. Love. Spain.

Basque Country.

Made it to the south of France in the beautiful Basque country, at the small surf town of Biarritz! Parking was a nightmare and the ticket sure didn't help Mr Parking Warden, but the view is so worth it. Cliffs jutting into the wild ocean all along the coast as far as the eye can see.

An amazing natural surfing arena with a high bank and esplanade perfect for watching the daring surfers tame today's wild waves. Can't wait to return and try it myself! Feels good to be back in a seaside surf town and loving the southern twang to the French accents. Those smiling faces and the lack of smoking isn't half bad either.

On a side note, I can't remember the last time I saw real sand...

Monet's Giverny Digs.

Waking up bright and early this morning for my planned day trip north, my Velib ride to Saint Lazare was relatively hazard free, the sun was shining and the tourists were out in droves in Paris, the perfect start to a countryside getaway.

After purchasing our tickets on the slowest machines known to man (and sure to embarrass their practical and efficient German counterparts) we made it to the train in time for departure and were lucky enough to choose the same train departure time as 1/3 of the tourist population in France, making for an interesting, claustraphobic and personal space-less 45 minute journey. After sharing a small carriage with two bikes, three prams (complete with crying babies), an assortment of suitcases, kissing couples (and shouting ones, which I personally preferred), as well as people from every continent, it was a relief (total understatement) to arrive at the quaint, tranquille town of Vernon. From here we joined the queue and, like one big, not-so-happy family, all boarded the bus that would take us to Giverny in the region of Normandy to see Claude Monet's gardens (his inspiration for many of his paintings as well as his crib).

After a quick bus ride and stunning views along the way (seeing wide open spaces, trees, green grass that isn't covered in "la pelouse interdite" and rolling hills was like fat-free chocolate for an obese kid) and we were off the bus into the bright blue sky of Giverny!

Purchasing my 5 euro entrance fee to the jardins (and happily still claiming to be a SP student, but what 21 year old can really get 14,50euro excitement from a jardin?) and we were off. We were lucky enough to get perfect weather and roamed the area checking out all the flowers, the water lily pond, and dodging inappropriately stopped Americans. I went with two Americans, two Germans and an Austrian and the day was like a non-stop comedy show involving the mocking of all cultures and their stereotypes. Most of the NZ style jokes revolved around me having not seen Lord of the Rings and no one understanding what I was saying, asking me to repeatedly say words like 'bed'...

After checking out the jardin, traipsing through his ridiculously colourful house (pretty sure the colour chart for his kitchen was headlined 'vomit'), taking sneaky photos of the inappropriate cat vases and looking out the windows at the incredible view, we left Monet's hood and walked through the town. Only about 500 people live there (all of whom surely must migrate for the summer as the crowds there were already getting crazy) and the town was tiny but so beautiful. I felt like I was truly in France bar Edith Piaf belting out her magic.

We ended up getting carried away walking through the town and took a bad turn and somehow ended up on the highway walking back and with no footpath and plenty of corners it was an adrelanine fuelled return. We arrived back having just missed the last bus so we grabbed ice creams from the glace truck (I think sorbet coco is my new addiction) and picked a spot to lie out in the sun surrounded by more grass than I've seen in weeks and a bright blue sun and sky for a ceiling. Sunday's don't get much better than that...

Checking out the town!

Monet's house for 43 years.

Dream home.

S getting cosy with the flowers.

Tulips? Who cares, pretty!!

Quintessential Monet painting, in the flesh!

Water lily pond.

Monet's morning view. Not bad impressionist inspiration.

Turns out I have been here before...

Icky, sticky.

Currently chilling in  my apartment with my colocs, sweating profusely. The current topic is how best to bring our body temperatures down about 10 degrees. We are all sunburnt. Conclusion: undetermined.

Paris, there are FOUR seasons. You cannot jump from winter to summer in a day. I do appreicate this temperature climb, but please bring it down a few degrees.

It is midnight and still 25. Our apartment has no windows. Or air ventilation. At all.

P.S. Paris, you smell pretty bad too. That temperature sure ain't helping the homeless.

Les remarques.

There is no doubt that living in another country really makes you aware of how different cultures can be. Not good, different, or better but just really, freaking bizarre. I have definitely struck this a number of times, when something happens that just makes you think "what the hell?" I compiled this wee list of things that really got me scratching ma nugget.

1. The lack of movement and urgency for emergency vehicles. - This is something that I have seen so many times and I am still baffled by. Whether its an ambulance, police patrol car, or a firetruck (though you don't see them here that often), traffic refuses to budge. They will have their lights on full, sirens blaring and trying to move through the jam of cars yet no one seems to care or go to any real effort to move out of the way for them. The only conclusion I've come to over this is that they don't value the importance of emergencies here...

2. Customer service (or its absence...) - This is actually a pretty common thing but the worst (or best, depending on how you look at it) occurs at the supermarkets. Despite having a million checkouts, they refuse to open an appropriate number for how many customers there are and often have two or three open with huge queues behind each one. You would think that the people working would be going super fast trying to get through everyone and shorten the time people had to wait. You would think. But really? Nope. Just the other day I was at a supermarket and despite heaps of people there, there were only about 3 checkouts open. With huge queues for each one, I joined the closest and waited. When there were only two more people before me, the previous person packed up their groceries, while the assistant waited for them to leave. However, the person finished and left and the assistant casually reached into their pocket got on their cellphone and started texting! People in the line sighed and exasperated but no one said anything. Making people wait is not an issue here obviously.

3. Offering your place to someone older/pregnant/handicap. - There is pretty much no code of conduct on the metro. Like, at all. Its first in first served, full stop. I have often been on the metro and (while standing myself), an older person has got on and, despite all the people occupying seats being young, youthful men and women, no one stands up or offers their seat. Sometimes the old person will walk down the carriage to an empty seat, getting swung this way and that along the way with disgruntled looks and sounds as they nudge people along the way. I have also witnessed a lady with seemingly more children than Octo-Mum trying to usher them all onto the metro and then hold onto as many as possible while also managing a pram and the two strapped onto her front over her pregnant belly. People simply stared at her (perhaps thinking about how best to suggest birth control options) rather than offer her a place to rest her undoubtedly weary feet.

4. There are basically no bike rules. - So after having two close calls today (amusingly, the first was by a car going backwards, the second from a street cleaner) I realised that you can pretty much do anything on a bike and go anywhere and people may give you a bit of a weird look but won't question it. Helmets aren't necessary. In fact, wearing one will cause more confusion than not. Bikes can go on roads, footpaths, pedestrian paths, bus lanes, taxi and emergency service reserved lanes and on both the left and the right side of the road. The majority of this I have found out by doing them and I now consider myself quite a master at doing things that in most normal places would get you into quite a bit of trouble. At first, I felt reckless but was just following the crowd but after doing these manoeuvres right in front of a trio of cop cars and having no second glances (the proximity to the cop cars was not intentional FYI) I realise that bikes are pretty much invisible (and invincible) devices here. I've just got to remember not to apply this too literally to my biking.

To be continued....

Translation.

After cruising my way through yesterday (and making note to wear better shoes when its raining) I headed out to Grands Boulevards, a hot spot for night life but common for tourists due to the Hard Rock Cafe owning a prominent place. My crazy Irish friend managed to pick up a job at O'Sullivans, yup, an Irish bar. So I headed along with a Spanish friend and joined the throngs partying their on a Saturday night to constant re-runs of the Top 40.

The highlight of the night was probably while waiting in the queue for the bathroom (which due to lack of toilets and an over capacity pub was quite the wait..) as a group of girls in front of us were having an animated discussion, in French. The only problem was while half of the group were French, the other half were blatantly Americans. There's no mistaking that loud, strong voice and that prominent accent that seems to carry more than any other. I give them credit for doing their best to speak in French but the result wasn't great.

After eavesdropping for a little bit (though you can barely call it eavesdropping with how loud these Yankie girls were speaking...), their attempt to say they lived near here, resulted in them saying they lived on the coast. The poor French girl was utterly confused and trying to use process of elimination to work out what they meant, questioning them with more phrases they didn't understand. Daria, the French girl, looked questioningly at me and after establishing with the American girl what she meant, I was able to explain that she meant she lived near here. This was followed by giggles from Daria, who offered the right translation to the American girl who still didn't seem to understand. However, the conversation went on (because it was going so well, why stop now) with the American saying she loved the South of France. I ended up playing somewhat of a translator for this intriguing conversation, doing my best to tie up the gaping holes left in this American's French. Daria proceeded to ask whether she liked Cannes as that was her hometown. The American girl, seeimgly picking up only on the mention of 'Cannes' and going from there, announced that she didn't like it there as it was too expensive and when she went there, too windy. Or so she meant. She actually said there was a lot of snow.. Daria looked pretty offended and the American girl went back to swaying against the wall so it looked like the conversation was over.

I ended up chatting to Daria who happened to be one of the nicer French girls I've ever met (though coming from outside of Paris may have something to do with it. Its well known, and also a personal feeling of mine, that the further away from Paris people live, or grew up, the nicer they are. Though there are exceptions to this rule. Occasionally.) But perhaps my fondness for her is partial to the fact that she told me my French was good. Gotta respect a good French liar...

I ended up biking home during a torrential downpour in the early hours of the morning and was completely saturated within one block of biking, despite doing it with one hand and holding my umbrella with the other (which, note to self, is very hard on wet cobblestones. There were definitely a couple of 'oh, shit' wobbles here and there). While stopped at a set of lights an unusually friendly French woman told me 'its dangerous to bike in Paris! I only do it in the suburbs'. She told me I was brave but that I should be careful.

I told her I would and proceeded to bike as fast as I could the wrong way down a one way street.