Le Showcase and Eating Out

Unlike Rob Ford, I clearly don't have enough to eat at home, so I've been eating my face off in Paris – if you've been wondering why this silly blog hasn't been updated as frequently as it should.

The mayor himself is a topic that I can't seem to escape, even if I flee to Europe.

At dinner at Le 6 Paul Bert the other night, coincidentally, we were seated next to some loud Torontonians who kept bringing up Rob Ford. I think some Canadians are becoming the "ugly" tourists these days. Most Parisians I've encountered on this trip have made no mention of our crack-smoking mayor and I was quite thankful for that. But friends of mine via Facebook would also keep me up to date of Ford's activities, that he had been spotted in Bracebridge and ventured off to his cottage.

Meeting up with my friend Melissa Saturday at a cafe near the Eiffel Tower, she wanted to hear how the Sun broke the story about Ford going to rehab. She was in town for a work conference and to liven up some of the small talk, she told people she was going to meet me and that I report on Ford. She said it was "the most interesting conversation" among her co-workers that has ever come up on a travel trip.

Rob Ford aside, it's been a great trip. It's our last day in Paris and we're going to take it easy. Sunday is a day of rest here, as many places choose to close their doors today and Monday.

We still haven't had a chance to try the poulet de bres, but the Marche Bastille is still on for another two hours, so maybe I'll take a quick jaunt over there.

I went to see 2ManyDJs at Le Showcase early this morning (late last night). It was a three-DJ set that began at 11:30 p.m. and ran right until 6 a.m. The venue is this old port or docking station for boats, lots of arches and stone, horizontal and packed. Dare I even use the word, "bumping?"

And the train ride to Invalides – was the train of youth. Literally. So many plastic bottles filled with booze. I watched a guy wearing a Bob Dylan shirt coo his very drunk-and not in great shape-friend bent over sitting on the train.

I'm not usually a club person by any stretch of the imagination, but I really loved that Radio Soulwax album they put out in 2000-something during my record-peddling days at HMV. Of course, they're not mashing up Basement Jaxx with Destiny's Child anymore, but they did throw in some New Order with Tame Impala. Everyone was freely dancing. That is something I have to say Torontonians are a bit shy about.

At around 3 or so, a man approached me, pinched my cheeks and said something to me in French. I said, "Rien" or something to that extent and he said, "Are you telling me to fuck off?" He eventually went away, but I figured that was my cue to go home.

***

There have been a lot of highlights on the trip. Meeting up with some friends – Vivian, Ida, Melissa – meeting Mike's brother and sister-in-law and our dinner at the Jules Verne at the Eiffel Tower where bracelets – not rings – were exchanged, with a Star Wars theme to it. There will be a separate entry on that. And just so much good food. This really is a magical city.

Terre Des Morts – Land of the Dead

One of the unique things about the City of Lights is there is an underground city of darkness.

No trip to Paris is complete without a visit to Catacombes de Paris if you're looking for something unique, unusual and creepy. The ossuaries are located south of the former city gate outside of the current location of Place Denfert-Rochereau.

There are about six million people's remains neatly displayed here through two kilometres of renovated tunnels and caverns.

After joining a line-up of hundreds that stretched around the block and waiting a couple hours, we were at the entrance way, which, in itself, looks like the doorway to a haunted house.

A woman working at the museum asked if I was pregnant because I had been wearing a bulky sweater underneath my coat. In hindsight, I should've said yes and skipped the tenuous wait in the rain.

As I carefully walked down the 84 tight and winding steps, I asked Mike, "Uh, so is this how you get vertigo?" He cheekily replies, "No, you have to see James Stewart first."

The ossuary entrance was marked in stone with the inscription Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort ('Stop! Here lies the Empire of Death.') I can picture zombies from 28 Days Later inheriting this portal.

Marco Chown Oved, a reporter for the Star, but who used to work for AP in Paris, told me about a story on the Catacombes he wrote a few years ago. There are a group of people who illegally break into the tunnels that are not open to tourists and take you past the closed off gates and into the underground network. People have gotten lost down there and died. A bit unnerving to say the least.

But of course, we stuck to the designated path. Really, there was no other place to go but forward.

And as creepy as it was – I am superstitious to an extent, refusing to touch any of the bones for fear of bad juju – it was also eerily peaceful. So much, in fact, that at one point, while waiting for Mike to catch up, I sat down and took a mini nap. And I thought, no wonder the dead love cemeteries. It's a great place for an eternal snooze.

So, what kind of freaked me out after the fact, was this weird light in the picture Mike took of Vivian and me. Bad juju?

Musty and famous bookstores, sweet treats and stumbled-upon good food

It's 5:53 a.m. Sunday and the jet lag continued to hit me an hour ago when I unexpectedly awoke from having a very strange dream.

Aside [the dream]: I was about trying to get into a restaurant and making reservations and being turned away (as was the case tonight when we just showed up to Le Chateaubriand.) The hostess said no way and a war broke out. Wampa came into a museum three hours earlier than she was supposed to be dropped off at. Then a war broke out in a parking lot and I ran over someone's long machine gun.

Flight was a reasonable eight hours on Air France's hard seats. Mike and I posted this shot of us prior to taking off. We thought we saw Mayor Rob Ford on board (we didn't) as Toronto was still in its "Where in the world is Rob Ford" curiosity.

"Look into zees eyes!"

After landing at Charles De Gaulle airport, we got the usual stuff – Metro tickets and some direction from the helpful folks at the tourism counter – and headed in to town. On the RER to Paris, a young woman began playing the accordion and asking for money. How French.

Around 10:30 a.m., we arrived at our home for the next 10 days – 36 Rue Oberkampf – a gorgeous, airy, spacious and bright, rustically-designed flat in a pretty hip neighbourhood between the 3rd and 11th arrondissement. It is perfect and can be yours only on AirBnB for $200 a night.

And! It has a vertical towel rack heater in the ensuite bathroom. Have I leaned against it naked if you're wondering? Yes. Yes, I have.

But enough about my first-degree burns.

We didn't do much on the first day. We wandered around the bustling Republique area to the more serene Canal Martin where we had some great bagels and saw some locks on a bridge.

***

On Saturday, we had a bit of a late start. Try 4 p.m.

I had no idea, but apparently, Paris really likes to have its lunch hour in restaurants from noon to 2 p.m. and then reopens later for dinner. We thought, "OK, so the patisserie where we were going to get some buttery croissants is closed – we'll just go for lunch at some other restaurant."

Yeah, no dice. You have to find a spot that serves food all-day and that is useful for when on holiday.

Luckily, we did find the Bistrot du Peintre in the Bastille area, which has a decent duck confit leg with frites. 12 euros. Hit the spot.

Up the street, is a delightful chocolatier shop where you can't go wrong, no matter what you pick.

We took our tarts and headed towards Notre Dame.

A girl documenting tarts. MICHAEL PEAKE/Pic

I'm not in to religion, but that structure is just a grand piece of architecture. We waited a short five minutes and were allowed inside as a mass service was being conducted. 

Across the street is the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Besides carrying an impressive selection of anglophone books, it really is a quirky place full of musty, tiny enclaves for writers and readers and many vintage typewriters. No wonder Woody Allen used it in Midnight in Paris.

For dinner that evening, we meant to head to Le Chateaubriand, but upon finding it was packed and we weren't getting in, the waiter recommended we head two doors down to Le Dauphin, another restaurant under the same owner's wing.

We stumbled upon a gem.

It's a French tapas restaurant, very hip with white marble everywhere.

We were seated at the bar and our bartender spoke English quite well, which was very helpful. Every plate was flavourful and a delight, but an unexpected and pleasant win was the squid ink risotto. Sounds gross and when the plate was set down in front of us, it appeared intimidating, but I am still blown away by it. Never had anything like it. Amazing. Mike really enjoyed the lamb. He said it was the "best lamb I've ever eaten,"mainly because all Canada imports in lamb from New Zealand, which tends to be tougher, perhaps? A perfect denouement – the chocolate profiteroles with vanilla creme glacee.

Today: Getting an early start to the outdoor food markets in Bastille, lunch at Le Train Bleu (an old 1900s train station converted into a restaurant), the Catacombes, the cemetery where Serge Gainsbourg is buried and who knows what else.

Adventures await! Maybe we'll meet some French weirdos today.

To the land of Baguettes and Cheese

"The city of love."
The last time I went to Paris, I went solo.
That was in 2010 during a multi-city trip by myself across Europe.
Paris was my fourth stop after Barcelona, Pamplona and San Sebastien.
I stayed near the sultry and tacky windmills of the Moulin Rouge, a clown busker tricked me into kissing him on the lips, a boy who was "trying" to help me in the subway after I was lost and train service had shut down held my hand after he saw me staring at the Metro map, dumbfounded. Within five minutes, we were holding hands while walking down the Champs D'Elysees and I was even more confused. "This is how they do it in France," I supposed.
He took photos of me in front of an expensive car dealership on the strip and in front of a MAC make-up store. It was awkward. But I went along with it, because "this is how they do it in France."
We continued walking, still holding hands. I tried to speak to him in broken French. English was not in his vocabulary.

I told him I had "un petite chou chou" back home. I had meant to say I had a boyfriend back home, because I did at the time and vaguely recalled this was the translation of that. But I later realized I basically told him, "I have a small cabbage in Canada."
This is my favourite part of this little encounter.
He kept telling me, "Je ne comprends pas" – I don't understand – and continued to lock mitts with me.
I started to worry. If "this is how they do it in France," I'm going to end up at this strange dude's apartment insisting I keep small cabbages in my refrigerator back home.

So, a phrase I learned in Grade 7 French class magically popped into my head at a time when I needed it most – I threw up my hands and shouted, "Zut alors!" and ran to the nearest cab.
 
Was it the classiest thing I could've done? Probably not. For all I know, this guy could have been a nice fellow who just wanted to hold hands with a random tourist. But he also could've been an axe murderer. Not just any murderer – but an axe murderer.
This time, though, I have company.
Travelling solo or with a partner has its benefits and downfalls – I think it will be a test. If we don't kill each other after 10 days, it will be a win. I have a feeling we will survive, though. My French sucks.
 We have a lot of cool stuff planned – The Catacombs is one of them, a dinner at the Eiffel Tower, lots of walking around at local markets and my attempt at making a "poulet de bresse," apparently the world's most delicious milk-fed chicken in our AirBnB rental.

Flight time: T-minus seven hours.

Goodbye, Aus

I think I'm officially done with travel for a while.

Up, down, up, down. Too many flights in the past week. Enough.

I'm here at Dallas Fort-Worth airport and here's how I'm feeling:

t
he rocky horror picture show (1975) I'm going home from rudyoutreville on Vimeo.

Too bad I left my corset and heels and Tim Curry face mask at home.

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***

Knowing that Christmas Island has little to none cellphone and Internet reception, I had intended to head to Sydney Saturday and update the blog then.

Then, the outbound flight from XCH to Perth conked out on Cocos Islands.

I was dropped off at the airport for the 4 p.m. Saturday flight to see a long queue of luggage left unattended. I asked a person what was going on and he told me the flight was cancelled. There was no information and the Virgin agents were useless and unsympathetic.

For me, this meant that Sydney was a no-go. I had 30 hours, which would inevitably be cut down to six. That city has a great vibe, by the way. The AirBnB penthouse in the Rocks was fabulous. Would love to go back there for a longer visit.

Finally, after a 40-minute call to Virgin later on that evening on the island, we were informed there would be a replacement plane at 2:15 the next day, taking us to Cocos to pick up other stranded people and flying directly to Perth from there.

OK, good. Stopped panicking. 

The next day, I got on that plane. But there were more fuck-ups from Virgin Australia to come.

The captain needed paperwork to be completed by ground crew, which delayed us. Then, there was an error in the number count of passengers on the plane. Twenty minutes later, they figured out there was an engineer onboard that shouldn't be there.

The delays meant people trying to connect to Brisbane at 10:30 p.m. would not make it. I had a bit more confidence in my Sydney connection at 11:15 p.m.

But then, add in the time to clear customs, collect bags, transfer to the domestic terminal and the nine of us arrived in check-in at 11 p.m. They were going to leave without us.

"We weren't expecting you so late," a woman behind the counter nonchalantly said.

Well, you guys keep fucking up. Maybe you should fix it. Maybe you should tell people what's going on.

A very nice police officer I was introduced to in Christmas Island kindly offered to give me his seat if it came down to the wire. I needed to be on this flight to make the Qantas flight booked Sunday to get home. Any change to Qantas would mean $1,200 out of pocket.

I also found out the 4 p.m. regular flight out of XCH that was also cancelled. Useless.

It all worked out in the end. I did lose a day in Sydney, but that's OK.

Would not recommend flying Virgin to remote areas, which is a shame because that's the only airline that flies to Christmas Island and I do believe that place is worth visiting. But travellers should be wary that if the plane breaks down, they're kind of stuck there. An agent said the next available flight out wouldn't be until Dec. 5. Completely unacceptable.

Part of it is also my fault – I didn't leave enough wiggle room and thought my work insurance covers all areas of travel. It doesn't; only if you get sick on the trip. I waived my trip interruption and cancelling coverage. C'est la vie.

Usually, on short trips, I get a little blue coming home. But after being away for two weeks, the only thing I'm looking forward to is home – my friends, my dog, my bed.

The Christmas Island Experience

This public service announcement is brought to you by the letter, C. C for 'Crabs.'

A few years ago, I came across this video for the annual crab migration on Christmas Island. I'm not sure if it was on Planet Earth or some other National Geographic video, but it fascinated me.

Over 45 million red crabs slowing moving in waves across the island to get to the Indian Ocean to spawn. Weeks later, the surviving babies – if they don't get eaten by predators – return to land and do the same walk their mothers did weeks before.

It's the circle of life. Fascinating.

Here's a cute video Faye asked me to shoot for her grade 1/2 class:



That is one aspect of Christmas Island, which after spending two days getting to know the locals, seems to be culturally and politically embattled. There's a dark history to that island, but out of that is a very tight-knit community comprising of mainly Malaysian and Chinese descendants.

There are memorials for the two shipwrecks encountered on the island, the worst being in 2010 when a boatload of asylum-seeks crashed into the rocks.

For anyone who hasn't read this excellent look into asylum-seekers in Christmas Island by the New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/17/magazine/the-impossible-refugee-boat-lift-to-christmas-island.html?_r=0http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/17/magazine/the-impossible-refugee-boat-lift-to-christmas-island.html?_r=0

And people on the island will offer different views of asylum seekers, but they prefer to promote their tourism, which can be difficult – Virgin only flies there a few times a week; many places that would normally be two-star accommodations can jack up prices to 5-star rates because a) it's expensive to get commodities on a remote island b) there aren't a lot of places to stay because many spots have already been rented out by detention centre workers.

But island has its beautiful, protected red crabs (It's a $5,000 fine if you deliberately run over one in your car or snatch one up to eat) and it can be its biggest asset.

Because my flight was cancelled on Friday, that enabled me to stay another night, meet some locals at a barbecue and take up an offer with the parks ranger to get on his boat at 4 a.m. and take a look for red crabs spawning. It's an event that doesn't happen every day and is very dependent on rainfall. That morning, however, they were spawning.

Wow.

It looked like a moving carpet of red clinging to the rocky cliffs. Females carried a brown sac containing 100,000 eggs. When they are ready to drop the package to the ocean, they lift up their front claws and do an Elvis-like hip shake and their unborn babies drop into the water. They have to be careful to not fall into the water, though, as they cannot swim and will drown.

It's an amazing process and I'm glad I got to see it. I feared with climate change, perhaps one day, Mother Nature would just stop the process. I waned to see it just in case she does.

We also saw eight dolphins swimming that day. Rob, the ranger, towed a line for the snorkelers to hold onto while he slowly drove the boat near the dolphins, so they could get a better look.

Still deciding whether the loss of time in Sydney was worth it, along with all the hassle from Virgin, but I'm happy to scratch the red crabs off my bucket list.

In Search of Pinchers and/or Pinchy

To celebrate my trip to Christmas Island, I've been playing the Beach Boys on repeat in my head because of this final scene from "The Summer of 4 ft. 2" episode of the Simpsons.

Anyone who is a nerd like me will know that scene.

I'm currently at the Perth International Airport. I must say it's a quite a grim place. It's vacant – physically and emotionally. There's not a lot of choice of food places or news stands. In the centre is a tacky gold, sparking Christmas tree. It's the aeroport love forgot.

Speaking of which, it feels weird to see all kind of Christmas decorations around Australia when it's 30C outside and everyone's in boogie shorts and Hawaiian shirts.

During my 16-hour layover adventure in Melbourne yesterday, I passed by a lot of Christmas wreaths and lights in the eastern part of town where all the high-end Gucci, Hermes and Dior stores are. I also passed by a lit up theatre resembling the Elgin that was playing King Kong. I just started enjoying attending musicals and I think had I had another day, it would be worthwhile to see.

But with limited time, I chose to spend it at the Queen Victoria Night Market, which was fantastic. Next to the one on Temple St. in Hong Kong, it was my favourite one.

I arrived there around 7 p.m. and it was just packed with people. There were long lines of people at the rows of street food stalls and many who sat on the ground with friends, chomping away on the yummy goods.

Whenever I travel, I try and bring back things I couldn't find back home.

There were tons of vintage clothing vendors, handmade goods and stuff you'd find on Etsy by independent retailers. Look! An echidna next to a wombat! Big fan of flea markets. I was in heaven.

My Marine Monkey tank is one of my favourite pieces of clothing. I found a nice compliment – the detective rhino.

A lot of people recognized my TD Visa as a Canadian credit card and struck up conversations about Mayor Ford with me. Strange.

There wasn't much more to my time in Melbourne, unfortunately. I went to a recommended Mexican restaurant and discovered what Horchata was, then took a cab back to the Space Hotel hostel where I was staying.

Two ads at the Perth airport bathroom:

1.  Did you know the emergency number in Australia isn't 911, but 000. If you call 911, a kangaroo will come and kick you in the face. Really. Not even joking. What? You don't believe me? Dial it, then. But then have 000 on speed dial. But not 001 – that's for pizza. And 007 is for spies.

2. Aussies want you to get laid on holiday. I will tell you I'm not seeking that out, but good on the government for wanting to increase its population. It's already 22.6 million, let's make it 22.7, people. Get busy.

Can't wait to see the millions of crab. It really is a wonder.

There's apparently no cell reception there unless you have a Telstra phone, so I'll be out for a while until I get to Sydney on Saturday.

Watch this video in the meantime:

Behind the scenes of the red crab migration – Christmas Island 2012 from Parks Australia on Vimeo.