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After settling in - ie, loading wardrobe, sorting hair, make up, nails & appropriate footwear, it was time to get some food - easier said than done.
Sunday appears to be a BIG DAY - everyone is out, every cafe is full, there is no glancing at the menu, hoping a sympathetic maitre'd will help with the nervous beat around the bush approach - no, Sunday is a day for locals. And, after 24 hours of travel in a tin can, nerves are frazzled, confidence is noticeably absent, ones gut is screaming FEED ME OR DIE SO SUCK IT UP.
So its like jumping in the deep end - cautious approach inside bolangerie, tentative choice of what LOOKS like baguette with ham, quick jaunt while paying - no i'm not italian, no i'm not spanish, oui I am from Australia and the whole joint just throws a very hearty laugh - all I think is crikey. I'm already getting the Italian/Spanish quips & I don't even have a tan yet - wait to I get to Italy, getting any colour is really going to f**k me up - I can see tourist approaching me for help with maps & directions already. Lord help them.
So after quickly exiting with said 'ham'baguette a quick inspection reveals it isn't ham, it is MYSTERY MEAT, is it foie gras, non, is it............s*** I have no idea. I cán't do mystery meat in Australia, I can certainly not do mystery meat in a country where offal is a delicacy so its off to find baguette numero deux - I know poulet, I know what it looks like, smells like & taste like so one finds a new boulangerie, purchases chicken baguette so at a price of just over $20, mission successful, albeit wasteful. Quick stop at the fruitier, dash home to scoff the acceptable baguette then its off to meet Ms Laurel & Ms Maurise over in the Marais.
Upon arriving in the Marais (the locale of my last visit to Paris), I am aware Laurel is in Toorak, I am in the ghetto. I only do one type of ghetto & that is Ghetto Fabulous - think Rhianna, Fergie, maybe even p**** Cat Dolls. I don't do ghetto such as MIA, Missy Elliot nor Lil Kim. It appears my ghetto has many residents of the later. Kill me.
Our first afternoon includes a quick orientation around Place des Voges - tres chic, meandering around Village St Paul, a stroll to the Plague with a vague intention to go to the finish of the Tour de France when Ms Black drops the vital information that the bar across the road from her crib has happy hour cocktails of only 6€ from 5-8 pm - stuff Cadel, we want a mojito.
Note, cocktail hour = expedited onset of jet lag symptoms. Just stating the obvious.
Laurel & Maruise proceed to pull together a lovely salad for dinner - and what a relief it is to be looked after on ones first night after such a journey, I really was grateful.
However after another few glasses of wine before during & after dinner, I really had to give it up. I had after all made it to 9.30 pm with no nap nor rest & with that level of physical & mental exhaustion, one ended the day with a very welcomed & deep 12 hour sleep. Jet lag - pffffft.
- comments
Little sister That meat looks like SPAM!!!!!!! have you seen Spam? well that meat looks like SPAM!