Life sans Tip Top

So I arrived in Paris on Monday afternoon, checked into my hostel and took a walk around Montmartre - soon realising that Amelie is not as exaggerated a portrait of Paris as I always thought - wandered up to Sacre Couer, atop the entertainingly named La Butte de Montmartre, not, as I had thought a poetique way of referring to the arse-end of town, rather used in a strictly geographique sense - one that results in the thought 'hey, turns out my thighs have muscles after all' - continued my pattern of visiting churches right on evensong time, first time I've seen such operatic nuns. Other than, you know, The Sound of Music.

Stunning view from the top of the Butte [snigger] and then off to find dinner, basically found a brasserie the same as the one in Amelie, and full of a clientele that closely ressembled the cast. Everytime I looked up a different french freak man would be staring at me. Kept expecting them to be whipping out a tape recorder and making a verbal note about their thoughts vis a vis me and the woman behind the tabac counter. French people don't seem to have any qualms about openly staring. Either that, or I am just way more freakish than I ever thought. Admittedly matters sartorial and my coiffure aren't at their best, but...

The first night at the hostel did not bode well - walls the colour of earwax, a bed that swayed like a raft in a storm (damn bunk beds! damn them! no one, NO ONE over the age of 15 should have to sleep in a bunk bed!) and walls paper thin and a party downstairs... this did not bode well for the sleep of peace... the party finally stopped and the snores began. Emanating from the bunk below me, I pondered 'are they snoring, or is that a dying bull?'. At this point the Bunk of Sways became quite useful, as whenever I tossed, the bunk swayed, and the bull ceased moaning.

Thankfully, the hostel has since improved, and proved itself to be an advantage - being an English-speaking zone it is a bit of a relief after flogging my non-french to death all day to come back somewhere that I can speak anglais and not cause offence. Very strange to be in a non-english speaking country at long last, not to have that information that you pick up peripherally throughout the day - street signs, newspaper headlines, overheard conversations, snippets of radio etc - that give you a background sense of what is going on. And not being able to buy a newspaper reliably is a strange torture for someone possessed of an addiction where matters of the daily press are concerned. Anyway, having acclimatised to the hostel I'll be moving tomorrow - an unfortunate result of my disorganisation. Here's a tip, gratis, from me to you: If you are coming to Paris, how's about booking your accommodation more than three days in advance. Just a thought.

In other matters of joy: bread, cheese and wine. All cheaper, all better than their equivalents en australie. J'adore les vins francais. Currently before me, as may not be a surprise to you, considering the rambling form of this post, is a rather fine botteille of le vin rouge that set me back all of 2.90 euro (less than six australienne). Oh happy day! Happy Day! I have something of a temptation to feed a french person tip top just to find out how they would process the thought that this is something that is a. sold as bread, and b. voluntarily consumed. Anyway, I'll now have to devote my remaining days of bread nibbling between Eire and France. Not such a bad fate.

So, beyond matters of bedding and of consumables - I started off my tuesday by participating in a near revolution. It seems that every guide book ever is incorrect in publishing the opening time of the Musee d'Orsay as 9am, when it is 9.30. Not a big deal. I wandered, and then joined the cue that had formed at about 9.20, to join the mutual sigh of disappointment at the notice that the musuem was that day not opening until 10am. When 10am came and went, and the queue numbered at least three hundred (not including pre-sold tickets, and group bookings - there must have been at least 600 people waiting)people started going up and asking what was going on. And brace yourself. The entire Orsay was shut down because of a board meeting. I ask you. Is there any other museum in the entire world that would shut down and then run over because of a board meeting? Anyway, tempers were fizzing as minutes ticked by, some synchronised clapping started, there was grumpiness aplenty, I was starting to think 'hey one of the reasons paris was redesigned in the nineteenth century was revolutions, would be kind of cool to participate in one my first morning here' - and then they opened the doors. So pretty much a non-story really.

Anyway, I then spent four or five hours of joy. Cezanne almost made me cry. I haughtily dismissed Renoir once more, and struggled with the urge to yell at people in the Renoir salles - WHAT are you doing, you fools, this is terrible, go back to Cezanne and then tell me that Renoir is worth your time?! Then remembered vague thoughts about subjective taste blah blah. eh.