Well, I fell asleep. Sorry.
I’m now at Paris Beauvais and I understand why people choose not to fly from this sh*thole. I fully intending to take advantage of duty-free, at least hoping for a Sephora at the airport. There’s nothing apart from an off-licence and a café with its name on an A4 sheet of paper printed in Comic Sans.
Not only is it an hour out of Paris, the airport has no WiFi and my pain au chocolat was frozen in the middle. The man next to me is sixty-five, and has chosen to constrain his grossly obese stomach in a hoody proudly emblazoned with “Valenciennes Poker”. Seems the Ryanair clientèle are as exotic here as they are at London Luton. It would be comical but I seem to have woken up with a sense of humour failure. Four hours of sleep will do that to a girl.
Seeing as I’m intending to be out of contact for the next four days, the folks who actually follow these ramblings (I’m talking about you, my stranger-friend little buddy in Palestine who checks the blog daily) will appreciate two photo-heavy posts in a day.
I returned to Paris late Friday evening feeling slightly less teary than how I left it – frazzled and exhausted on the platform at Gare du Nord with no passport. Thankfully, Soph offered me dinner at Derrière with her parents and Camilla, which made the perfect welcome home.
After a lazy Saturday morning I headed out just as the sun came out. I had been intending to visit the Palais Garnier, the Paris Opera House, for some time, and free entry finally swayed me.
I am so glad I was swayed. Despite the hordes of tourists (I vehemently denied being one, instead choosing to take my audio guide in French, rather than English – but I reckon my DSLR slung around my neck significantly cramped my style) the tour of the building is excellent. It’s popular with good reason. The building is majestic. The pictures speak for themselves.
On Sunday I had intended to meet Lauren for brunch at – yep, you guessed it – Claus, but after a heavy night on Saturday Lauren appeared to have dropped off the face of the Earth. Instead, I made my way to a second-hand clothes sale and bake sale at Le Mary Celeste to meet some of the Big Names of Paris’s burgeoning Instagram scene. I am ashamed to report that not only could I not afford any of the second-hand Céline, Roger Vivier, or Helmut Lang, but also I got star-struck and chickened out of greeting any of my favourite photographers.
I headed to Le Marché aux Enfants Rouges for a mid-afternoon snack, before finally hearing from Lauren, who was feeling a little worse for wear and in desperate need of coffee. On a sunny terrace on the corner of rue Montorgueil, we chatted and gossiped until both of us were weary.
I picked up some sushi on my way home, and settled down with Hot Fuzz (in French) while the sun streamed in through my window onto my bed. Pretty blissful. The rest of the week passed equally as leisurely – an uneventful week to prepare for what is sure to be a very eventful weekend.
They’re calling my flight, so I guess I’m off to play in Barcelona for the long weekend. The promise of 32°C weather and Brunch & Cake await…
Chanson du Jour: Powerful – Major Lazer and Ellie Goulding