Letters from London #2

Well, I was going to get back to posting about Paris today, but I'm still in a bit of a nostalgic mood for London and my early expat days.  (More importantly, I'm feeling very lazy tonight and this is already written, so this is what you're getting...)

November 2000:

1.       Hostel Highlights:

• Imagine, if you will, a pig.  No, not some cute little oinker like the one in "Babe", I'm talking about an enormous, full-grown sow.  Now imagine this pig walks upright, has long, witchy black hair, is wearing a dress made of fishnet and boots with 4" platform heels.  Got that?  Good.  Okay, now imagine that this pig invades your dorm at 3:00 in the morning, turns on the light, stomps around, yells about her bag having been stolen, and proceeds to rummage drunkenly through your belongings.  Boy, living in a hostel is awesome.  I’m so glad I moved to London without knowing anyone, without a job and without a place to live – what a clever, clever decision.  

• Imagine, if you will, the worst snoring you've ever heard and then multiply it by about a thousand.  This guy (who is as big as your average grizzly bear) checked into our dorm last night and I have never in my life heard anything like his snoring.  How can you describe the indescribable?  The closest I can get is to suggest that you imagine the offspring of a wild boar and a vacuum cleaner trying to have sex with an unwilling donkey, while it's playing an out-of-tune saxophone under a blanket of mucus.  

• Imagine, if you will, four pasty, pimply Scottish boys who get up for work at 5:30am (an event which involves all four of their mobile phone alarms going off and their buddy coming to bang loudly on our dorm door) and mill about like a herd of dazed, loud-mouthed Highland cows as they get ready.  I'm now into my third day without sleep and things are about to get ugly, if not downright homicidal.  Every night, we explain to them that this is not their private dorm, and that the other four people who sleep there have paid good money for a bed and that there are a few simple rules of hostel courtesy that should be followed.  Every night, they look shamefaced, mutter "Och, aye, ye're right, sorry" and go to bed, only to repeat their actions in the morning.  So I'm not sure if they're all a) suffering from a rare form of overnight amnesia, b) as thick as pig manure, or c) sadists who would make Vlad the Impaler weep with pride.

2.        A stunning Australian guy I met at the hostel last month came back to town and stayed here just exactly long enough to stomp all over my heart, so that's great news. I was worried that I wouldn't manage to have a doomed romance in London, so I'm really glad that I've been able to check that one off my list.  In fact, I'm going to go out and look for a long black cloak with a hood so that I can mope around the city in the rain like Meryl Streep in "The French Lieutenant's Woman". (I know, "The Australian Mechanical Engineer's Woman" doesn't have quite the same poetic ring to it, but that just can't be helped.)

3.        Londoners are still fascinating me with their behaviour.  They'll line up in an orderly fashion for a mile and a half for just about anything, with the sole exception of the Underground.  As soon as they see a train coming in, they turn into a rabid, snarling, pushing, shoving pack of wolves.  The other day, I was elbowed aside by a little old lady who was a) about 80, b) no bigger than my leg, and c) a nun, of all things!  I swear I'm not making this stuff up.

4.        Despite succumbing to the all-grease, all-fat English diet (which isn't nearly as much fun as I thought it might be), I've lost an astonishing amount of weight so far by the simple expedient of only eating about once a day.  When you live in a hostel that has no kitchen facilities whatsoever, you figure out how to survive on this.  I'm sure the next time I see a vegetable, I'll run away screaming in terror because I won't know what it is.

5.        Fashion: I went to my first really pretentious London bar on the weekend, and I so do not have the right clothes for this town.  Even on the best slutty-clothing day of my life, I would look like an 1850s schoolmarm here.  When I have recovered from my sleep deprivation and my ferocious cold, and when I again resemble something that might once have been human, we'll have to see what can be done about that.

6.        In the "and you thought there were no miracles in modern times" category, here's one that will amaze you:  I, Miss K, am now the proud owner of a brand new, bright, shiny bank account!!!!  It took me a whole month and the next-to-last bank I tried basically accused me of being a money-laundering drug lord because I didn't have three years of British addresses to prove who I was.  Well, of course - money-laundering drug lords often work as temps in their spare time.  Who needs diamonds, yachts, and champagne when you could be typing, filing, and making coffee for people who a) don’t appreciate it and b) think you’re a moron?  Good times!

Favourite Paris photos - 42

Yes, again...

In an effort to not break my perfect posting record this month (and yes, "perfect" refers to posting every day, not to the actual quality of said posts. I know you are a discerning crowd, gentle readers), this is another placeholder post. I am out at Southern Belle's "return to Paris" drinks and had intended to get home at a respectable hour. Instead, I am still out a bar and blogging from my iPhone AGAIN. Sigh. The summer social season in Paris is taking hold...

Let's try that again

Sorry about yesterday - as I said, I'm really going to try to finally achieve a perfect record of posting every day this month, but as I ended up going out with Tiny Dancer and English Rose for a drink yesterday afternoon, it kind of turned into an all-day-and-all-evening sort of thing and I had to blog from the bar on my iPhone just to make the deadline.  (And yes, I felt like a pretentious idiot for doing it - the things I do for you, gentle readers...)

So, as I said, I was at Rosa Bonheur in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont last night - it's  a famous bar in Paris, but you may not have heard of it as it doesn't seem to be in the guidebooks.  It's an interesting combination of outside (picnic tables, everyone chilled out and relaxing) and inside (full-on disco nightclub), not to mention that the park is high up, so you get a spectacular view of the sun setting over the rooftops of Paris.  Highly recommended for a summer evening...

Dammit!

Okay, apologies- this is sort of a placeholder because I am trying to be really good and not miss a day of posting in June, but as I am unexpectedly out at the famous Rosa Bonheur bar in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont tonight, I have to improvise and just post this from my iPhone. So I don't have much to say right now, but will try to add a pretty photo tomorrow...

Magical Marrakech - Part 6

Oh dear.  Well, I am afraid that today (Tuesday) wasn't very magical for Bronx Girl, who has been sick as a dog most of last night and all of today, poor thing.  She had to stay here at the riad, and as I know (single girl that I am) only too well how miserable it is to be sick and have no one look after you, I stayed here too.  But by about 6pm, she felt well enough for us to venture out for some air, so we went to Kosybar, which has the nicest roof terrace I have yet seen in Marrakech (although the real appeal in this case is that it's located only two minutes walk from our riad).  We had a couple of soft drinks and enjoyed being outside, but alas, she had a relapse and we had to scurry back home.  But on the bright side, at least we saw a new view of the Marrakech storks:

Yes, that's a sculpture of a stork in the foreground. These birds are EVERYWHERE!

And I fell madly in love with the cutest kitty in the world, who lives at Kosybar.  I mean, really.  Miss K's frozen black heart completely melted in the face of this awesomeness and I was seriously thisclose to trying to figure out how to bring a cat back to Paris with me, but alas, my common sense took hold.  Ah well.  Sorry, kitty - but we'll always have Marrakech...

What day is it?

Oops!  How did it get to Saturday already???  Gentle readers, I do apologize for my absence, but this is what my week has been like since I last posted:

Wednesday: office from 9:30am - 12:45pm, bar job from 1:00pm - 2:00AM 

Thursday: bar job 12:30pm - 11:30pm, out dancing 11:30pm - 5:00AM 

Friday: bar job 12:30pm - 02:00AM (missed last Metro and had to walk home the entire length of the Champs-Elysees - not as glam as you think when your feet are KILLING you)

So I have been a bit of a busy girl and it's been all work, work, work.  Well, except for the night out dancing, which was a blast.  And the fact that working in the bar is fun.  I might not be getting paid, but my cocktail-making skills are getting pretty good, I adore my awesome boss, they feed me very well, and I am sloooowly starting to speak a bit more French with people, so it's a great experience all around.  Plus I get some tips and I am saving them up for summer fun.

And speaking of money, my update on the €5 per day challenge, Days 12-24?  Well, another benefit to spending all my time at the bar is that I'm not out doing anything that involves spending money, so I am actually €20 ahead at this point - woohoo!  So with one more week to go I am feeling pretty confident about succeeding in the challenge - wish me luck...

The things I learn...

On Monday, a well-dressed middle-aged couple came into the bar and sat at a table in the back.  I thought nothing of it, the window tables were occupied and the weather was just average for sitting on the terrace out front, so it didn't even register as unusual to me.  Ahhh, sometimes I am still just an innocent hick from the swamp and I need to be educated in these worldly ways, because my boss took one look at this couple and muttered to me that they are having an illicit affair.  Quoi?  How does he know this?  Well, apparently the only reason a couple sits at the back of a bar in Paris is because they are up to no good and they don't want to be seen by anyone they might know.  And he was right.  One glass of wine and they were all over each other like hormone-crazed teenagers - most unseemly.  Seriously, if your smooching is loud enough to be heard over the sound of a dishwasher, you need to dial it down. God!  Is there a snarky French equivalent for "get a room"???

I have nice friends

I think I jinxed myself - no sooner do I say that I am trying not to miss a day of posting in April, what do I do?  Yep, miss a day.  Damn.  Sorry about that!  Not totally my fault, though - yesterday I started my unpaid job at the bar and after an exhausting day there (for which I made €15 in tips - doesn't sound like much but tipping isn't the done thing in Paris, so it's actually pretty good), I then had to rush off to meet a friend who is in town from London for a couple of days.  

The totally awesome Miss P took me for a much-needed glass of wine and then very kindly offered to buy me dinner in order to keep this starving writer from, you know, starving.  I suppose I could have come home and blogged instead, but... Gentle readers, you know I love you all more than I love my shoes (which is a LOT), but I don't love you more than a free steak dinner with a lovely friend - sorry!  Hey, try living on 5 euros a day and see how many dinner invitations you turn down...

Huh. Strange times.

So today I was in a bar owned by a friend of a friend and I basically begged the bar owner to give me some work experience so that I can start looking for a second job. Because (and truly, this astonishes no one more than me) I have never actually worked a bar in my long and storied career.  Waitressed?  Yes, many times in many places (and if you were on the receiving end of that, I do apologize, but just pretend I was one of those "sassy" tv waitresses - god knows, that's how I survived it).  Ran a till?  Yes (and impeccably, my count was never short, but it was in an art supply store, not quite the same thing).  Customer service? Absolutely (I worked reception at so many companies that my fake phone manner is still a thing of absolute beauty, not to mention the big smile when someone walks in the door - seriously, I'm an expert).  And, let's face it, after nine years in London, a bar is pretty much my natural habitat.  But I have never combined all these skills at the same time (not to mention the pouring of drinks that aren't being consumed by...erm...myself), so I figured that before I went begging for someone to hire me in such a capacity, I should maybe try to get a bit of experience. 

So I have essentially sold myself into unpaid indentured servitude for the next 2-3 weeks (they're actually selling the bar, which is why they don't want to hire some proper help while things are winding down, and how I weaselled myself into this), but I am strangely excited about it.  A) learning a new skill is great for me, and hopefully it will turn into paid employment somewhere else and B) it will be good to force me to speak more French and C) they will occasionally feed me. Whee!!! Win-win!