Long Overdue

I haven't left Furzedown Hall today. Not once. Not even for a breath of fresh air. I have been inside for a good....well, all day. Tomorrow will be different. I've been packing and I am basically done except for odds and ends that can't be put away until the last minute. But I'm not hear to talk about packing-I was in Paris!

I started my journey last Tuesday and decided that I wanted to spend the day in Dover. I wanted to see the Castle because I haven't been to any proper castles since I've been here. I'm not sure I want to count Hampton Court or the Brighton Pavilion. Okay, I will.

It is atop a huge hill overlooking the ocean and the entire of Dover. The view was breathtaking and so was the fucking walk up the hill. But I did it. I climbed to Dover castle.

The castle itself is sorta blandish. No period furniture, just crevasses and tunnels. There were medieval tunnel that scared the shit outta me so bad I dared not even venture past the light. I went to the roof of the castle and took photos and froze my bum off. The castle had been used as an army base during the centuries including the 2nd world war. They had secret tunnels and even a hospital built into the white cliffs.

After an enchanting day on top of a hill, I made it down to the valley in search of some food. I wanted something good. Something to remember. I ended up at some greasy spoon, dying of hunger, and going face first into a chicken and mushroom pie with veggies and spring potatoes covered in gravy. They fucking love gravy here. I don't get it.

The next day it was onto the Ferry. The port was massive and like a giant car park with all sorts of dotted lines that cross and intersect confusing even the most expert of motorists. The ferry was pleasant enough as a ferry ride could be. The wind was forceful and the sight of the white cliffs going off into the horizon against a bright blue sky will stick with me forever. When we arrived at the port I tried to find the bus that would take me to my final destination of a train station. But to my surprise, the train station was all the way in Siberia and I needed a taxi to get there. This is where it gets good.

I consider myself to be okay in French. I can get by so so. At least I can order a meal and reserve a hotel room. So this taxi driver, his English is about where my French is. On our lovely little drive, he talks on his mobile to some phantom on the other side. Promptly after hanging up he speaks to me in french. I caught these words. Drive, wife, on route, grocery store, okay. Its adding up in my head. We begin to go down all these side streets and pass various patisseries and boutiques and I know we are not going to any train station. He pulls into a neighborhood development and it hits me. He is going to rape me, kill me, and hide my body in the foundation of one of the these 1/2 constructed houses. Huzzah.

Turns out we just pull up to his house and his wife gets in. I'm in the back seat of a taxi who just took me to pick up his wife and drop her off at a store while I need to catch a train. Only in France, my friends. Only in France.

The train ride was relaxing. The French country side is exactly like it is in all the films highlighting it. Broad, green, and charming. I expected to see oxen plowing the land.

12 hours later I am in Lyon.

Lyon is a nice city. Small compared to the demigod that is Paris, but charming non the less. My friend Anata was nice enough to let me have shelter in her home with her mother. I get there and enjoy a croissant. The architecture in the south of France makes me feel Mediterranean. Large buildings with long, tall windows. Wooden shutters. Red roofs. And mountains. Very Beautiful.

We set off the next day to the center of London. Chatting about school, friends, boys, and mothers, we arrive in the center with food on our minds. We settle on a little Brasserie and have a set menu for 12 euros. I ordered a starter of a chicken cake (don't ask, it just tasted good) and fish. She had a steak with chips and a chocolate mousse. But when she orders her dessert, who do they bring the chocolate mousse to? Me. That's who. The fat one at the table. Why does everyone assume that I ordered fucking dessert? Cmon people, just because I am portly and American doesn't mean you can dump a bag of sugar down my gullet and call it a meal. Yes it does, actually.

We went to the Musee Beaux D'Art. I took two photos of Jesus being circumcised and felt proud. Saw some mummies, some other art, more art. art. But the best was going up to the Basilica that sits atop a huge hill over looking Lyon. You could see for miles. I saw the entire city of Lyon including the silhouettes of the mountains below. I was in awe of the whole thing. The view would most defiantly make me want to be christian.

The next day was another day filled with travel. I got to Paris and it was snowing/hailing/raining. I struggled to find my Hostel which was in the northern Boulevards part of the city. It was in a very nice, quaint neighborhood and was near a cemetery. I walked around the cemetery looking for Truffaut and Degas's graves. I only found T-mister and Degas is a sneaky son of a bitch because I looked for a good hour and never found him. Then I met up with Caryn and Tracy. We saw the Arch and that's when it hit me that I was in Paris. My heart fluttered and I looked down the Champs-Elysees and lost myself. I was really in Paris. Who is going to get that chance? I am sure a lot of people, but really. France. Cmon.

We walked down the street to the center with the Obelisk and then moved on to the Louvre where I saw the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, The raft of the Medusa, The lace Maker, The astronomer, Krotos boy, and some other gems. But after all that fucking art we were tired and hungry. We made ourselves to an island in the seine river and ate like kings!

If the french know a thing or two, its about food. I have never eaten so well and so much fucking bread, my god! But I couldn't help myself. Bread and cheese. That is all I will ever need.

The next night I did a bit of shopping which was fun and realized how much money I was spending. I quickly stopped shopping at that point.

The trip home was not so great. I was stuck in Calais for 4 hours due to heavy winds. I was supposed to be back on the Island around 8pm, I got there at midnight. The Ferry ride was on rough seas and I don't ever get sea sick...but I did this time. Then I tried to sleep on the floor of the Ferry and imagine I was a baby being rocked by my mother. It didn't work.
When we got to Dover, everything had closed. I mean everything. No buses. No trains. Nothing. I was stranded in the massive port with only my journal to keep me company on account the ipod died. One can only write so much before it just becomes incoherent babble. I ended sleeping on the floor of a nursing room which was the only warm spot in the entire place. I remember dreaming.

Then it was the long trek back to London from Dover. I started at 6 am and got to Tooting at 10:30. On the way I had taken a taxi, a bus, and train, then the tube and had eaten the most ghastly of breakfast sandwiches. It was called the mighty butty or something like that. It was bacon, sausage, cheese, and egg. The sausage was a long sausage roll rolled into a sphere with slabs of thick, English bacon with melted cheese and a bit of egg. All on a butty. Fuck it was nasty as hell and I regret every moment of it.

So there you have it. My trip to Paris to avoid immigration. Whooo!