Of Raw Meat and Butter

As I am walking around 20000 steps a day, I'm really not fussed about what I am eating. 

Wandering home tonight, after a day spent once again roaming the Pere Lachaise with another set of mates, taking a bus, having lunch at the base of the Eiffel Tower and doing a writing exercise in the amazing Richelieu Library. After walking with a friend to her destination in the Marias, I took the Metro back to Republique, where I bought a new, small, wheelie bag to take to Provence. The thought of hauling Bertha down there did not appeal. We had a lovely dinner at a little restaurant around the corner (Le Chardon), and now I'm here at 10.45, trying to get my post out for the day.

What's got me about today is my diet here. 

I'm eating, but things have changed. And yes, I've got a hankering for a very large, very fresh salad. 

But it's not before I get to eat my body weight in raw meat and butter. 

Let me explain. 

The butter tastes better here. I don't know what they do with it - but it is out of this world. Maybe they use a special churn which slaps the cream into submission with a tickle rather than a slap. I don't know - but it makes everything taste amazing. 

The other habit I'm now in the habit of is raw meat. Have steak tartare on the menu, I will have it. 

I remember going to dinner with some family friends a few years ago. Myself and one other, a large, rambunctious bloke, ordered steak tartare as an entree. 

"You Leos need your raw meat." We are both early August birthdays.

Yes, we do. Just big cats. Raw meat does us good. 

Tonight's dinner we all had steak tartare or an entree. Three of us were happy. 

"It's raw?" was the reply from the last in our party. 

"And you were expecting?"

"Not raw meat."

"It's not Coles mince. You're not going to get food poisoning or worms. Eat it like you would pate."

This seemed to get her around it. Saying that, she also says that she eats her steak rare, but this was just a bit too much. 

Me, I love the stuff. 

For mains, I had salmon tataki - again, basically raw salmon - which I had the other night. 

So, at the moment, my diet consists of things which can have butter on it, oh, and cheese, which is also other worldly, and raw meat. 

Life is tough. I can see that if my grandmother was alive, she'd be asking why were they too lazy to cook the meat, the proceed to burn it to a cinder. 

But if you ever come here, even if you don't try the excellent raw meat, you have to try the butter.

Life changing. 

Today's song:

The Freedom of the City

Paris is made for walking. It is made for keeping on walking, and just when you think that your feet are going to drop off, you're going to walk some more. 

Since being on holidays, which has now been a full week, on the active days, where I go out walking, and doing and just being a tourist, I'm managing 20000 steps a day.

It's definitely making me feel good, even if my feet and hips are aching a bit. 

I need the walking to clear my head. 

The retreat started today, and my first impression was to run. This is not because of anything our tour leaders have done or said, but it was because I was feeling completely overwhelmed. 

And this is okay. 

Coming to terms with this neuro-spiciness is interesting. I'm learning to articulate my needs - and one of these needs is space. I had a magic day with some friends from the retreat, taking in a couple of sex shops, Sephora, the magnificent St Eustache Church, rue de Pont Neuf and a bit of the Ile de City, it was a big day. The group met up at 3.00 pm - and I was completely overwhelmed. 

Instead of pushing through, or having a hissy fit, I said I'd meet the group at the restaurant at 7 pm. I got to have a rest, a lie down, and a shower. I got to take in the city, who seem to be preparing for the rugby. I watched as people got ready

And then I walked the half an hour to this amazing restaurant about two miles away. 

As I walked, I got to take in the place. Watch the people. See what was going on this balmy night in Paris, while trying to avoid the cyclists, surreptitious drug deals and blokes pissing into downpipes. You see kids on their scooters, others heading out to dinner, some returning with a final baguette for the day (Do not start me on the butter here... oh my giddy aunty). 

On meeting the group at the restaurant at the aforementioned time, I was ready to go. 

It's just a matter of expressing my needs, and not feeling bad about this. 

It still doesn't, sit comfortably, but it's a start. 

On being alone, I am not lonely. I just need the quiet to get my strength back. 

Today's song: 

Writing Block One: The Letter to Yourself Back Home

The writer's retreat effectively starts tomorrow, but we've already been given our first writer's block - and as I'm a bit overwhelmed with this French Thing, and having to find something to write about for the blog, this is great. I'm just back from dinner with two of the Gunnas who I've only met tonight. They're lovely. The restaurant was this Creole place that we tripped over after the recommendation we were given proved to be very noisy with few options for vegetarians. Maloya, the restaurant, proved everything we needed - great food, fantastic service and small enough that we could hear ourselves talk. 

But now I am here, and I've been tasked with writing a letter to myself back in Australia. 

It will be interesting to see where this goes. 

Dear Pand, 

What would you say if I told you that I was considering taking up smoking again? Not that I'm going to - I am not that stupid. but there is the infinite draw of sitting outside a Parisian cafe, with a cafe creme and a durrie, there to assist you in watching the world go by. I promise to stick to having just the cafe creme - the smoking will give you teacher breath anyway, and we can't have that. 

You'd be proud of me for lots of reasons. 

Firstly, I've embraced my inner stoner in England and had my first hits of the wacky-backy in too many years. Joe in Southend still chuffs on his weed sticks like it's a lolly cigarette. I think those couple of puffs made things far more comfortable on the couch that night. 

Secondly, all that time I spent doing those French lessons on Duolingo over the last year - so utterly worth it. People are happily talking to me. In French. All the time. Some allowances for the lateness of the hour or my cut down vocabulary, but on the whole, the Parisiens are being an accommodating and welcoming bunch. Who knew? I might have to keep this up. 

Thirdly, for the first time in I don't know how long, I am feeling truly like myself. 

Which is sad. And good. 

You know, you were born to ride the underground railways of Europe, hopping on here, getting off there, using your Navigo card (or phone in London). I can’t remember being happier than when I've been negotiating the routes through the city. This morning, after a breakfast, of which a pain au chocolate, with lots of fruit and a bit of yogurt, was taken, you made your way for your regular pilgrimage to see Oscar Wilde. You found him. You cannot kiss the tomb anymore - they've put up a perspex screen around it to stop such things happening. Somebody has also ripped off Salome's balls (I believe that's the name of the angel represented in Art Deco fashion. How rude.)

You're also made for walking. Looking at my watch, I've done nearly 22000 steps today. Not bad, eh! That lingering foot pain you've had for the last month. Gone. 

You know, I'm holding myself differently. Smiling more. Happy to engage people in conversation, that that it's anything you don't do anyway, but you're stopping, and listening to people here. It feels different. 

As always, you know, as well as I do, that I'm much happier in Europe. It is what it is. This trip is solidifying that, but you know you have to get on with things in Australia. It's hard when the head and the heart go in such different directions. Europe just suits you. 

I'm glad that Lucifer is finally thawing at Jay's place. His pillow fort behind the couch looks great. Jay said that he's eating and drinking more and coming out when she is around, so you need not have worried. 

Lastly, I have a bone to pick with you. You've said for twenty years that you weren't going to go back to Paris until you had a partner. And I know, the last time you were here, with Ashley, it was a terrible trip, and Ashley was an utter pain, but that is how Ashley is (How do you say that in Swedish again? - inside joke.) 

You've really done yourself a disservice. You may not be partnered up. Who gives a fuck about that? You’ve denied yourself being in this part of the world - a place, where you strangely fit in. A place where people react kindly to your basic sunny nature. A stunningly beautiful place that resonates with you more than you have realised. 

Stop denying yourself things for literally something you have no control over. 

You deserve to be happy. 

Go do it, you daft cow. 

So, you're sitting in the lounge, probably watching Netflix, missing the cat, as this is a letter to you (me) at home. 

Let me thump this into you once again. 

YOU DESERVE TO BE HAPPY. STOP LIMITING YOURSELF. YOU DESERVE SO MUCH MORE - GO REACH FOR IT. 

And on the back if this, I promise to not take up smoking again, no matter how strong or strange the appeal .

Got it. Go reach for the moon. 

I've got to be up early to do my washing. 

All my love, you daft thing. 

Pxx

Today's song:

Surprised

The sirens are different. That was my first thought as I alighted the Eurostar at Gare du Nord. The sirens are different and there are people everywhere. Arriving in Paris at 7 pm, I wasn't expecting it to still be light. Nor as busy. Ah well. 

My next thoughts were to getting to my hotel, and remembering that when crossing the road you have to look right first, not left. This is going to take a bit of getting used to. Making the footpaths even more precarious is the addition of the bike lanes which take over half the pavement. Cyclists have no shame, nor a sense of humour. I'm not going to stare them down. They are scary. No helmets. No desire to slow for slow-moving tourists with a death wish. 

Following the instructions on my phone, I made it to the hotel in the 10th Arrondisement in about 20 minutes. 

The hotel is down a little street off Boulevard Magenta. It's everything you'd expect from a Parisien hotel. White-washed, elegant and small. And this is okay. Great even. 

On arrival, a Brazilian couple were checking in. The concierge was having to translate between French and Portuguese. They wanted tickets to the Eiffel Tower and couldn't decide whether they wanted to go on Friday or Saturday, or to the second or third level... I sat down with my bag and listened intently. 

After half an hour, it was my turn. 

Things I have discovered. Although I was fully expecting to get the normal Parisienne attitude of "I can speak English," after the opening "bonjour," I'm getting none of this. 

Nope, people in Paris are happy to talk to me in French.

I call this winning. 

I explained to the concierge that I was here for two nights, then after, I was here for five nights with Catherine Deveny's group. Catherine Deveny, in French, comes out as Kahtreen Deyvenay. It's cute. He tried to talk to me in English. I responded in French. 

"Je dois payer maintenant?" (Do you want me to pay now?")

That did it. After that, EVERYTHING in French. 

And it's okay. I worked out enough. I was in room 608. The lift was on the right. Breakfast was between seven thirty and 10.30. 

Not hard. 

My old French teacher would be so proud. 

(Even better, while waiting for the Brazilians to get their lives in order, I was joined by a VERY hot bloke. He commented that my French was great. That did wonders for the ego). 

After taking the pokey lift up to my pokey, but lovely room, it was time to get some dinner. 

There was a new concierge at the desk. 

"Bon soir. Je cherche pour une epicerie. Vous pouvez, m'aider?"

"Epicerie?"

"Groceries?

"Ah." He corrected my delivery, then continued in French. Groceries, and bistros, were around the corner. Easy. 

I thanked him, and then said thank you for letting me speak French. 

"No, I understand everything you're saying. You're going well."

A similar response came from the lady in the bistro around the corner, where I parked myself on a wicker chair on the footpath and had a light dinner of steak tartare and a beer. It was bliss. 

As I was paying the bill, I got chatting to some people at the bar. Yes, in French. The lady behind the bar was impressed that an Australian could speak such good French. The couple had a daughter who lived in Tasmania and Canberra. I asked them why...

They also said it was refreshing to have somebody who tried to communicate in their language. The American and the British never do...

"Mais je suis Australienne. Je voudrais ameliorer. Je besoin de practiquer." (I'm Australian, I want to get better. I need practice. "

So, it seems the secret of cracking these French people - try and speak French. Even if you stuff up, apologise and keep trying. 

They are more forgiving than we are led to believe. 

Today's song: 

Theatre Review: Vanya

The Performance: Vanya

The Theatre: The Prince of Wales Theatre, St Martin's Lane, London, WC2

Stars: 5

Until 21 October. 

I have enough writing fodder from the events of the day to fill a couple of novellas - I didn't need the added extra of seeing a favourite actor on stage in a favourite play. 

But I did. 

And now I'm back in my cut-rate hotel room (look, it's clean and quiet and on a great location) with a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and a bottle of Purdeys, half-cut and sort of wanting a cigarette. 

Such is the power of Andrew Scott. 

I've been joking that I pawned a kidney to see this since obtaining the ticket a few weeks ago. Andrew Scott - you'd know him as the hot priest in Fleabag, or Moriarty in Sherlock, or Gethin in Pride. If you were really lucky a few years ago, you could have seen him play Hamlet somewhere in London. 

He's an actor of his time. 

So, a one-man version of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya - my curiosity was piqued. It was heightened to the point where I needed to be there to see this. And for me, it was worth every penny of the 120 quid ticket.

120 quid - $240 Australian. Yeah. It had to be done. Hence selling the kidney. Oh, and this was a cheap seat...

For those who don't know about Uncle Vanya, it's a tragedy in the rural Russian sense. Wikipedia gives the potted synopsis as such:

"The play portrays the visit of an elderly professor and his glamorous, much younger second wife, Yelena, to the rural estate that supports their urban lifestyle. Two friends—Vanya, brother of the professor's late first wife, who has long managed the estate, and Astrov, the local doctor—both fall under Yelena's spell while bemoaning the ennui of their provincial existence. Sonya, the professor's daughter by his first wife, who has worked with Vanya to keep the estate going, suffers from her unrequited feelings for Astrov. Matters are brought to a crisis when the professor announces his intention to sell the estate, Vanya and Sonya's home, with a view to investing the proceeds to achieve a higher income for himself and his wife."

If you're looking to see a decent version of this, look to Louis Malle's Vanya of 42nd Street. Wallace Shawn, Julianne Moore and Brooke Smith add to the joy of this. 

In this version of Vanya, Andrew Scott pulls off as a one hander. 

And it was sublime. 

I went with some friends who are regular London theatre goers - and they weren't overly fussed with this. And that's okay. 

I gave it a standing ovation.

And Andrew Scott did this by himself, on stage for the better part of two hours. He wove and dove between characters with seeming ease. He was funny, sweet, bittersweet, tragic through the play - a change of stance, inflection or an entry through a doorway on the limited set, and he transformed into another character - seamlessly. 

His rendition of Sonya's speech nearly had me in tears.

Scott was funny, smart and effective. Simon Stephen's adaptation was just terrific, the re-cut play went so delicately nuanced, yet fully understandable. 

It was worth it to pawn the kidney. Besides - I have another one. 

I'm of the belief that Andrew Scott is an actor of his time - up there with Branagh, McKellen, Michael Sheen and David Tennent. 

He's phenomenal. 

This was phenomenal. 

And it has made my trip to London. 

I'm a lucky girl. 

The man in the convenience store across from the hotel told me I looked tired. This has to be thought of a bit more. 

I've been blown away. I'm biased. I don't care. 

Today's song: 

Shit the British Stole and other adventures

I started this sitting on the train to Shoeburyness, making my way to Southend-on-Sea. I was winding my way through London’s East End, and it’s almost unrecognisable from 20 years ago. New developments everywhere. Small skyscrapers, dominate the skyline. 4 o’clock train seems strangely empty, and I haven’t. I guess people are still working from home in Australia.

It was a bit of a mixed day. I said goodbye to my lovely friends at St Albans, all the while grateful they took me in as the worst of the jet lag worked itself out of me. The 13 years we hadn't seen each other wasn't an issue. It was just lovely. I managed to win over one of their dogs - she was a complete tart. The other, not so much.

In the morning, I made my way to Kings Cross, where I left my suitcase in a left luggage place, which turned out to be a dodgy looking convenience store on the Pentonville Road. With me, a day pack in which there was a change of clothes, some toiletries, my laptop and a few other bits and bobs to see be over the night. There was no way I was going to drag my suitcase into deepest, darkest Essex. That's just asking for trouble. 

There was a couple of hours to kill, so I made my way to the British Museum for a pleasant afternoon of mooching the antiquities. Go to the museum they said. It will be fun, they said. 

Right... Exasperated exhalation, followed by a roll of the eyes. 

London is overrun with tourists. This is a given, but it seems even worse at the moment. With nobody travelling for the last few years, everybody is making up for it now. The British Museum was full. 

After a cursory, and quite pleasant with security who gave my back pack a once over, I made my way in, hoping to find the cloak room to take my bag while I wandered around. 

I will say, the building is magnificent. It always has been. In the years since I have been here, they've put this amazing roof over the courtyard. It's a sight to behold. It would be even lovelier to see if every man, woman, child and guide dog wasn't there. 

On finding the cloak room, I asked the young woman to store my back. 

"We're full. Come back in an hour or two."

"Seriously?" I questioned. 

"We're taking nuffin' for a while. We're full."

It was as curt as a "fuck off, we're busy."

But it's the British Museum. And there isn't a cloak room big enough take more bags. Yeah, that's a bit of an oversight. 

So, I pressed forward, heavy bag on my back, rather miffed. I like to wander galleries unencumbered. It was not to happen. 

The thing that nobody tells you about the British Museum - nothing in it is actually British. 

It's full of stuff taken from other places over the last couple of hundred years. Objects like the Rosetta Stone, the Parthenon Marbles. Lot of Egyptian artefacts... the list goes on and on. There are a lot of Aboriginal artefacts there, some of which have been asked for back - but the requests fall on deaf ears. 

In recent years, there have been scandals over the fact that items have been taken from the collection - some have come up on ebay. What a lovely way to look after objects that are in your care. 

I mooched for a bit amongst the crowds. 

I went and sat with the Parthenon Marbles, looking around at the oblivious crowds. 

And I felt profoundly sad.    

Fucking colonialism and this sense of outright entitlement. 

On the way out, there was an exhibition about Life and Death. In the cabinets, there were some aboriginal items. And yes, they had the appropriate trigger warnings and the like, but with everything going on in Australia at the moment, their presence felt a bit wrong. 

Yes, I was in a mood. 

I took my backpack and made for the exit, deciding that some peace and quiet was needed. I headed towards Fenchurch Street, choosing the option to go and sit with Samuel Pepys in St Olaves for a couple of minutes before the train left for Southend.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I find that Samual Pepys a tonic, even if he was an entitle bloke who lived 300 years ago. It was better than being surrounded by the booty of entitled toffs who refuse to give reparations. 

Maybe, if they took in my backpack I'd been feeling a little more generous. 

Today's song:          

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Give me old friends

I'm sitting here in my friend's kitchen just outside of St Albans, Hertfordshire. 

I've missed the smells of England. The scent of Persil washing detergent, endless cups of tea, toast and marmalade and digestive biscuits. The fragrance of Indian food from the local, which tastes amazing, regardless of what it is. (Last night we had Butter Paneer - amazing). 

I've missed the sights of England. The kitchens with their nick-nacks. The washing machine and dryer parked in the kitchen. The bread bins and necessary water filter jugs sitting on the counter top - necessary as the lime scale is dreadful. We are so lucky in Melbourne with our water. 

The animals live inside here. My friends two Canaan dogs have different personalities. Laika is a tart. Zev is very skittish. We're not interacting. As much as I would like to try, I am leaving it, for fear of being nipped. Not that I am scared of him, but it's best to give him space. I reckon I'd win him over in a week. 

It's the spending time with old friends that's I'm most grateful for. 

Yesterday was spent with Annie. We met when we worked at Lehman Brothers in the 90s. We've seen each other through a lot of good and bad times. Break ups, immigration, childbirth, bad bosses, medical issues... pretty much everything. We're now well into middle age. Annie sports amazing long white-grey hair. We've faced the ravages of menopause. As unforgiving as it is, we're some of the lucky ones. We have our health and our strength. 

We ambled from Tower Hill down to the Embankment over the afternoon, taking in what the city has to offer. I lead her to St Dunstans in the East, a garden set amid the ruins of a Christopher Wren church bombed by the Nazi's in 1941. 

"How do you know about this?" she asked. 

"Instagram." No need to lie. 

Some more ambling lead us to St Olaves church, this little gem of a place tucked behind the Tower of London. There is a memorial to Samuel Pepys. I was meant to find this place. We had a commune. 

"How did you know about this?" Annie asked. 

"I didn't. We were meant to find it."

"Who's Samuel Pepys."

"Look him up on the internet. He's cool. Interesting bloke."

We continued walking, catching up on the last 13 years. Our interests. Our lives. Her very tall 18-year-old son. My cat. Our ageing parents. 

We hadn't seen each other in 13 years, but it doesn't feel like any time has passed. This is the great thing about old friends. 

As we ambled, we got to appreciate the city. We made our way to the Temple Church, a Templar church I wanted to see. From my research, there's normally a five-pound charge to get in. We got there as a wedding was coming out. The sign said that the place was closed to the public. 

"I'm going to Australian my way in."

"Pand, don't."

"Nope. Watch me."

I crept in the door and poked my head around the corner, gently approaching the vicar.

"Hello, I was wondering if I could have a quick look around. I've come from Australia and I won't get a chance to come back here and I'm a freemason and this place is very special to us."

The plummy voiced vicar welcomed me in with open arms. I called Annie in to have a look.

"How did you do that?" she asked. 

"Australian charm."

"Did you pull out the "G'day?"

"Yes. And the voice I use in Darwin. And the Freemason card."

"You are shameless."

"Don't ask, don't get." 

And this is why old friends get you. And will accept you for your foibles. 

For me, it's the added knowledge of knowing the Brits and how to get around them. That insider knowledge of what works and what doesn't. Of when to use the English accent - the more common one or the modulated posh voice, or when to go full Australian. 

It's been fun. 

Today's song: