My weekend was basically 3 days of bizarre.
You’ll be forgiven for thinking I spent 50 hours in a
wormwood opium haze and that this is all made up, but I promise it isn’t.
Mostly as proof to myself in years to come that it wasn’t a
dream or a Wes Anderson film, here is what happened:
- I had my first Parisian theatrical experience – Dirty Dancing: the Musical. In French,
no less (songs in English, thank goodness – Les
yeux ont faim might have been a bit much). My personal highlights included
Baby’s real name inexplicably being Frederic not Frances, and all the ushers
incessantly telling me to ‘Enjoy the Spectacle.’ Alright, already.
- Naturally, I got home wanting to watch the film. It’s
not on Netflix but luckily Dirty Dancing
2: Havana Nights is. Phew. Perfect opportunity to play ‘Spot half the Mad Men cast’, and get obsessed with
Cuban music. (Have listened to approximately 19 hours of Radio Cubana since
Friday. Currently playing - Spanish version of 'I Will Survive' sung by a man).
- For the first time this year, I found myself not teaching
for 10 hours on a Saturday. YES! Not wanting to waste a moment, I channelled my
inner Ernest Hemingway and explored the fancy 6th arrondissement. Literary
salons of yore, sneaky hidden parks and streets full of shops selling meringues
BIGGER THAN MY ACTUAL HEAD. In one of said sneaky parks, I successfully took my
first panoramic photograph and had a wee in a PUBLIC TOILET. Where you had to
STAND UP. A dual sense of achievement.
- I found the building where the 3 Musketeers used to have
clandestine meetings. Which led me to realise that mousquetaire is hands-down my favourite French word.
- I bought my first ever beetroots.
- I visited the 17th arrondissement for the first
time, to go to a party held by my new Swedish friend Hanna from French
class. Don’t worry, I googled ‘Is the 17th safe?’ and took along my
friend Kate for backup. And it turns out, it is safe, and Swedish parties are
great (you take your shoes off, and everything’s white and from Ikea, and then there are
drinking games).
- I saw my first mouse in the Métro.
- Sunday was the first of the month, which in Paris means
one thing – FREE MUSEUM DAY. Forget the Louvre, never mind the Pompidou, and
you can keep your Rodin. Me and Pam went to the Museum of IMMIGRATION. Which
was in fact super-interesting and culminated in a perfectly-mustardy croque monsieur. And there’s an aquarium
in the same building, which may or may not have crocodiles. Who knew? Although
that part wasn’t free, so I didn’t get to go in.
My horizons well and truly broadened, I learned LOADS this
weekend. Vis-à-vis, the following:
- A Pimm’s Champagne Cocktail is ‘the perfect drink for those who are about to begin an uncertain journey.’
- If you turn your socks inside out, the seams won’t piss you off and you’ll be more comfortable. Incroyable. (Thanks Kate).
- ‘I carried a watermelon’ in French is ‘Je portais une pastèque.’
- Under General Franco, bikinis were illegal in Spain. Word.
