In Your Face, Willy Fogg

Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlehobbits. Lend me your ears and stop the presses. It is my half-birthday, and it is also exactly 20 months ago today that I moved to Paris. The planets are aligning, and I can practically feel the insightful clarity and profound observations raining down…

I’m not entirely sure what’s up with time these days, but I presume there’s been some meddling by the little science wizards over at the Theory of Relativity’s centennial birthday party. Perhaps they’ve put a kink in the continuum, and things are speeding up. Either way, 20 months has gone by in a flash.

Here are a few things that I have learned in that time.

Living in a different country, practising the great arts of settling in and successfully talking to people and buying stuff, are incredible skills, and I am sincerely pleased that [most days] I have them.

I have discovered reserves of patience and tenacity I had no idea I possessed. I am referring in equal measure to the hoops I unblinkingly and repeatedly jumped through in order to get my Social Security card, as well as the day I opened a tin of coconut milk using only a knife. I essentially spent 38 minutes grinding through the can and then cooked a Thai curry that tasted of steel-dust and VICTORY. (It would have taken approximately 9 minutes to go round the shop to buy a tin with a ring-pull, or an actual tin-opener, but that’s NOT THE POINT.)

My life has subtly changed in other ways. Square pillows, for example, are normal to me now. I also spritz my face every morning with Zinc spray, and that’s normal too. I know more types of cheese and wine than I ever knew before. I only buy newspapers from huts on the street and when I go to the cinema, it gets fully, properly dark and a tiny cartoon miner named Jean flings his pick-axe to signal the start of the film. The light in this city is remarkable, and gives the world a glow that I hope I never take for granted.

Last week, I was fortunate enough to have a week off. I held my very own stay-cation, which I like to call Around My World in 8 Days.

It was ferociously jam-packed (well, it was intended to be, but then I realised that full-time adventuring is actually quite tiring so I incorporated a couple of days of sitting). 

So, as I was saying, it was somewhat jam-packed, and included such exciting episodes as the Annual Parisian Cherry Blossom Festival (complete with Japanese drumming and dancing spectacle), my first Bloody Mary, a day spent exploring the forest of St-Germain-en-Laye, a foray into the largest flea-market in Europe, a series of delightful lunches, dinners and desserts, and cinema excursions to see Truth and The Jungle Book.

I often spend time with my friend Kate, usually after a carafe or three of Côtes du Rhône, fretting about such things as why haven’t I bought a house, why are shoes so expensive here and why can’t I get to the end of Harry Potter 5 in French?

But on days like today, when spring is in the air and I get to go to an exhibition of 700 Barbie outfits this weekend, I feel that life is pretty good.

Interestingly enough (or not; you decide), this is not the first time I’ve mentioned my half-birthday on this blog. The last time was in 2013, when I waxed lyrical about my grand scheme to spend the next 8 years learning to make paella and then regaled you all with a trip to Birmingham. Exciting times.

I also shared with you my secret dream-life, in which I become a writer living it up in New York by the time I’m 40.

Well, here we are. It’s 3 years on, and I’m revisiting my goals, as any self-respecting, list-making Filofax-owner worth his or her salt is wont to do.

I could be lamenting the fact that I am still as yet unpublished, spending euros not dollars, and I have not the faintest clue how to make paella. And yet I’m not.

Perhaps one day I’ll be living in the Big Apple (obviously, if that’s the case, I’ll be much cooler, wear sunglasses in lofts and will only ever casually call it ‘the City’), and perhaps I won’t.

Either way, I’m not worrying about it. I’m still getting to know the person I am and where I belong. And that’s fine by me.

If you have a house, or a baby, or a cat or a budgie, or a career or family, that motivates you and challenges you and that you love and that drives you, ALL POWER TO YOU. And massive congratulations from me. I couldn’t be happier for you.

If, on the other hand, you have struggles or shitty things going on at the moment, I’m sorry. I hope you have a support-network and a good supply of kit-kats to get you through. And get through I am sure you will.

For a while there, mortgage-less and not a budgie in sight, I was FOMO-ing all over the place, worrying that there were things going terribly wrong in my life journey.

And then I calmed the fuck down and realised one or two wise things. Vis à vis, the following...

The upbringing I had, the lasting friendships I’ve formed, and the people I gravitate towards in life, have all encouraged me to be interested and engaged and curious, to read widely and avidly, and to be eclectic and diverse in my tastes. So what if that means my apartment is a pile of books I’m in the middle of, I have a whole host of mad Parisian challenges on the go, and I have frequent anxiety because there’s just not enough time for all the television. (But what about Empire? What about Mozart in the Jungle? What about Dickensian?)

I’m extremely happy to be interested by the world and its stuff, to be inspired by the superb array of people that I know and love, to be a bit of an explorer.

And so, as I look back over the past 20 months and those recent adventure-filled 8 days, I say Tchin! Here’s to whatever’s next.

Postscript:

It occurs to me that I’ve never read the actual Around the World in 80 Days. The Jules Verne version is currently queuing up on my Kindle, downloaded in a flurry of guilt. 

The first page seems to include a rather long and anally-retentive description of precisely-folded shaving-towels for one’s toilette and having tea and toast served at 8.23am precisely. To be honest, this is not the adventure-tastic tale I imagined.

I know the protagonist as a tall and rather dashing lion called Willy and not Phileas, and I believe his butler to be a cat named Rigadon and not some dude named Passepartout. Other details I recollect from my childhood include a goat in a wheelchair, a creepy wolf with a glinty eye, a mouse named Tico who is obsessed with his tiny sun-dial, and a mysterious personage known as The Brigadier, who was, you’ve guessed it, a deer. Bravo, animators, bravo. I have literally just realised how clever that is.

If you don’t know what I’m on about, may I please refer you to the 1980s and one of the coolest TV shows ever made, Around the World with Willy Fogg. Available on DVD now.

You’re more than welcome.

Second moulin to the right and straight on til lunchtime

I like a good challenge. Any follower of past escapades such as #GM10 or Drinking the Snail can testify to that. I particularly enjoy challenges that didn’t previously exist and that no other idiots before me have embarked upon.

At brunch a couple of weeks ago, a new challenge was born, with the most self-explanatory name yet, Paris without a Map. Hashing out the details took the best part of 5 hours of face-to-face meetings between the participants, an extensive email thread which includes the phrases ‘I think you should be allowed to run but not to take a bus,’ and ‘It is a Sunday after all and therefore dedicated to relaxation.’ I also had various suggestions from friends and family. (For ‘suggestions’, read sceptical comments such as ‘You’re doing what?’ and ‘Oh god, not again.’)

In a nutshell, the rules were thus:

2 brave teams would travel in a subterranean manner to their respective starting-points. Over the next several hours, each team would race to the rendezvous-point finish-line with ABSOLUTELY no map / GPS assistance, whilst completing various check-ins and tasks devised by the opposition on the way. A complicated points system was established, and there had to be a possible route of between 9 and 9.5km.

Impartial adjudicators (my friends Ana and Will) selected the teams, by drawing names out of a hat. ‘Names’ being pots of UHT milk, and the ‘hat’ being my hands. George and Jen vs. Pam and Olivier.

Each team held a preparation meeting before the big day. Pam and Olivier went first, and so did all the serious point-setting for easy, medium and hard challenges. George and I asked ourselves important questions like ‘We can get them to go outside Paris for part of it, can’t we?’ and ‘Where would be the best place to get them to do an impression of a bat?’

My Paris A-Z goes everywhere with me, so I was somewhat nervous at leaving it at home that morning. I googled how to make your own compass, but the requisite magnets and shallow vessels of water weren’t really feasible at short notice. And I thought I was onto something with a vague memory that you can orient yourself using the nave of a church, except that there are about a million churches in Paris facing every which way, and I barely know my apse from my elbow.

You don’t need to hear the details of how we wasted valuable time buying chocolates shaped like rabbits and lambs, or visiting a Belgian cultural-centre-slash-épicerie for no reason at all. Or how we spent ages looking for wild fish and a macaron company headquarters, both to no avail, and took a series of entirely unnecessary photos of bus-stops.

The important thing is, we achieved. We accosted tourists and made them take selfies with us. We took a composite image of the Moulin Rouge in the past and now. We found a specific type of German high-speed train. My personal high-point of the day was George frantically making an about-turn signal at me and hissing, ‘Not down there. There’s a bishop blocking the way.’

To cut a 14.8km journey short, EGG-O ENER-J (clever Easter-themed Jen-George anagram team-name) lost. Amazingly, there were only 9 minutes in it. Our elated selfie in front of the Philharmonie de Paris building is full of victory and sunshine, now sadly tinged with defeat as, unbeknownst to us, Pam and Olivier had arrived moments before and nipped to the toilet.

I’m choosing to take the high road and not quibble about the fact that one of our challenges was not achievable or that there was an ‘on-foot/as-the-crow-flies’ miscommunication somewhere along the way.

Instead, I prefer to see Paris herself as the loser; being without a map was ironically the least challenging element of the day. Not once did I feel lost or disoriented. Seeing the Arc de Triomphe side-on or using the shape of the lake in Parc Monceau to gauge directions, and assessing distance using the faraway sight of a particular Métro bridge on line 2, made me realise how well I know my way around these days.

I have realised whilst writing this that all these ridiculous challenges have involved me enlisting entirely different friends each time to take part, which I think proves that you all secretly want to do them. If you know me, and haven’t yet been roped in, watch this space. I’m sure to be harassing you soon enough. Future projects currently being workshopped involve finding all the original water fountains in Paris and something to do with the classic Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline movie French Kiss.

It’ll be first come, first served, so you’d better get your name down asap.

#GM10

3 intrepid explorers ventured out early one Saturday morning. An important mission was afoot. They were armed with supplies (‘sacks full of snacks’ had been the brief), a bottle of Prosecco to crack open at the moment of victory, and a lot of bus-timetable print-outs.

The day of #GM10 had finally arrived.

Don’t worry if you aren’t familiar with it yet; we made it up.

In a reckless moment, about 6 months ago, I had said to my friend Emma, ‘Man, I want to say I’ve been to every borough of Greater Manchester. And I want to do something cultural in each one.’ ‘And have a drink,’ she suggested. ‘AND DO IT ALL IN ONE DAY!’ she added triumphantly.

And so the plan was born. All 10 boroughs of Greater Manchester in one day. Caveats were added; one day became 12 hours, and we opted to only use public transport. We selected a date, and then roped our friend Ana in, because she bloody loves Manchester but now (sadly) lives far away.
                                                                 

We met a little after 9am at Trafford Bar tram-stop. The first words out of Emma’s mouth were, ‘Well, thank god we found each other in life, ladies, because we certainly wouldn’t find anyone else willing to do this.’

We had a rough outline in mind, but were prepared to, as Emma put it, ‘fly by the seat of our pants’ a bit if necessary. Like I said, intrepid.

I thought you’d like to live through #GM10 just as we did, and so allow me to present our adventure, chronological and comprehensive, from Trafford to Salford. (For true authenticity, you should be drinking a can of Alfie’s ready-mixed Gin & Tonic throughout.)

1. Trafford:

Cultural pit-stop: Statue of Frank Sidebottom, Timperley

Not the easiest destination to get to. Primarily because, until the night before, none of us had been able to find out where it is. Indeed, Ana googled it and the top result was Emma’s question to the Frank Statue Facebook group asking ‘Where is the statue? I’m visiting tomorrow and I don’t have a postcode!’ Meanwhile, in the staff room after work I’d had much better luck. Google Streetview shows no Frank statue, but some excellent detective-work from my colleague Ryan revealed it’s outside Johnson’s the Dry Cleaners (which had undergone rebranding by the time of Frank’s unveiling).

2. Manchester

Cultural pit-stop: Statue of Queen Victoria, Piccadilly Gardens

We took our second tram of the day into the city, and spent the journey comparing our snacks, like kids at a sleep-over. Emma waved a token apple at us, prompting a local Trafford lady to observe, ‘Because Saturday is the day to be healthy. Stick pins in your eyes the rest of the week’. Yes, quite.

Manchester was a quick interlude for us. No messing. Our adventure was more about the open road, the unexplored backwaters in the surrounding boroughs. Although it was the point at which I began my day-long quest to photograph council bins.

                                                               

3. Stockport

Cultural pit-stop: Hat Museum

This is a GREAT place. The UK’s only dedicated hat museum. ‘You’ll need at least an hour for Level 2,’ the front-of-house lady advised, ‘That’s where the hat-making machines are.’ She seemed disappointed when we broke it to her that we only had 10 minutes, and that included a visit to the toilet.

We thoroughly enjoyed our whistle-stop visit; we tried hats on, marvelled at the Hatting Info Lounge, and I’ll leave you with this informational treat: People stopped wearing hats when they started driving cars. Fact.

                                                                           

4. Tameside

Cultural pit-stop: Tameside Library and Art Gallery

Our first bus of the day took us to Ashton-Under-Lyne (the 330, 42 minutes, on which Emma uttered the immortal words, ‘I’m going to make you eat something with chorizo in it now.’ Sainsbury’s Chorizo Koftas, in fact. Very nice, but look remarkably like small dog poos).

Culturally, we had feared this would be the most difficult borough, but our worries were soon allayed, as we clocked up the (now sadly-derelict) Tameside Hippodrome and Tameside Library and Art Gallery.

And then, wonder of wonders, we braved a refreshment break at Fat Lenny’s Saloon. Picture a ridiculously kitsch collection of Wild West memorabilia in a Working Men’s Club, and then add a white buffalo head, a medieval chandelier and 3 types of Sourz (apple, tropical and cherry).

It was incredible; we drank halves of lager and relished in the knowledge that we were officially ahead of schedule! We rode the wave of success and accomplishment and got a bit giddy; I asked why they had so many UV lights. Ana suggested maybe it was to detect semen. Seamen? Emma contributed. Surely they only get cowboys in here. Ah, the hilarity.

5. Oldham

Cultural pit-stop: Oldham Coliseum

Another bus-ride and we were halfway through our mission. A wander through Oldham City Centre, photos at the Coliseum Theatre, and we were soon sharing a can of G&T at Oldham Mumps tram-stop. (NB. The name of the Mumps area of Oldham probably derives from ‘mumper’, an old word for beggar. And you thought this article wouldn’t teach you anything.)

                                                                    

6. Rochdale

Cultural pit-stop: Town Hall

Suggested by my friend Jackie, the Town Hall in Rochdale is simply amazing. Rumour has it, Hitler had his eye on it, and planned to ship the whole bloody thing to Germany. It is huge and Gothic; we were only sad it wasn’t open for us to explore inside.

Instead, we patronised the local Wetherspoon’s, The Regal Moon, where you can get a refillable coffee for 70p and learn about famous Rochdale-ean Gracie Fields from the wall displays. (If you’re interested, this famed music-hall star had 3 husbands and lived her later years on the island of Capri. She also started a children’s home in Sussex specifically for ‘children of those in the theatre profession who couldn’t look after their children.’)

                                                                  

7. Bury

Cultural pit-stop: World Famous Bury Market

Bury treated us nicely. A quick turn around the Market, where Emma found out what a Rag Pudding is, and we were on our final bus of the day (the 471, 29 minutes).

Memorable moments of the journey include a little girl caning a whole bag of sweets and doing a very good impression of a dog, me learning that Emma’s boyfriend freezes Tunnock’s Teacakes (say what?) and someone asking, ‘Do you think it’s possible to have too much pork in a day?’

8. Bolton

Cultural pit-stop: Town Hall

Here we experienced our one failure. We had hoped to visit Bolton Aquarium (trust me, it’s a real place), but we missed the 5pm closing-time. Instead, we settled for the lovely Bolton Albert Halls and a stroll past the elephant sculptures on Newport Street. Why elephants, I hear you ask. Well, they feature in Bolton’s coat-of-arms. Why, I hear you ask. Well, it’s because Bolton used to be part of the diocese of Mercia, and Coventry was the seat of the diocese of Mercia, and there’s an elephant in Coventry’s coat-of-arms. Why, I hear you ask. Well, because St George was born in Coventry, and he killed a dragon, and the elephant is the medieval symbol for dragon-slaying. Obviously.

                                                                              

9. Wigan

Cultural pit-stop: Wigan Pier

I didn’t know much about Wigan Pier before #GM10, other than that George Orwell went there and wrote about it. Turns out, he only wrote about it so he could describe the awful slag-heaps. Oh.

We found the bit of the railway used for tipping coal into the canal-boats, we found the Leeds-Liverpool milestone, and then we found the pub. Where we had a very cheap round of pints, there was a wedding reception and a Hen Do happening at the same time, and the bar-staff didn’t wear shoes.

And then on the train, a very very drunk girl had to get out at Hindley, dragging her friend Jane with her. ‘But I don’t live in Hindley,’ Jane said mournfully. Poor Jane.

10. Salford

Cultural pit-stop: Statue of Queen Victoria, Salford University

Success! Victory! Celebratory drinks in The Old Pint Pot.

                                                                                    

We did it! And all for the amazing price of an £8.60 bus-train-tram Day Pass (thank you Transport for Greater Manchester, it’s an absolute bargain).

We saw the house where Fred Perry was born, we went through a part of Bury called Jericho (who knew?), and Emma taught me the delightful ‘a cappella banger’ Kersal Massive, featuring Little Kev and Ginger Joe (or Skinny Pete, as she prefers to call him).

Above all, I had one of my most favourite days ever. Ladies, thank you; I had the best time.

As Emma observed so wisely in Fat Lenny’s, ‘Don’t worry about facebooking this. We need to relax. These are our moments for later. I’ll make an album and print it out and send you a copy for our 50^th birthdays.’

By then, no doubt #GM10 will be a global phenomenon. There’ll probably be a statue of the 3 of us for GM10ers to visit. I’d quite like it to be in Tameside…