My last Parisian days.So I'm finally home, and I've finally overcome the jet lag to get on with a final update of my last few days in Paris.
On Tuesday evening, I met B on the steps of the Opera Garnier, right across the restaurant where we had dinner the first night I was in Paris.
After catching Maybe, Definitely (awesome show, an extremely credible love story) at a nearby cinema, we headed to McDonald's where had a hard time choosing between the Chicken Mythic and the Royal Deluxe. I ended up with the former, which tasted uninterestingly like our local McChicken. A starving B order two burgers, one of which included the Royal Deluxe, which thankfully wasn't orgasmically good to make me want to kill myself for going with the chicken.
The next day, I skipped the metro and took twenty-minute stroll to Montmarte. The route required me to pass through the seedier but still relatively safe parts of Paris, and I had weirdos with inflated egos trailing me for half of the journey. They were making extremely improper suggestions in French, and some words I unfortunately understood. Thankfully it was bright daylight, and there were many other tourists milling around.
I was carried away with the strolling and browsing, and when B messaged to say that he'd be home early to prepare for the concert, I hurried to Quick (no pun intended, it's a fast-food outlet) to try the Omar et Fred burger that caught my eye the previous night. I see no point in commenting on the food, which consisted of dry burger buns and a measly portion of fries.
At 6:15 p.m. sharp, we left the flat and hopped on the metro to Palais Omnisports Paris Bercy for Jack Johnson's concert. Mason Jennings and G.Love opened the show. Jennings was a singer crooning brooding lyrics about suicide with a country-twang, and I couldn't quite place him in a music genre. G Love was more upbeat and sufficiently psyched the crowd up for Jack Johnson, not just with their music but also with French phrases like "je t'aime" that had the audience going wild.
Mucking around between the sets. That's B's new haircut. We were watching the Go to Goa video the previous night, and I commented that I really liked him when he shaved his head then. Inspired, he whipped out his electric razor and shaved it all off at 12 midnight. I think he wears the look well, agree?
And finally, Jack Johnson took the stage. "The man is a machine," B commented, after he sang nine songs in succession, taking only 5-second breaks between songs to change his guitars. Turns out that he really is, for he sang the entire 1.5 hour set without any intervals. Phew.
I was hoping for a bit of audience interaction, but Johnson was more focused on playing his music than interacting with the crowd most of the time. I could sense the audience disappointment, when his keyboardist started dancing on stage and had the audience getting up and dancing along. It was then that Johnson apparently started loosening up, and talking a bit more. That said however, I have absolutely no complaints about his set, which included old favourites like Banana Pancakes, Do You Remember, Constellations and Bubbly Toes on top of those from his latest album.
A clip from the chorus of Do You Remember.
Returning for his encore, twice.
I wasn't as blown away as I thought I would be, for the concert showcased mainly his music and not so much his personality. I've already been blown away one too many times by his songs, and was hoping to get a peek into the man behind those guitar strings. Not much luck there, though he did mention that the song Angel was written for his wife. Sweet. Very, very sweet.
I googled the web the next day for reviews, but was unable to find any of his show in Paris. I did however see a review written by Malcolm X Abraham on
www.ohio.com.
"Through it all, Johnson swayed (gently) back and forth, keeping the banter to a minimum... On and offstage, Johnson comes across as a truly groovy, caring and yes, very mellow dude. The kind of guy who, if you walked up to him on the street, called him an expletive and kicked him in the nethers, he'd probably ask if you felt better, and offer to talk about your anger issues and ways to channel your negative energy over a cup of chai tea at the nearest coffeehouse."
I couldn't agree more. Figures why Jack Johnson lives in Hawaii no?
On Thursday, seeing that it was my second last day in France, I skipped my usual morning cereal and headed down to the nearby St-Quentin market for breakfast. I bought an apricot custard pastry (similar to what I had when I was exploring the markets at Republique with Huiyu), and a pizza quiche for lunch. I passed by the chocolaterie on my way back, and found myself powerless to say no to one last chocolate pastry treat.
So there you have it: My apricot custard pastry to breakfast, my quiche lunch, and the chocolate croissant for tea.
B made enchiladas for dinner that night, which we devoured while watching Willy Wonka. I took some amazing pictures, but I can't seem to find it anywhere now that I'd cleared my hard drive.
On Friday, I dropped by Marine's office to meet her for one last picnic lunch at Tuilerie Garden.
Over my almond croissant and her pizza pastry, we talked about how India had changed us, and about her possible travel plans to Asia at the end of the year. It'd be awesome if she visits! After, I hopped over to Champs-Elysee to grab a box of macaroons, then hurried back for last minute packing.
The six flights of stairs I had to climb every single day, and the view from the balcony.
We heated up the sausage dish we bought from the supermarket the night before - It's a dish from Alsace, served with boiled potatoes, sausages and sauerkraut. Simple but extremely delicious when paired with mustard.
And at 6:45 p.m., we snuck down through the lift with our luggages (he was spending the weekend with his family) and struggled with them all the way to Gare du Nord to board the RER-train to the airport. We parted ways at the SIA check-in line, as he had to go to another terminal to catch his flight. "It's only six weeks," we said, as we kissed goodbye for the 11th time. It's actually seven weeks, but we'll both be busy enough for time to fly.
And while my macaroons survived the plane ride and its crazy turbulences, they didn't quite make it looking as pretty as they did. Still yummy though - I'm sure the Spottiswoode gang would testify to that!
Alright. Off to the shower and for a rendezvous with my bitch at Holland Village.
