Playing tourist

As the months pass and I settle into a comfortable daily routine here in Paris I'm embarrassed to admit that I have stopped playing the tourist in this beautiful city.
My days off work are normally spent catching up with friends or running errands and my regular run along the Seine and under the Eiffel Tower has become almost routine and I no longer stop to stare and do a little dance when I reach the corner when I first catch a glimpse of the famous monument.

But the recent visit of an Aussie friend helped to open my eyes again and also helped to make me aware that although I now have the general gist of the layout of Paris there's still so much more I have to explore.

There's nothing like seeing a city again through someone else's eyes to reignite your curiosity again, and in a matter of hours after the arrival of the divine Miss S The Boy and I had already trekked to the very top of the Eiffel Tower on a beautifully clear and crisp afternoon - the last in a long time - followed by a sunset cruise along the Seine pointing out our favourite landmarks.

 The day was beautiful but freezing and after we had lost feeling in our hands and feet we stumbled back to Trocadero to guzzle down some Vin Chaud and nutella crepes.

During the following five days we headed to the Louvre, the Catacombs, Montmartre and Abbessess, Notre Dame, walked the length of the Champs Elysses and had many nights out on the town and I was appalled by how blasé I'd already become about my new home, and how much of my travel planning was about other places in Europe I wanted to go to rather than what I would do the next day. Worst of all I was ashamed it had taken a friend's excitement to re-awaken it all for me.

But no more. Cut to a brand new year and I've got me a brand new resolution: to go out and explore every day some more of my new town and to drink in this once in a lifetime experience!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Decorations on the Champs Elyssees

There's a well-known Christmas carol about chestnuts roasting on an open fire and yule tide carols being sung by a fire, and growing up in suburban Brisbane I used to dream about the day I would get to experience  a white Christmas of my own.

The idea of white streets made quiet by softly falling snow, lit up Christmas trees gleaming through frosted windows, cosy nights and days spent cuddled up on a chair next to a fire and all the other cliches used to fill me with longing, especially when Down Under we were entering into the third month of sweltering swimming weather and I knew there were at least another three ahead of me.

As a child I used to cut out snow balls and stick them up on my bedroom window to help out with the daydream, so it seems pretty damn surreal that at 27 I'm finally about to have a Christmas in a European winter.

All across Paris there are Christmas markets popping up - and I've already decided there's no better way to waste an hour or so than by wandering around Montmartre or up the Champs Elysees and browsing the gift and food stalls while cupping a mug of Vin Chaud to help keep some feeling in my fingers. Bright Christmas decorations and lights are lining the streets and brightening up shop fronts, transforming an already beautiful city into a fairyland - with a side bonus of a steady supply of Christmas lollies and drinks.

But despite the daily joy I'm feeling when I ride a Velibe home from work (and constantly trying not to ride into the gutter because I'm distracted by the sparkling lights up side streets) because the realisation of this dream is finally here, I've also discovered the lack of the scent of frangipanis and suncream wafting on the hot air, summer storms and way too many mangoes and plums means in the end not actually feeling a whole lot like Christmas for me. A problem I'm attempting to rectify by the constant playing of Christmas carols and movies, much to The Boy's amusement.

It's strange how we can want something for years and years only to have it dawn on us that although the realisation of it makes us happy, we already had everything we wanted.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Oh happy days!

Recently I had a whole day free and decided to drag The Boy to Versailles for a little day trip and I fell in love with it all over again.

I did visit Versailles the last time I was in Europe four years ago and had been astounded then by the beauty and extravagance of the gardens alone, but visiting the palace in high summer meant it was next to impossible to actually get inside any of the buildings unless you were prepared to wait for hours before shuffling through the packed rooms, something I really wasn't keen to do.

But at the moment there is a weird lull in the tourist season in Paris and so it was possible to not only walk straight into the palace but to also take the time to take in the beauty surrounding me and wow, was it well worth it.

The day was freezing and the gardens were quiet, muted in soft greys, oranges and browns but walking around between the palace, the Petit Trianon and the Grand Trianon they were so quiet it was possible to not come across another soul for long stretches of time.

The royal palace dominates the grounds, with the new golden gates visible from the main street as you walk up from the train station and inside there were rooms which took my breath away. There was the Royal Chapel with the exquisitely painted ceilings, the Sun King's rooms which were furnished in completely burnished gold tapestries and the Queen's rooms which were still decorated in the green, pink and yellow fleur de lys Marie Antoinette chose (along with the hidden door in her bedroom through which she fled the revolutionists).

But most amazing of all was the Hall of Mirrors. I had heard a lot about how amazing this famous hall was and so had gone in slightly cynical, I mean a room is just a room even if it does have a lot of mirrors to show the wealth and power of the aristocracy. But it did actually take my breath away. There was a floor to ceiling mirror to match each of the windows overlooking the main gardens, huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and walls and floored made out of a dark red marble. Just walking along it was impressive but when you tried to imagine walking the length of it to have an audience with the king and queen I understood how intimidating it would be.

True to form, while also impressed with the beauty and the artworks within the palace, the boy was disgusted by the extravagance in which the royals had lived, even saying at one point 'no wonder there was a revolution!'

Heading out of the palace we made for the Grand Trianon, restored by Napoleon and made his home which was also very beautiful, although in a more restrained fashion. However it was Marie Antoinette's domain which stole my breath away. A miniature farm built only 20 minutes walk away from the palace it was supposed to be a place of respite for the Queen who was stifled by court life. All the buildings were built in miniature with small paddocks for animals surrounding them.  There is a tiny tower near the even smaller dairy and little vineyards and rose gardens for the ladies to walk in.

The Boy and I had walked all the way from the Grand Trianon to an entrance near the farms however when we got there we discovered it had closed for the Winter season only two days before and now the only entrance was from gardens back near the Grand Trianon. Not quite defeated we decided to do the only true logical, Australian thing - jump the empty moat and climb the stone wall into the area.

Hey you can take a person out of Australia...

A whole new page

I love books.
I love opening one and disappearing for hours and days. I love the sense of completion and satisfaction I feel after closing the cover of an exceptional story or feeling like I've been lifted out of my skin.
Back in Australia I could spend hours wandering around a book store and was in seventh heaven when it dawned on me that as a journalist I could ask for a copy of any new release from a publisher to review - and they'd let me.

My bookcases lived to bear witness to this obsession too, with a huge assortment of paperbacks stacked every which way on the shelves and more often than not also knee deep on the floor too.

So perhaps it's a blessing in disguise to be unable to walk into any book store and start browsing because I'd be forced to ditch most of the clothes in my backpack before the year was out.

The Boy is well aware of my tendency to over-indulge in my love of literature, so much so that while packing for France I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to limit myself to 2 books (including and travel guides I wanted to take with me) because he wouldn't be lugging around my books for a year.

Somehow on my last trip to Paris I failed to discover Shakespeare and Co Book store which is a famous English-language book store near Notre Dame but this time around I made a beeline straight for it and was in heaven immediately. It's exactly how a book store should be: inside an old-fashioned house with a tiny staircase the entire interior of the store is lined with cramped, overstuffed shelves that are packed with every genre imaginable, there are little nooks with comfy chairs where you can sit and read, play chess or even the piano if you wanted too.

Suffice it to say whenever The Boy and I are anywhere near Shakespeare and Co I have to ask him to hold onto my wallet or to please please please stop me before I run loose in the store and so far, so good.

For now at least.

A touch of home

It's been nearly two months since I packed my bags and jetted off to Europe for a year of travel, and although I am starting to tire of living out of a backpack I am excited daily about the different sights and sounds of my new home.
 I am also yet to experience any kind of homesickness beyond daily pangs of  wishing such and such a person was with me to see/hear/taste what I am seeing/hearing/tasting.

But this week I had my first taste of longing for home.

The Boy and I dragged some friends along to see The Cat Empire at Olympia - the first time I've ever seen them live and can I just say wow! - but the thing that struck me the most was after being surrounded by a sea of French and English accents for weeks was how sentimental I felt hearing Australian accents on the stage while I danced to the songs I boogied to throughout my university days.

For a few brief minutes I had my first longing for home and for warm sunshine and lazy, hazy days spent splashing around at the beach.
Come the morning though I was still incredibly happy to be somewhere where chomping on a pain au chocolat for breakfast and a bottle of wine drunk with lunch is completely acceptable.