The Grand Expedition continued, starting with a trip to Les Halles!
See? There's the lovely Jane there, and here's a close up
of the man in the background who was merrily having an afternoon micturation in broad daylight in the middle of one of the busiest shopping areas in the whole city. If you're wondering, I
thought it would be amusing had no idea he was there.
Then we strolled through town and ended up walking into the Louvre through a side door.
Its amazing how many cool places you can end up in accidently.
And here's the fountain. I
ballsed up the shot intentionally placed the Japanese lot dead centre for comedy purposes.
Here's another shot, which I did done took because it shows the scale of the place. Well, yeah, I know, but it does, because look at these here zooms,
Yeah. I see it going something like this.
"Ah, 'ello Mr the Spanish Ambassadore, crikey, thou art teeny and tiny, thou does needeth not the whole door at all, but worry not for we has fitted of a flap, a foreign flap!"
Something like that.
Then we went through a tunnely bit and saw the cool pyramids.
And then we went to the Deux Magot, which does mean the two maggots, which one can't help but think isn't an entirely enticing name for a bar, but it was apparently the preferred drinking place of Sartre, Hemmingway, Basil Brush, Picasso, the Venga Boys and Camus.
It's jolly nice, but, you know, not all that different from other cafes.
I did feel my muse move though, and wrote a poem.
"The once was a bar named two maggots,
popular with people like artists and abbots,
including Jean Paul Sartre,
a thoughtful old fart,
who was terribly friendly with"
but then my Croque Madame arrived and I got busy munching.
It was a very pretty day, though.
Jane is convinced I ballsed this shot up 'cos I only got her nose. I say I ballsed it up because I did get her nose, and consequently the focus got all peculiar. C'est la vie!
So we enjoyed it here, and a sparrow ate some of our biscuits.
Later that day we ended up here, which is a bar, although I forgot to photo the bar so lets just assume that it looked much like every other bar in Paris.
We sat next to a whole bunch of Americans, although we didn't know that at the time. That became obvious when the waiter came over to them and told them in a very obvious fashion that the cafe was no longer serving coffee (at three in the afternoon). One has to assume that this was due to the Americans speaking no french at all and being the sort of
ignorant bastards educationally challenged people that say things like (I quote)
"Ain't no Bastil, they knocked that sucker down!"
Who, consequently, failed to notice that half the customers were drinking coffee and that perhaps this was waiter's code for
'fuck off' 'I am choosing to exersize my option to refuse service'.
Instead they demanded a gin and tonic, and were rewarded by a volley of menus, followed by an amusingly innaccurate bill.
This was a random shot over my shoulder. Cool, eh?
That evening, following a siesta, we ate at the
and I have to say, this was the best goddamn meal I can remember ever having. I started with french onion soup, which was just the best, not least because it came with a single giant crouton filling the rustic bowl thingy and was, therefore, brilliant. Jane had snails cos she's a girl and likes icky sticky things.
But then she let me eat one, and it was yummy too.
Then we each had a steak, and it was too good to go into. No, really. And the staff were really friendly and tweaked our french rather than look down their noses or patronise by dropping into English. Much preferred. The nice waitress didn't even mind when someone accidently called her Madame rather than Mademoiselle.
Long story short, if in Paris, eat there.
On to Day Three!