Yup. It's been a week of beer. Frequently before midday. Once before breakfast.You heard me.
It's also been a whirl of fish and chips and bruises. Good times in ye olde London towne. What we've loved the most? Rosie and Judd's Borough markets ritual (coffee, cake & foogasmic sausage roll). That AMAZING Vietnamese restaurant on Old Street. All the beer. Rosie's hospitality and mad/crazy/beautiful hair/personality/flatmates. Oxford Street. Kerry Jenkins. Soho. Wooden spoons. The rockin ladies of Holloway Road. London, we miss you already.
Six days flashed by and all of a sudden we were on a train destined for Paris. It goes through a tunnel under the sea surrounded by enough ocean pressure to crush a car.
Clearly much safer than a volcano.
So now we're in Paris, the city of love. Its is definitely the city of kissing. Everywhere we go guys and gals are tonguing each other with a passion. I have no idea how anyone gets anything done around here.
Worst thing about Paris? The €8 pints. That's right. Eight Euro. $16 NZ dollars. For a pint. No fear of becoming an alcoholic in this city. Paris you fooled me! I feel like a kid who was promised Wii and got an Atari.
But the best thing about Paris so far? The markets just outside our hotel have everything from tables piled high with a twisted mess of knives and forks to 1970's bedroom suites. Old cases with violins on the pavement and retro industrial worklamps. Posters of naked tattooed ladies from the late 1800's to the biggest, juciest, weirdest looking tomatoes you've ever seen. I want to buy it all!
And then there's the Eiffel Tower. I'm sorry, but it really was SO cool to finally see it in person. And so far the French we have met have been lovely, and smiley and helpful. Even happy to speak English. Maybe Paris is just lulling us into a false sense of security, and we will soon be pounded over the head by irate Frenchophiles for butchering their mother tongue every time we say "Merki boocoop". But until that time comes, Paris je t'aime.
Six days flashed by and all of a sudden we were on a train destined for Paris. It goes through a tunnel under the sea surrounded by enough ocean pressure to crush a car.
Clearly much safer than a volcano.
So now we're in Paris, the city of love. Its is definitely the city of kissing. Everywhere we go guys and gals are tonguing each other with a passion. I have no idea how anyone gets anything done around here.
Worst thing about Paris? The €8 pints. That's right. Eight Euro. $16 NZ dollars. For a pint. No fear of becoming an alcoholic in this city. Paris you fooled me! I feel like a kid who was promised Wii and got an Atari.
But the best thing about Paris so far? The markets just outside our hotel have everything from tables piled high with a twisted mess of knives and forks to 1970's bedroom suites. Old cases with violins on the pavement and retro industrial worklamps. Posters of naked tattooed ladies from the late 1800's to the biggest, juciest, weirdest looking tomatoes you've ever seen. I want to buy it all!
And then there's the Eiffel Tower. I'm sorry, but it really was SO cool to finally see it in person. And so far the French we have met have been lovely, and smiley and helpful. Even happy to speak English. Maybe Paris is just lulling us into a false sense of security, and we will soon be pounded over the head by irate Frenchophiles for butchering their mother tongue every time we say "Merki boocoop". But until that time comes, Paris je t'aime.
Even if the beer is stupidly expensive.
