The end of the London-Glasgow-Paris partay

I didn’t just come down to reality. I came crashing down. Not only did I land in Perth utterly depressed (the weather is wet, cold and overcast), but I also ended up with a nasty bout of food poisoning. So from 4.30am to 10.30am, I am doubled over the bathroom sink and wretching like there is no tomorrow (ever tried using the palm of your hand as a plunger?). When there’s solids, it’s almost satisfying. When it’s just bile, then it’s just not fair.

I get up at 3pm, and like the good little academic that I am – I go into work. I need to move office, which is a lonely experience especially when everyone has already gone home. I am feeling disorientated and out of sync with everything around me, which is partially attributable to being dehydrated and only having eaten an apple today. But emails and text messages friends pick me up, for which I am eternally grateful. I go to sleep, listening to Carla Bruni – a French singer whose CD I picked up in Paris (many thanks Nico) – and dreaming of far-off places and faces that make this cold night seem that little bit warmer.

Leaving for Planet Normal

Goodbye East End Cottage. Goodbye Pinner tube station. Goodbye living out of a backpack. Goodbye London. I’m leaving for normal again.

Emirates Flight from London to Dubai (en route to Perth) leaves at 2.15pm. I leave early, but unforeseen delays results in me literally rushing for the plane. Fortunately, the flight is also delayed and departing 50 minutes after its scheduled time. Bloody hell, that was a close one. Someone is looking out for me from up there. I think they’ve been doing it since the day I arrived in London a month ago.

I am sitting next to two brunette models on the Dubai-to-Perth leg. One of them keeps yelling out “DIE!” at the screen (clearly she’s not watching Bridge to Terabithia). Then she keeps cheering every time a goal is scored on one of the sports channels. Someone should tell her that it is the soccer highlights, and that there will be a goal scored every half minute.

Some memorable (or rather unmemorable) conversations onboard:

MODEL 1 (when filling out the Entry Into Australia Form): Excuse me, but what is tuberculosis?
CHRISTINA: It’s a disease of the lungs.
MODEL 1: I’ve had a cough. Could I have tuberculosis?
CHRISTINA: Unlikely. You’d probably be half-dead and coughing blood right about now.
MODEL 1: Oh. Okay.
CHRISTINA: Are you visiting Australia for the first time?
MODEL 1: No. I’m from Adelaide.

Huh?

CHRISTINA: So, where did you guys come from?
MODEL 2: Milan. There’s heaps of Australians there.
CHRISTINA: Oh right. What sort of profession are they in?
MODEL 2: All our friends are models.
CHRISTINA: Well, all my friends are intelligent. And fabulous.

Actually, I didn’t say that last bit. I just thought it. Instead, I smile politely at her comment.

The final London hurrah

My final day of sight-seeing, freedom and fun in England. Wouldn’t you know it? After torrential rain and flooding yesterday, the sun is out.

As much as I would like to do the Star Wars Exhibition at County Hall, I opt for some quiet time and reflection at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Second time to London: if I don’t do it, it really will be embarrassing to admit. A bit like going to Paris and never having been up the Eiffel Tower. Outside the cathedral, an elderly woman wearing a stone-coloured trenchcoat with a salmon coloured dress stops to smell the roses hanging over the gates. It makes me smile. While I’ve seen many a church, St. Paul’s Cathedral really does take the breath away with its grandeur and sheer size. The magnificent views of London from the Stone Gallery (thankfully no portraits of stuffy old men with frilly neckpieces) are worth the +400 stairs up to the apex. I pick out identifiable landmarks from the ant-sized hive of activity below. Clear skies gives good visibility. Oh yeah – for anyone who thought my ‘visually enhanced’ student ID wouldn’t work for concession entry, I’ve been flaunting it all over London and Paris. Never underestimate the power of being 4’11. Pfff. I rule. 8P

Mid-afternoon, I rendezvous with Sergio at Patisserie Valerie in Soho. I am embarrassingly late (apologies yet again!). I owe him an ice-cream. I trade in food. We’re at this café because I’ve requested tea and scones – which I’ll bet only the tourists do in the city, and local geriatrics do in the country. We talk academia, PhD dissertations, kooky supervisors, living in London, living in Australia, the future, the past, and ultimately how life should be lived – without fear and regret, and with great passion. And Sergio is still feeling like a disgruntled member of Fitness First – a number among many numbers (I will have to convince him otherwise). It doesn’t matter that we have 1.5 PhDs between us (he’s halfway done), we still have problems figuring out the hot pot of tea and hot pot of water arrangement. If we’ve embarrassed ourselves (a certainty on many occasions), we’ll just pretend we’re from out of town.

We need to pick up Sergio’s friend-from-Italy-who-speaks-not-one-lick-of-English from the British Museum late afternoon. When I am left alone with Luka when Sergio is off and about doing errands at Birkbeck Library, we attempt a conversation with the use of
he-who-speaks-not-one-lick-of-English’s Lonely Planet phrasebook. I try to describe the weather over the last few days, but keep coming to the ‘Gastronomic’ section. Can I call the weather ‘spicy’? When all else fails, we revert to charades and the universal language of man-perving: specifically Elijah Wood. When Luka shows me a clip of Elwood on his camera phone from the film Bobby, it borders precariously on funny, endearing and slightly creepy. It’s all good.

Sergio appears 20 minutes later, in time to chat to Caroline on my mobile to give her completely bogus directions to get from Russell Square station to our destination (the lawn in front of Birkbeck Library).

SERGIO: Head for the northwestern corner of the park. See that big white building, we’re behind that. You’ll see trees.

As it turns out, there are several white buildings in the vicinity (never mind that the white building the boy is referring to can’t actually be seen from the station as it’s hidden behind a big brown building), and it’s Russell Square. There are trees everywhere. Never get a man to give directions. We forgive you. 8P

It’s the final farewell. I could get used to this whole "kiss on the cheek hello-and-goodbye ritual"! Ciao Luka (who actually speaks some English and who has fabulous shoes), and ciao to the sweetest bloke I have met in a very long time. And I realise that the sun has come out every time I have gone out to see Sergio. Everyday was beautiful, my friend.

In the evening, Caroline and I take out our hosts – Ann and Peter – to dinner at a Thai restaurant in Pinner. I am touched by their open invitation to stay with them when I come back to London. The other night, they presented me with a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows the other night (hmmm, how on earth did they know I liked Harry Potter?!). London – the weather, the people, the experiences – everything about her today is beckoning me back. It is a most wonderful finale to my growing affection for this city.

And I get to thinking about all the people on this trip – those I met at the Glasgow conference, friends (old and new) in Paris, friends (old and new) in London – and a glow and smile spreads over my face that I could not get rid of even if I wanted to. I miss them all already. Big love to you all. Au revoir. Ciao. See ya later. Because there will be a next time.

Where there’s no sun, there’s no fun: A day in Bath

9.10am: I am at Paddington Station. All trains to Oxford are cancelled. The tracks are flooded. Just my luck. I come to England for summer, and they are experiencing their wettest one in many years (quite possibly, ever).

CHRISTINA: Are the trains to Oxford just cancelled for the morning?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: No. All day.
CHRISTINA: What about buses?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: No buses.
CHRISTINA: So how can I get to Oxford?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: You can’t. Stay here.

Lady, if I have to wander Piccadilly Road again, I will throttle some homeless person on my way out.

What else is available on the train timetable? Looks like it’s a day-trip to Bath Spa.

The length of this entry indicates how much fun I had in Bath.

It’s pissing down. I take pictures outside the Abbey, visit the Roman Baths (pretty, but when you’ve seen one ruin you’ve seen them all), go to the Jane Austen Centre, wander around The Circle and Royal Crescent, pop my head into the Assembly Rooms just before close of business, shop up at Ted Baker and eat way too many vegetarian pasties.

The End.

Banana frappes, backed-up toilets and Paris in Pinner

The sun has come out. The sky, while mottled with white clouds, is blue. London: days like this, I love you.

One giant-sized breakfast later, I farewell he-who-wears-porkchop-sideburns-extremely-well and jump aboard the tube with he-who-prefers-not-to-take-off-his-shirt-in-unsexy-clubs, bound for the Spitalfield Markets and Brick Lane. After parting with the Glamour Boys, I console myself with banana frappes and some serious retail therapy. The crowds are out in full force in the markets, and I catch myself imagining myself living in this city and discovering the quirks of a new place – and not for the first time. Ever the eternal traveler.

Caroline and I rendezvous to grab some food and drinks at Pillars of Hercules (a ‘typical English pub’ that comes highly recommended by Martin as one of the oldest in London). The men’s toilet has backed up downstairs and the acrid smell of day-old urine floods the basement and wafts up the stairs. It does not take us long to shift from the back of the pub to the front. And in this pub, they have veggie burgers. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

We end up going for a wander around Soho where, once again, I feel like a midget elephant in the city: out of place (and loving it).

To exercise our flabby and bloated selves, we walk to Kings Cross. En route, we pass a bridal decorations shop appropriately called Weddings. The window display is a table setting with a purple motif. On one of the name cards is ‘Christina’. Is that a sign, or a coincidence? You decide.

Kings Cross: We find Platform 9¾. You know, as in Platform 9¾ from Harry Potter? Oh you don’t know? Well, then you should read more. Here’s the picture. Now go get yourself a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. And if you can’t be bothered reading, go rent the movie.

To cap off the day, Caroline and I decide to do coffee and cakes at Café Rouge on High Street in Pinner. Because we haven’t eaten enough junk already today. It’s a piece of Paris in outer London. Crème brulee, of course my dear. Sweet tooth is satiated by a sweet day.

Celebrating Orlando Bloom (well, not really), and painting the town purple with the Glamour Boys

Today, Caroline and I head out to Duke of York Theatre for a performance of In Celebration – otherwise known as ‘The-play-that-Orlando-Bloom-is-in-so-who-cares-about-the-storyline’. Caroline is under the impression that it is a comedy. How wrong she was! To be fair, the first half has some brilliant comedic moments, but in the second half it sinks in to a tense family drama – secrets, repressed emotions, undercurrents of a recurring nightmare that hovers in the family’s waking (and sleeping) hours.

Orlando Bloom: the verdict. Cute, but outperformed by the guy who plays his brother Andrew who gets all the best lines. Orlando is clearly a film actor rather than a stage thespian. And I don’t know if it’s because I have nothing to eat in the second half, or I’m tired, or the play gets a tad boring in parts – but I doze off a few times. Even he – formerly-known-as-gamine-elf-and-heartthrob-of-the-decade – is unable to keep me awake for the duration of the play. Maybe it was his moustache. I’m just not a facial hair and man-wearing-vest-and-tweed kinda gal.

We manage to see him ‘in real life’ (which means surrounded by hundreds of female fans and signing his autograph) after the performance. I manage to get a few fuzzy shots of what could be, quite frankly, any guy with brown hair and a striped shirt.

After In Celebration, I’m off to join the Glamour Boys for a night on the town. We’ll paint it red (or is that purple?).

Sergio meets me at Acton Town train station. He finds me, of course, conveniently sitting next to a rather nice-looking man (who I suspect is gay – aren’t they all?) as I wait for him. I am so predictable. I have good taste, yes?

Dinner is at Sergio and Martin’s place, a cosy apartment with a spacious and airy bathroom that just invites one to soak in the spotless bathtub for, oh let’s say… about 3 hours. Décor consists of books, an enviable DVD and video collection (I knew there was a reason why I liked them!), photos and posters, naked men magnets and an octopus motif. Yes. You heard me right. Octopi is the flavour here. I know it’s Britain and not Japan, but this petite 8-legged preoccupation is kawaii.


The more time I spend with the couple, the more I fall in love with those in love. There is a beautiful sweetness, tenderness and synchronicity in their relationship that emanates a goodness that the world needs more. I look at the two, and I am touched by a sense of unadulterated happiness, optimism and hope. I have only known the guys since the Glasgow Conference, but I have such love for them that I feel I will sometimes burst.

Tonight, we have three options:
1) trans-gender club: which Sergio has cautioned is ‘rough’ (read: real-time sex!), and Martin has read that it is full of bears and the sort of place you should bring your own syringe box to
2) a cabaret club where knitting is on tonight’s program
3) the Pleasure Unit – a gay club for the unpretentious (read: untrendy) crowd in the East End

Untrendy wins over bears and knitting.

The music is interestingly eclectic. Martin is more frank. He says it’s just plain random. Madonna (from the 80s), sidles Adam Ant (from the 80s), who sidles X-Ray Spex (from the 70s), who sidles Gloria Estefan (from the late 80s). Are we seeing a pattern here? When “Rockin’ Robbin” by Michael Jackson blares over the speakers, and everyone is getting hot and sweaty on the dance floor, you know you have definitely left normal. Toto, we ain’t in Kansas no more.

Two of the most memorable moments:

Moment 1:
MARTIN: Sergio has one dance.
We turn around, and sure enough, Sergio is dancing to music … coming from another room… and quite possibly another club.

Moment 2:
SERGIO: It’s hot in here. I want to take my shirt off.
CHRISTINA: Why don’t you?
SERGIO: Because this place is not sexy.
I turn around, and he’s absolutely right. Would be best for most of the patrons to keep their clothes on in here. I want to pack the boy in my bag and take him home to Australia. I have not laughed so hard since, well Glasgow I think. Thank God for Queer Theory Conferences.

After a midnight run to catch the last metro back to Acton, I end the day on a big (and thankfully) firm mattress in the lounge room, falling asleep and dreaming of wonderful gay (and not-so-gay) men.

Date with a Chiropractor, mad for Harry and a night with the Hobbits

9.30am: I have an appointment with a local chiropractor. I’ve got Jeff – whose sense of humour makes pummeling my back amusing. Sort of. Not really. Oh okay, it just plain hurt. I substitute “F*#K” and all those fun expletives with nervous laughter.

I was right. Pinched nerve. They don’t call me Doc for nothing. But like a late night TV. Infomercial for crock pots and steak knives… there’s more. I have put my back out and my spine right now looks like a snake doing jiggey. I’ve got muscle tear, ‘junk’ in the left shoulder (which we scientifically tell from the squish squish sound my shoulder is making when the chiro squeezes it) and the muscles are spasming. It is a result of carrying a house on my back (not just the kitchen sink), over-exercising and possible whiplash. I hint that it could be from dancing at clubs, but decide to leave out any mention of firemen and balls. I’ve only just met the guy.

2.15pm: The sun is out so I head out into the city. Or town. Well, where all the fun stuff is happening.

I have decided to go see The Lord Of The Rings Musical. But like any red-blooded female, I end up detouring into the shopping district for several hours. Several hours later, I am lugging around two bottles of Leeuwin Estate wine (hello Fortnum & Mason) and a new leather bag for the rest of the day. My chiropractor is going to sit on my head for this. Sometimes, PhD really does stand for Permanent Head Damage.

I pass by Waterstone's Bookshop and there is the longest line ever snaking around the block. It's the Harry Potty Peeps. The first person has been there since Wednesday. Now I can see the point in perhaps camping overnight to catch a glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe, or Rupert Grint or even J.K. Rowling at a film premiere, but I like sleep. On a bed. Not a sleeping bag in the middle of London (Piccadilly Circus) when it's pouring down with rain every second night. All power to them though. And here's one for the Slash Fiction fans... (though I'd much prefer Harry and Ron).

7.30pm: The Lord Of The Rings Musical at Drury Theatre. I am in Row 0, Seat 32. It’s in the stalls and pretty perfect, until a woman with massive hair lodges her ass in the seat in front of me. Honey – teased hair went out with leg warmers and big shoulder pads. And while her rugrats are much easier to see over, they are annoyingly fidgety. I’m on a mission: advocate contraception.

LOTR – the narrative is relatively skimp, but the effects are like never seen before. It is an audio-visual extravaganza, a feast for the senses. There are moments in the musical that bear an almost perfect likeness to the movie. Frodo and Sam’s journey across the ashen landscape of Mordor being one. The casting, however, leaves much to be desired. Aragorn is more boy than man, and Legolas is more dark-haired British pop-star than gamine elf. They really should have just gotten Sir Ian McKellen to take a few singing lessons to reprise his role, and Gimli looks like he’s been on a low-carb diet. While I most happy to have experienced this production, Peter Jackson’s The Lord Of The Rings triptych will forever be to me THE Lord Of The Rings. He’s made it his own, as have the actors. Improving upon perfection is an impossible task. Panned by the critics, loved by the fans – I would say that’s a fair comment. Still, I’ll take whatever LOTR I can get.

The walking wounded, Othello and a pissed-off John Simm

I have had far too much fun in the last month, that I need to see a chiropractor. I am self-diagnosing that I have a pinched nerve because I can’t move the left side of my body and I’m in excruciating pain. Imagine: beached whale trying to roll back out into the sea. Well, that was me trying to get out of bed this morning. I suspect it’s because I have been carrying around the kitchen sink for the last three weeks.

No use moping around. The walking wounded gotta keep on walking.

I trek out to The Globe Theatre where I am determined to catch a 2pm matinee of Othello. Unfortunately the next five performances are sold out. Next available performance is 29 July… after I have left. I’m bummed. Looks like I’ll have to return the next time I am in London. It’s like Musee Rodin in Paris all again (I’ve been twice, and each time managed not to get in). * rolls eyes *

I step out of the complex, and lo and behold. Dost mine eyes deceive me? A line of equally desperate, but hopeful, looking patrons.

CHRISTINA: What’s this line for?
LADY: I think it’s tickets people are trying to get rid of.
CHRISTINA: Ooooh. (air punch)
MAN: I’ve got a ticket for one in Bay G!
CHRISTINA: Where’s that?
MAN: Lower gallery.
CHRISTINA: Is there a beam in front?
MAN: No.
CHRISTINA: I’ll take it.
MAN: Ticket for one?
CHRISTINA: Yes.
MAN: That’ll be ₤32.50 thanks.

29 July? Pfff. I rule!

“Christina’s-version-of-Brodie’s-notes-on-Othello”: 3 hours long. Thank God for half time toilet breaks. I get some shut-eye at two points in the play, which is nowhere as
Shakespeare-sacriligious as the woman two seats down from me who is actually snoring. I am extremely glad to be in the gallery when it starts to rain (that’s a tip for anyone who goes to the Globe, pay the extra so you don’t end up having to wear a garbage bag when it starts to pour).

In the evening, I meet with my friend Caroline (who is decidedly less grumpy in the afternoon than she is in the mornings) for a 7.30pm performance of Elling at Trafalgar Studios. We’ve been seeing signs about it in the tube stations, and it starts John Simm – Jip from Human Traffic. I’m sold.

The play is about 2 asylum inmates who are released into the ‘real world’ and their attempts to adjust. It’s a strange mélange of accents. Set in Oslo, Simm sounds squeaky and the others… well, they just sound like Englishmen on holiday in Norway. When the finale comes (almost 3 hours later, saved by the mid-show interval), Simm looks like he just wants to punch someone in the audience. I will not be sticking around to get his autograph!

NB: Never buy a McFlurry. They are McNasty.

Glamour Boys, Harry Potter and the midnight train

Well, here I am back in London: back to the crappy weather, the city where no-one talks on the underground, the land of overpriced burger (we are, of course talking the conversion rates between AU$ and the British pound), and possible muggings (if you happen to live in Dollis Hill). I arrived yesterday to grey skies and heavy rain. Welcome to summer in London.

Today, it is warm but not humid. Sunny, but not glaring. The day is young and I have a date with 'the Glamour Boys' this evening. Let the mayhem and mis-education of Christina begin.

Just after noon, I make the pilgrimage to The Beatles store at 231 Baker Street. Next door is the Simply Elvis store, and wedged beneath the two and downstairs is The Beatles (mini) museum. Really though, it's a fan-run little room with Beatles paraphernalia, photos and posters. Beatles apron or candy dish, anyone? It costs 1 pound for entry. Who says you can't do London on the cheap?

Half an hour later, I find myself in front of Abbey Studios and, like all the other schmucks (read: tourists), crossing and recrossing 'that' crosswalk featured on The Beatles Abbey Road album cover. It's ridiculous really. You wouldn't be able to tell it from any other random crosswalk in the city. Ridiculous, but highly amusing, is becoming the theme of this holiday. Harry Potter dress-ups, firemen's balls, impossibly high shoes...

I whittle away the rest of the afternoon window-shopping along Oxford Street. Forget clothes. Forget makeup. Forget jewellery. Forget handbags. What I really want is one of those life-size light sabres in the 'Boys Toys' section of Selfridges that makes 'real' light sabre noises.

6.10pm: Rendezvous with the Glamour Boys out front of Covent Garden tube. It's easy to spot the couple in the crowd.

Martin is the 6-foot-something beanpole who stands out from the rest of us commoners. There's not too many men who can quite carry off pork-chop sideburns with the same panache as this guy. The man is gorgeous. He's an Essex lad with a posh English accent (at least to my untrained ear) who likes to tuck a napkin into the front of his shirt when he's eating. As for Sergio, he who was consistently billed as 'the butch one' at the conference, think cheeky Italian. What a doll. I feel a warm glow emanating from the centre of my chest when I see the two, and I have a permanent smile etched on my sunburn face for the rest of the evening... which is also partly attributable to the fact that they have agreed to go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with me tonight (which now means I have to call my first born Sergio and/or Martin).

We meet with Sergio's equally affable Italian friend for dinner, a fellow academic, Marcella who is my height. I like her already.

It is only myself, Sergio and Martin who stick around for the film at the Odeon in Leicester Square - the site where I braved the rain and hordes of screaming fans for a glimpse of Daniel Radcliffe. Oh hang on. I was one of those screaming fans. Yeah - but at least I didn't look like one. Oh hang on. I got dressed up for the occasion in complete Hogwarts costume.

So, how's about Manchester United?

Looks like I'm unable to use my 'visually enhanced' (read: slightly tampered with the expiry date) student card. Bag checks mean that we have to hide our already purchased bottled drinks. Is that an Evian down your pants or are you just happy to see me? The theatre is plush, more night-at-the-ballet than blockbuster film, although I am baffled as to why the interior decorator has chosen leopard print for the seats.

The movie begins. I'm inspired yet again from the opening credits and sweeping score. The kids are no longer kids. They've discovered spunk and good haircuts. Without spoiling the plot, the film boasts spectacular action sequences, some beautiful moments for the fans (oh come on, YOU wanted to applaud when Harry got his first snog too) and impressive special effects. On the downside, the difficulty of compressing a +700 page book into less than 2.5 hour manifests itself in a narrative that is somewhat lacking in depth and the nuances of emotional and psychological angst of the characters. Which really goes to show what a genius Peter Jackson is. Maybe he needs to do the 6th movie. Nevertheless, I enjoy the film. And Daniel Radcliffe is always good perve-value. Oh shut up. It's not that obscene!

11.25pm: I part company with the Glamour Boys. This Saturday, dinner at their place, followed by a de-virginising of we trans-gender club first-timers and sleepover. It's a date.

Train ride home - a highly camp and eccentric (and slightly inebriated) fashion designer called Habib starts a social club up on our caboose. He's determined to get people talking on the tube again and that we all partake in a very Jesus moment - the sharing of the cheese and onion crisps. One bag to feed them all. If I ever get married, he'll apparently 'sort me out'. Which is funny, because 20 minutes later he's already forgotten my name. He takes photos of all us strangers. We've been catalogued. What a nutter.

I think I'm going to fit right on in here.

The most fortunate meeting of cine-philes

Today, I do Montmarte. I'm on a mission - find as many sights from the French film Amelie as possible. I am the consummate cinematic tourist (others would just call me a film geek, I prefer the former).

I get off at Lamarck-Caulaincourt Metro Station to take pictures of the double-sided staircase. I can't quite remember which bit of the film it was featured in, but I read it online last night that it was a shooting location. I'll watch the DVD when I get back to refresh the tired and burned-out brain. At the station, I need someone to take my photo.

CHRISTINA: Excusez moi. Parlez vous Anglais?
GUY WITH BACKPACK: Si.

Turns out, he's American and has just come from Sans Sebastien with several of his frat-pack friends. Relatively cute. He's surprised that I'm traveling alone (I'm surprised that he's surprised) and gives me a warm and sturdy handshake as we part. It was a lovely moment. When I pass several work men, one calls out "Nihao ma!" ('Hello' in Mandarin). I automatically respond with "Bonjour" and a wave with my brie baguette.

I traipse up to Saint Vincent with its upward-climbing cobblestone streets and quaint buildings with the quintessential red and purple blooms in window-sill flower boxes. The weather has turned grey and showery, which makes me thankful for the open skies for the last three days.

I sit out front the Sacre Coeur with the hoardes of tourists who flank and flood the staircase. A man is busking just below us with his guitar and a set of maracas for the willing ones. A chubby little girl jumps at the opportunity.

After a wander through the church (will I go to hell for planning my afternoon's itinerary in the pews?), I make my way out. As I leave the site, I see a group of young people sitting on the steps holding "FREE HUGS" signs. They aren't getting many (or any) offers, but they look happy to be there anyways. When one of the girls smiles when I take their photo, her face is more beautiful than the cathedral behind her. I drop €1 into the busker's bag.

I end up bumping into a Venezuelan-born American - Daniela - near the bottom of the steps. We offer to take each other's pictures. When I tell her that I'm doing a film locations trek, her face lights up. She's a fan of Amelie too. I invite her along. We walk to Au Marche de la Butte on Passage des Abbesses, which was Mr Collignon's greengrocer's store. It's shut but clearly the site of many visitations. A faux fruit and vegetable stand has been painted on the panel in front. We're unsure of which apartment Amelie lived in, so we take pictures of all the apartments in the surrounding area. This of course means it was probably none of them.

After a swift visitation into a porn/sex shop along boulevard de Clichy called Palace Video which was the one featured in the film (and a subsequent offer of services by several middle-aged and rather wrinkly prostitutes), we take pictures outside of the Bal du Moulin Rouge. It's playing the same show as the one I saw 7 years ago. Some things never change. The price of tickets is not one of those things.

Finally, we arrive at Cafe des Deux Moulins at 15 rue Lepic. You know how everything is beautiful and airy in the film? How everything looks so friendly, homely and clean? How the service staff are so sweet and wonderful? Well honey, it ain't like that in real life! Our waitress is nas-tee. When we take photos of the place, she yells at us to move out of her way. She's certainly no Amelie. Who got out of the wrong side of the boudoir today?

I must go for the creme brulee and a cafe au lait. As rush-rush and rude the wait staff are, the creme brulee is divine. And it is one of the best coffees I have ever had. In my entire life. No bitter after-taste. Smooth. Pleasant to the palate. I order a second.

Daniela and I befriend yet another Amelie-fan, a Brazilian girl called Juliana who we keep bumping into at various points on this Amelie-traipse. I think back to the last time I was in Paris and all the people I met. One of my fondest memories is sitting outside the Sacre Coeur with Leticia (also from Brazil), drinking cheap red wine and eating chocolate croissants as the sun came down. Good people are to be found everywhere if you open yourself up to the possibilities. Buddy - I'll make it to Porto Allegre soon!

By 7pm, we all part company. Free hugs here.

I meet up with Simonne and Helene at Lounging Lizard at 18 rue du Bourg-Tibourg. We eat good food, drink good wine and have good conversations. I could get used to this lifestyle. Even though it's pelting down and cold, the company makes me forget the weather outside.

And so ends my stay in Paris. I think back over the last week here, and what is to come. Au revoir this fabulous city and its fabulous people. Til next time at least.

Sergio sends me an SMS. I'm ready for London.

Paris chic, and floating on la Seine

Today, Astryd (aka my-shopping-on-the-Champs-Elysees-buddy) and I shop... on the Champs Elysees. She needs to buy a pair of flip-flops and a singlet. I need a Carla Bruni CD. Astryd gets neither a pair of flip-flops nor a singlet. And I end up with two Carla Bruni CDs. A comprehensive makeover in Sephora - thank you Bobbi Brown ladies - we both exit with our little Sephora bags with little things with big price-tags.

With our million dollar faces (but backpacker couture), we go gawking at LV (spectator sport). For such a high-end joint, you'd think they'd at least put a toilet seat on the ladies' loo. I decide that I really don't need a 395 Euro pair of sunglasses, and that the document holder I've been eye-ing off can wait for another trip (which is really just another excuse to put on my detachable hump again and go traveling).


We take pictures by the Arc de Triomphe, then walk (a long ways) to Musee Rodin. It's shutting in half an hour, so we settle for paying 1 Euro to sit in the park where we eat (overpriced) Haagen Dazs and snooze.

For the final part of today's rather haphazard itinerary, it's a boat ride along la Seine on Bateaux Mouches - free tickets compliments of our friend Simonne who used to be a tour guide. With sore feet, we are happy just to be floating along and off our feet. Tourists atop bridges take pictures of us taking pictures of them. A little girl waves down at a middle-aged man sporting a paparazzi-sized camera (must be American), and some pint-sized peeps run around deck shouting "Coucou!". One of them has beautiful, unruly and windswept hair. Tent hovels line the waterway - who knows if they are the homes of the homeless (an oxymoron?) or backpackers living on the cheap. The young and old laze in the sun like picnickers in a park. Two men sunbathe with only thongs on. And not the sort you wear on your feet.

By 9pm, Astryd and I part company - tired, happy and sunburnt... and still looking fabulous. We'll always have Paris. And make-overs in Sephora.

Paris, Je t'aime

It's Post-Firemen's Ball. I sleep in until just after noon. Happy Bastille Day. Something about revolutions, French patriotism, picnics and fireworks. Simonne, Nico and I arrive at the Eiffel Tower around 5pm. Forget the eskies. Here, the men wheel grocery trolleys. You know the sort you see little old ladies pulling to Woolworths back in Perth. And there's a big baguette hanging out the top. When we pass by a group of policemen, they have detained the beer brought in by a bunch of youth. Not to confiscate. But because it's a hot day and they're thirsty. Toto - we're not in Oz anymore.

We find a grassy spot 50 metres from the Eiffel Tower. There's a bunch of guys playing frisbee with their shirts off nearby. Empty Haagen Dazs wrappers line the leave-strewn ground. Bottles of wine are emptied as quickly as glasses are filled. And our group of 3 eventually balloons to about 20, as does the tower of food in the centre of the picnic blanket. Sacre bleu! Eiffel Tower. Perfect weather. New faces and friends. Food and wine. Splendide! (said with a decidedly Parisienne accent).

I get to talking with two of Simonne's friends from French class. Imi is from Berlin who has one of the guys (who looks more like an uncle) giving her the "I like you eyes" (we initially thought him gay - boy, were our gaydars out!); and Astryd is from Venezuela
and likes Louis Vuitton. She got a boob job for her graduation present. And for her first car, she wants an Audi. Oh yes. She is definitely shopping-along-the-Champs-Elysees-buddy material.

We three go for a wander around. The throngs of people have multiplied like frenzied amoeba by this point. Nelly Furtado is playing a free concert here - but the stage is practically at Beauvais Airport (Australia seems closer). We settle for room with a view of a big-screen. After a wander to the opposing end of the Eiffel Tower, we find ourselves bonding over bananas and nutella, pondering anatomy (of firefighters), gawking at one of the American professors in our party who looks eerily like Greg Kinnear's doppelganger and pondering Paris as lover and loved. Je t'aime.

And then the fireworks. The music is magic - In The Mood For Love, Harry Potter, Star Wars, Amelie... a veritable smorgasbord of soundtracks for the film aficionado. I'm inspired. Again. I can't escape cinema (and so it seems, Harry Potter as well). Tonight - right here, right now - I fall in love with this city all over again. This moment is perfection. Beneath a shower of fireworks and lights, I remember why I came here.

Firemen, balls and 4.30am espressos

Today, Paris puts on her good high heels, her sunglasses and a fabulous summer dress. Today, it's well and truly summer in the city. I say 'Hallelujah' for the second time since I've been in France. It's shorts and shirts weather, and a bottle of Evian
instead of a cup of espresso. And today, I am apartment-bound. You win some, you lose some. I like to think that I am 'preparing' for this evening.

Greg (from the Glasgow conference) finally calls. Looks like I'm going to the Firemen's Ball after all. Bring on the dancing firefighting boys!

11.30pm-1.30am: Myself, Greg and Greg's bald-headed, book-carrying friend wait in line for 7 rue de Sevigne near St. Pauls. It's in the Marais area - queer capital of gay(est) Paree. Did I mention my middle name is Jesus?

1.30am: We enter the firestation for the Firemen's Ball (Brigade de Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris), hereon in referred to as Firemen's Balls. A Copacabana/Hawaiian theme is happening, and the boys in blue are mannng the bars, entrances and the DJ podium. The music is an ecclectic mix of top 40s, French favourites and the Village People. Toto - we're not in Glasgow anymore.

I make a beeline for the stage where I stay for the next 3 hours. Greg and his bald-headed, book-carrying comrade disappear as soon as we enter (I am going to start some sordid rumours about all the dirty deeds they are doing in some backroom), and I don't see them again until about an hour later when they are waving goodbye. This girl is flying solo.

By some good fortune (and my moneymaker moves), I befriend an American guy called Brian from LA. Gay, of
course. Fabulous, of course. We get to talking and I tell him to get his ass up on the stage. He's my Firemen's Balls Buddy. He is also extremely useful in keeping the old guy (who has spilt beer all over my back) off my back, and mysterious hands from reaching for my derriere. How I end up in a 'Firemen's sandwich' (more like a club sandwich) is beyond me.


Then, the moment we've all been waiting for.


The Striptease. Hello boys. Or hello biceps. Or hello down below. Or hello buns of steel. All the sweaty, sinewy bodies confuse me. I'm not sure where I should be looking. I wish I had 12 eyes, or a photographic memory. I am front of stage - the perfect position to be sprayed with champagne. My middle name is Jesus! Hallelujah! This is about as spiritual as buying LV shoes! Hedonism is under-rated.

At the end of the night/early morning, Brian and I stop at Pause Cafe for espressos and frites (after shaking off an annoying New Yorker who seems to think Asian women with Australian accents are exotic and an oddity as I'm the first he's met: I think he should read more). It's just after 4.30am. We talk love, life and moving forwards and not backwards or staying stagnant. When we say au revoir at the Bastille Metro,
my advice is: "Whatever you leave behind, if it wants you it has to catch up to you". He likes the sound of that. I like the sound of him. The most unlikely, unexpected and serendipitous encounters happen when we do not seek them out.

We part company as the sun rises at 5.30am. To new beginnings and a new day.