Saturday, May 08, 2004
We're ever so House and Garden at number 90 Rue Lepic
Well, I’m here. I’ve decided, in the end, that the prospect of staying in a nice two-bedroom, with running water, a fridge, internet access, and a potty was considerably more pleasant than the thought of freezing in the Russian section of a bookstore. Hence, I’ve shacked up at Claude’s. The best part is, Claude and his wife Jill left for the Alps this morning: for a whole week, I have the place, this lovely flat in Montmartre, surrounded by all the finest in Gallic wares, all for delightfully convenient prices, ALL TO MYSELF.
I know. Eat your livers, you peasants.
I suppose this luxury came at a price, though: I missed my plane on Thursday night. It was just as much my stupidity in leaving too little time (I expected to arrive with only an hour to spare, which is normal for European flights) until the flight, as the horrific traffic and superior incompetence of the Dublin Bus services. So I got there, coughed up bile, blood, a hairball and 60 extra euro in missed flight fees (an amount, stunningly, although finally unsurprisingly, in EXCESS of my original ticket) as I changed my ticket to brutally early the next morning, and got on the bus and came home. I was in a filthy dirty mood on the bus home, let me tell you. I did consider staying at the airport, but I remembered Nick’s wee drama, and I had already used my 1-day bus ticket five times, and I figured I might as well set a new record. Plus I wanted to change my shirt and transfer my luggage into a suitcase with wheels, as Claude’s flat sits, as P-orter can attest, as the crest of an extremely steep hill (considerably moreso than the hill up to HM), and I wasn’t much fancying the idea of schlepping my duffel up al that. Plus I prefer suitcases. I had just figured they’d be out of fashion at Shakespeare. But anyhow, I came home, medicated myself with friends and a double Manhattan (a tremendous beverage which, worryingly, showed itself to produce no effect on me whatsoever—although admittedly it did take over an hour to consume—and I say it was worrying because honest to God, I don’t drink heavily. I drink often, but almost never to excess anymore. Hand to God, yo), and managed to kip for about an hour and a half, from 1 till 2:30am, before I had to get up, get out the door, and catch a cab to Dawson st, where the Aircoach comes. During the day, the Aircoach comes every five minutes. But from 1 to 5am, it comes about once an hour. So I sat indian-style on Dawson st, my butt freezing to the sidewalk, and with my hood up so everyone would think I was a bum and cross to the other side of the street, which they did, and I was gratified. I was there for over a half hour, listening to what I always listen to when I’m waiting for a long time: Chris Rock: Bigger and Blacker. I suggest that those of you with iPods get ahold of some hour-long comedy track ; you never know when you’ll need it. Thanks, Mike.
Anyhow, the damn thing finally came, and I got to the airport at about 4am. Half an hour before check-in even opened. I kipped some more here and there, at the gate, on the plane, and then all of a sudden I was in France. The third time I’ve been over since I came to Dublin, the suddenness of the arrival in France is beginning to get less jolting, but no less amusing and pleasant. The nice thing about Beauvais, the airport where Ryanair fly to (and this is called a backhanded compliment; Beauvais is quite literally nothing more than a tent in the middle of a field and hour and half outside of Paris. Nick and Mike can back me up here), is that there’s no waiting once you’re there: the plane touches down, slows to a stop, and you get off. You walk down the staircase, across the tarmac, through the customs, where the guy looks at you long and hard because ever since you shaved your beard and your head, you bear zero resemblance to the guy in your passport picture, but then he lets you through, because honestly, terrorists don’t fly Ryanair, the planes are bombed-out to begin with, but anyhow by the time you’ve passed through customs, your bags are circling around the baggage carousel, being knocked onto the floor because there are no guardrails, so you pick it off the floor (mine was the first bag to come through!), walk out of the airport, onto the bus, cough up another ten euro, and in the time it’s taken me to write this paragraph, you are on your way to Paris.
Of course then you have to wait an hour and a half as you drive through wholly unremarkable countryside. But hey. Even for 140 euro (the aggregate cost of this trip: 60 for ticket, 60 to change fucking ticket, 20 for bus to/from Beauvais). I just take comfort in the fact that, as he was flying transatlantic, Nick’s trip cost a hell of a lot more than that.
So here I am. I decided on this for a lot of reasons, not simply the ones enumerated above. Though the potty is a big deal. It’s also that I have a hell of a lot of work to do. I remembered something I’d forgotten: that I am most comfortable when I’m alone with my work. I chill out, enjoy the quiet and work assiduously, but at my particular leisure. I would have gotten nothing done at Shakespeare. There are too many distractions. Here I have peace. I can sit with my tea and biscuits and read for hours. I came here not to see Paris (though I will get my chance to do that plenty when dear Seema arrives here on the 12th. So I have the place to myself for a fez days. Not complaining. Also, Seema, your arrival is perfectly timed: I’m sure to be lonely and starved for companionship by the 12th. Also factoring in my decision was the sudden defection of those 60 euro from my bank account. At Shakespeare, I would have had to eat out for every meal; here I can eat in every time. Saves big time. I got in yesterday, slept on the couch for a few hours and then finished Doctor Faustus. Cool play. Claude and Jill decamped this morning. I went out, did a wee shopping (Comte, Camembert—I had to-- Orangina, tea biscuits, jam, bread, eggs, butter--the fridge here is almost totally empty—madeleines for whenever I am feeling ever so Proustian, and so on. Nothing too extravagant. Once I have finished this post I shall decide on what to make for dinner and go out and buy the ingredients, as well as a bit of wine. Basically I intend to go out only when I need to, and even then stay largely in the most immediate Montmartre. I may take in a film some evening at this place down the street designed by Cocteau, or if necessary trundle down to Shakespeare for a spot of research. If the weather clears by tomorrow (it’s filthy out there today), I’m heading over to the Bois de Boulogne, where the weekly Parisian Ultimate pickup game takes place. Time to think about dinner now. Even in spite of having typed for an hour on a keyboard which is not only frightfully sticky, but also, being French, has all the keys in the zrong plqces, I am in a very, very good mood.
I know. Eat your livers, you peasants.
I suppose this luxury came at a price, though: I missed my plane on Thursday night. It was just as much my stupidity in leaving too little time (I expected to arrive with only an hour to spare, which is normal for European flights) until the flight, as the horrific traffic and superior incompetence of the Dublin Bus services. So I got there, coughed up bile, blood, a hairball and 60 extra euro in missed flight fees (an amount, stunningly, although finally unsurprisingly, in EXCESS of my original ticket) as I changed my ticket to brutally early the next morning, and got on the bus and came home. I was in a filthy dirty mood on the bus home, let me tell you. I did consider staying at the airport, but I remembered Nick’s wee drama, and I had already used my 1-day bus ticket five times, and I figured I might as well set a new record. Plus I wanted to change my shirt and transfer my luggage into a suitcase with wheels, as Claude’s flat sits, as P-orter can attest, as the crest of an extremely steep hill (considerably moreso than the hill up to HM), and I wasn’t much fancying the idea of schlepping my duffel up al that. Plus I prefer suitcases. I had just figured they’d be out of fashion at Shakespeare. But anyhow, I came home, medicated myself with friends and a double Manhattan (a tremendous beverage which, worryingly, showed itself to produce no effect on me whatsoever—although admittedly it did take over an hour to consume—and I say it was worrying because honest to God, I don’t drink heavily. I drink often, but almost never to excess anymore. Hand to God, yo), and managed to kip for about an hour and a half, from 1 till 2:30am, before I had to get up, get out the door, and catch a cab to Dawson st, where the Aircoach comes. During the day, the Aircoach comes every five minutes. But from 1 to 5am, it comes about once an hour. So I sat indian-style on Dawson st, my butt freezing to the sidewalk, and with my hood up so everyone would think I was a bum and cross to the other side of the street, which they did, and I was gratified. I was there for over a half hour, listening to what I always listen to when I’m waiting for a long time: Chris Rock: Bigger and Blacker. I suggest that those of you with iPods get ahold of some hour-long comedy track ; you never know when you’ll need it. Thanks, Mike.
Anyhow, the damn thing finally came, and I got to the airport at about 4am. Half an hour before check-in even opened. I kipped some more here and there, at the gate, on the plane, and then all of a sudden I was in France. The third time I’ve been over since I came to Dublin, the suddenness of the arrival in France is beginning to get less jolting, but no less amusing and pleasant. The nice thing about Beauvais, the airport where Ryanair fly to (and this is called a backhanded compliment; Beauvais is quite literally nothing more than a tent in the middle of a field and hour and half outside of Paris. Nick and Mike can back me up here), is that there’s no waiting once you’re there: the plane touches down, slows to a stop, and you get off. You walk down the staircase, across the tarmac, through the customs, where the guy looks at you long and hard because ever since you shaved your beard and your head, you bear zero resemblance to the guy in your passport picture, but then he lets you through, because honestly, terrorists don’t fly Ryanair, the planes are bombed-out to begin with, but anyhow by the time you’ve passed through customs, your bags are circling around the baggage carousel, being knocked onto the floor because there are no guardrails, so you pick it off the floor (mine was the first bag to come through!), walk out of the airport, onto the bus, cough up another ten euro, and in the time it’s taken me to write this paragraph, you are on your way to Paris.
Of course then you have to wait an hour and a half as you drive through wholly unremarkable countryside. But hey. Even for 140 euro (the aggregate cost of this trip: 60 for ticket, 60 to change fucking ticket, 20 for bus to/from Beauvais). I just take comfort in the fact that, as he was flying transatlantic, Nick’s trip cost a hell of a lot more than that.
So here I am. I decided on this for a lot of reasons, not simply the ones enumerated above. Though the potty is a big deal. It’s also that I have a hell of a lot of work to do. I remembered something I’d forgotten: that I am most comfortable when I’m alone with my work. I chill out, enjoy the quiet and work assiduously, but at my particular leisure. I would have gotten nothing done at Shakespeare. There are too many distractions. Here I have peace. I can sit with my tea and biscuits and read for hours. I came here not to see Paris (though I will get my chance to do that plenty when dear Seema arrives here on the 12th. So I have the place to myself for a fez days. Not complaining. Also, Seema, your arrival is perfectly timed: I’m sure to be lonely and starved for companionship by the 12th. Also factoring in my decision was the sudden defection of those 60 euro from my bank account. At Shakespeare, I would have had to eat out for every meal; here I can eat in every time. Saves big time. I got in yesterday, slept on the couch for a few hours and then finished Doctor Faustus. Cool play. Claude and Jill decamped this morning. I went out, did a wee shopping (Comte, Camembert—I had to-- Orangina, tea biscuits, jam, bread, eggs, butter--the fridge here is almost totally empty—madeleines for whenever I am feeling ever so Proustian, and so on. Nothing too extravagant. Once I have finished this post I shall decide on what to make for dinner and go out and buy the ingredients, as well as a bit of wine. Basically I intend to go out only when I need to, and even then stay largely in the most immediate Montmartre. I may take in a film some evening at this place down the street designed by Cocteau, or if necessary trundle down to Shakespeare for a spot of research. If the weather clears by tomorrow (it’s filthy out there today), I’m heading over to the Bois de Boulogne, where the weekly Parisian Ultimate pickup game takes place. Time to think about dinner now. Even in spite of having typed for an hour on a keyboard which is not only frightfully sticky, but also, being French, has all the keys in the zrong plqces, I am in a very, very good mood.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Fucking goddamn worthless
Stupid dryers. You have one purpose. You were created for one reason, to make one wee thing more convenient for people. We feed you, water you, fill you with spare change. Is it too much to ask, then, that you fulfill the duties of the one office you were intended to hold? Just fucking dry my clothes, damn it!
I'm on my third dryer run now. Pain in the ass. I need to get my laundry done before I leave tonight; I'm nearly out of socks and so forth again. I'm going to schlep in to college in a moment, just as soon as this load has finished, for my final Old English tutorial. Staggering how much I haven't learned in that class. It's like being buried alive, I swear.
I'll try to post in fits and starts from Paris, but no promises. Nick, any advice on how to get by at the shop? Not on how to accommodate the other people (by your own admission you weren't exactly a rock star in that category), just on how to get by in practical terms. Where to find cheap meals in St. Michel (that is, if such a thing is possible) and the like. Twould be appreciado.
Fun little casual Cinco de Mayo party last night, with Sadie's excellent echiladas, a wee sixpack of Corona (at €1.80 a bottle, I wasn't about to buy any more than that) between we four (Dunko didn't show up till later), and high quality key lime pies. Very pleasant. That fucking load better be done by now; I gotta haul ass.
I'm on my third dryer run now. Pain in the ass. I need to get my laundry done before I leave tonight; I'm nearly out of socks and so forth again. I'm going to schlep in to college in a moment, just as soon as this load has finished, for my final Old English tutorial. Staggering how much I haven't learned in that class. It's like being buried alive, I swear.
I'll try to post in fits and starts from Paris, but no promises. Nick, any advice on how to get by at the shop? Not on how to accommodate the other people (by your own admission you weren't exactly a rock star in that category), just on how to get by in practical terms. Where to find cheap meals in St. Michel (that is, if such a thing is possible) and the like. Twould be appreciado.
Fun little casual Cinco de Mayo party last night, with Sadie's excellent echiladas, a wee sixpack of Corona (at €1.80 a bottle, I wasn't about to buy any more than that) between we four (Dunko didn't show up till later), and high quality key lime pies. Very pleasant. That fucking load better be done by now; I gotta haul ass.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
It was fun this morning, walking in. When I got tired of Shostakovitch, I switched to Guns 'n' Roses.
Leaving for Paris in two days. Excited, but increasingly worried about what may happen if Shakes. and Co. are closed. The hostel situation in Paris flat-out sucks. There are none, really, outside of Montmartre, and certainly none for under €18. Also they don't take people showing up after 9:30, and my flight doesn't get in until 9:35. Oh well. I'll drop Shakespeare a letter and see how they're disposed towards people coming in at 11:30 at night.
Rainy and cold today. Don't see myself going to Ultimate this evening. Maybe work?
Saw Kill Bill 2 yesterday with Duncan and Sadie. Loved every minute of it. I've never seen a movie where every line was so deliberate and charged with authorship, nor one that had such a sense of utter serenity. It's quite an achievement, I think.
Rainy and cold today. Don't see myself going to Ultimate this evening. Maybe work?
Saw Kill Bill 2 yesterday with Duncan and Sadie. Loved every minute of it. I've never seen a movie where every line was so deliberate and charged with authorship, nor one that had such a sense of utter serenity. It's quite an achievement, I think.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Definitely beginning to consider the possibility of thinking about starting to work
I finally drew up a list this morning of all the texts I was going to have to crunch for exams, which start in two weeks. I go to Paris thursday night for the intensest studying, but I am starting to think maybe I need to put down Baudrillard, Underworld, and Postmodern Pooh (brilliant book, Ruthie), and do something actually proscribed by the department. Baudrillard might be useful, but I imagine they'd get tetchy (is that even a word?) if I so much as brought him into the mix, as he's not on the curriculum. I've been doing all kinds of reading lately, just none of the "productive" kind. Feh. Productivity. Productivity leads to exploitation. If you're not productive, why would anyone ever want to exploit you? Ba-zing.
Anyhow, I need to buckle down a bit. I think Paradise Lost (cantos I, II and IX) may need to happen somewhat today, if I can tear myself away from Baudrillard (he's just so much fun!), as well as a bit of revision of Chaucer. I am quite hopelessly fucked for Sin and Redemption; my view towards just about all of the texts, save Chaucer, whom I really did read, was, Life is too short. Every moment I spent reading Piers Plowman brought me one moment closer to death. Also, I really need to tackle Old English, which I am likely to bomb. My plan on that one is simple: don't do well. The rest I think I can happily wing. Whee!
Anyhow, I need to buckle down a bit. I think Paradise Lost (cantos I, II and IX) may need to happen somewhat today, if I can tear myself away from Baudrillard (he's just so much fun!), as well as a bit of revision of Chaucer. I am quite hopelessly fucked for Sin and Redemption; my view towards just about all of the texts, save Chaucer, whom I really did read, was, Life is too short. Every moment I spent reading Piers Plowman brought me one moment closer to death. Also, I really need to tackle Old English, which I am likely to bomb. My plan on that one is simple: don't do well. The rest I think I can happily wing. Whee!
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