One Week

Has it been a week since I got married? Presently, we're in Barcelona, half a world and seemingly six months away from our little jaunt down that aisle. When we last left off, I was eating my way through Paris. Our third day in Paris involved in no a particular order:

1) Too many damned stairs
2) A fantastic quiche, savoured by both of us in a quiet little square in Montmartre
3) A nap (see point 1)
4) The horrible realisation that I had forgotten my razor in Canada, and would have to either use The Singer's Gillete Venus Turn Men Into Women or buy disposable ones. As I seem to have taken large swaths of skin from my face, it's safe to assume I chose the latter.
5) A chilly evening boat ride along the Seine after the nap in point 3.
6) There is no number 6.
7) A late dinner of entrecote frite (aka ribsteak and fries, me) and pasta carbonara (elle). Dessert was a collection of cheeses; a mild bleu, camembert, roshambo (sp?) and Swiss.

And so ended our final day in Paris. We awoke yesterday (Thursday) to catch our shuttle to Charles De Gaulle and begin our process of hurry up and wait. I'm glad I didn't have to drive in Paris, where lanes are only suggestions, people park where they will and you never know what is coming around that corner. Mind you, while the traffic is on the far side of insanity, it does work... after a fashion. It's chaos theory distilled and expressed through a collection of Peugeots, Citroeons, Renaults and Vespas. And while I can count on a single hand, the number of bicyclists I saw wearing helmets or even reflective garb, I can not recall seeing a single accident or even the aftermath of one. Admittedly, it's probably a small sample size, but people seem to be generally more aware of there surroundings and their place in it.

EasyJet was anything but. We flew it because it was cheap, but I think in future, we're more inclined to plan our holiday without intercontinental hops. Actually, flying CheesyJet reminds me of flying Air Canada inside North America; flights are late, explanations are by way of a shrug, everything costs money, and nobody speaks English. Bloody foreigners. Would not fly again, unless there was no other option.

We managed to hop the Aerobus from Barcelona Airport to Placa de Catalunya without a problem - 9 Euros beat a 40 Euro cab ride, and we got there faster because we could use the bus lane. As we disembarked, the Singer went to collect a brochure for the Bus Turistic and I stood there with our luggage, waiting to be approached by a pick pocket; it took all of 4 seconds for someone to come up to me and ask for the time (one of the common ploys mentioned in Rick). Yes, in the middle of a busy square, some random person approached an obvious tourist, surrounded by luggage and not wearing a watch, and asked them for the time.

Oh, and did I mention I was standing right next to an information booth? I handled the situation with my usual aplomb and courteous manner. I said no, and told him to Aidos. He called me crazy. Actually, he walked away, and then came back and told me I was crazy. Maybe. Maybe. But I also still had my wallet, passport and virtue. Well, two out of three ain't bad.

After checking into our now upgraded hotel (don't know, don't want to know - same price, different hotel, marginally better room) we headed out into the square. We didn't wander far as we were a) hungry and b) unsure of how far we wanted to venture after dark in strange city filled with pickpockets. Right across from the hotel we found a little cafe for dinner. First came the bread, which would have been better without the tomato sauce rubbed on it, followed by a bowl of olives.

I hate olives.

But I keep trying them just in case I change my mind. So, I did. I found out that I don't really hate olives. I just hate olives from a jar. Fresh olives, I like just fine and proceeded to devour the entire bowl, much to the chagrin of my wife.

For dinner, the Singer had chicken breast and I had the chicken paella. Paella is the basis of jumbalaya - a rice dish with vegetables in a tomato based sauce. It seems that in order to serve it, it's brought to you in the pan in which it was cooked. The waiter then dishes up the meat onto your plate, and then spoons the rice onto the plate. They manage to get most of it out, and what they don't serve, they surreptisiously eat on their way back into the kitchen (less than a spoonful). I waddled back to the hotel and didn't get up till the next morning.