Last post from France before I head toward Alton Towers. Phew.
Two myths to debunk first. First, Paris didn’t stink (come back in Summer though), it was perfectly pleasant, bar the risk of stepping in newly laid dog mess; don’t they have laws ?
And the French were courteous and efficient in the face of my mauling of their language. Much better than the English who visit their country,
They even have free public loos on some streets (50 cents in McDonalds), and the occasional pissoir (top) which would also cultivate plants if someone hadn’t poured their 1664 on top of them first.
Sadly, I haven’t marked them for you on the map of our 10 mile trek through tourist Paris.
Wednesday morning, time to find the Zappa.
Montmartre is a gem for the street art enthusiast, and I finally tracked down the man so desperate to escape Brew Dog’s attempt to break into Paris that he walked through a wall. Also see Pubmeister.
The infamous “sacs rouge” were out in force on Rue Norvins aka Dali Place.
A very drab hour’s walk past Montmartre cemetery and down to the Arc through which barrels of Punk IPA will be carried when Paris eventually gets its Brew Dog.
The gendarmes were out in force; they’d obviously heard of Mrs RM’s reputation after three pints of orange murk. Again, they were helpful and charming.
I’m easily bored of “must-see sights“, but the Seine towards Concorde was well worth the diversion.
Rather than eating in fancy restaurants like the English middle-classes, we like to take our terrible French diction into chain places like Bagelstein, where bagels cost only three times more than they do on Brick Lane.
Our Eurostar at 6pm had been cancelled the night before and rearranged for an hour earlier, so we targeted a last beer in the lively area outside the Gare du Nord.
Finding something that looks like a “pub” is as easy as it is in Milton Keynes, but this looked almost Belgian.
Table football (and dumb waiter, noted Mrs RM). Hopeful.
Some Japanese tourists headed to the brasserie, I headed to the bar.
I assumed I’d get the best price standing at the bar.
It seems I was wrong.
Yep, £7.50 for a pint of Grimbergen in a run-of-the-mill bar near the station. Carlsberg Elephant seemed like a bargain in comparison.
Still, it was rather gorgeous, almost Leffe like in its lovely chalice, the beer of the break.
So there you go. Paris needs a Spoons. We all need a Spoons (if not a Tim).
Mrs RM had a can of something craft on the way back. It was good to get home.