Sunday Morning Rain is Falling

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No seriously, Paris is very damp this morning. A nice slate grey sky. A nice break from the scorching ember that is Malta. All our politicians will be more than prepared for hell when they get there at least. And lawyers. Never forget the lawyers. (I love all my lawyer friends).

First order of the day, after a gorgeously extravagant breakfast of French baguette and croissant, was mass at the Notre Dame. My parents and brothers queued for 15 minutes to enter. I took the door on the left and didn't. Anyway. We eventually all got in and had a look, and luckily for us a remembrance mass for 9/11 was about to start, so we were treated to a mass in the great cathedral, organ booming and all. It was rather epic.

After mass we managed to walk through the cathedral while looking at the ceiling and not falling over. We're very good. As expected, it is quite a magnificent structure, although you can barely tell from the outside. For all the art buffs (yes you Giulia) it's a traditional Gothic affair, no paintings on the inside of the towering arched ceilings. The stained glass windows are all as beautiful as in the movies (Van Helsing got it right this time) and the cathedral does an excellent job of making you feel very very very small, as it was designed to. The mass was very nice, not taking the fact that it was said in a language that makes mould grow faster into account.

Talking about the language, I have a theory. You will hear a lot of these tirades in the coming days. I have hypothesised that the French's excuse for a language arose as a supplement to their primary method of communication - shoving their tongue down your throat. Being so nasal, the dialect allows you to communicate with minimal use of your buccal cavity (mouth). Again, this is just a theory.

Back from the abnormal fantasies of my distorted psyche, we were off to the top of the bell towers. Before that, however, it was back to the end of the queue for you young lad and you'd better wait your turn. Which we did, for just under 2 hours. It was pretty dull, as 3 hour queues go, besides that guy who looked like Shrek in front of us and the crepes I ran off to buy. Alas, after our exciting wait we were forced to actually enter the cathedral. Two flights of spiral staircases later and we were at... The giftshop. Waited a bit (as we were told to) and then started the long and arduous climb up to the summit of the tower. I suggest you experience this for yourself. Locate the nearest flagpole and grasp it with your left hand. Now, while holding your right hand to the side and never moving your feet more than 15cm apart, hop in circles. Keep this up for 15 minutes. Congratulations, you have now climbed the stairs to the bell tower. You are also the new hunchback of Notre dame. That sums it up pretty nicely. Now when the stars leave your eyes you can look at the gargoyles, which are all laughing at you. Stupid fool, next time buy a postcard, they seem to be saying. And one of them was a wizard. (I swear I'll get you a photo).

The view from up there was beautiful, even through it was freezing. The gargoyles, again, were fantastic, lions, pumas, this cat thing eating a dog or a chicken (corrosion, don't give me that "can't you tell between a dog and a chicken" look because you all know damn well I can tell the deference between a dog and a chicken. Dog is tougher but leaves a nicer aftertaste.) And the wizard. The belfry seemed to be closed between 1 and 2:30 so we had to wait up there for half an hour till a recently lobotomised looking Frenchman opened a door that even Peter had to squeeze through and told us that it was ok to enter. Gee thanks. So yes the belfry. A massive wooden framework constructed on the inside of the bell tower to transfer the vibrations of the mammoth (word of the day, ask the brothers) bell into the sturdier structure of the main cathedral. Because collapsing bell towers really take the punch out of that sermon you've been preparing. The bell itself was a massive 13 tonne monster, which traditionally required 16 men to ring (and far more to wring, good Lord what terrible puns I spit out), so good on you Quasimodo.

The next item on the ever-changing itinerary was "Les Egouts" which is French for "the sewers" or "wtf were you thinking." As the traditional saying goes, it's all fun and games until you're covered in poo. If it doesn't, it should. The Parisian sewers are remarkable in that there is essentially an identical street plan below Paris, full of Parisians' refuse. The unremarkable yet still extremely relevant thing about the Parisian sewers is that they smell of shit. After 5 minutes this seemingly insignificant detail forced us to utilise makeshift air filters to keep conscious. Don't get me wrong, seeing how the whole system works and how the things are cleaned and filtered and stuff, it's just that your senses can only take so much of an all-out assault before you start to wish you were decomposed at the bottom of the shitstreams you're visiting. Oh, and after that ordeal, there was a gift shop. The most entertaining item in here was the soft toy anomaly labelled as "realistic rat," made all the more hilarious in that it looked like a beaver. So yes, interesting as they were, the sewers kinda stank. The hilarious part is that in some damaged corner of my parents memories, the sewers were a sparkling clean white place full of beautiful smells. I can pinpoint this inaccuracy in recollection to 2 possible circumstances. Either the French learned to wash in 20 years, or my parents were drunk.

Sewer mishaps still fresh on our mind, we went for a light lunch (at 5) and made our way home. Customary pit-stop/nap/shower, because my parents are old, and then out late for an excellent dinner in a cute little restaurant down the road. Starters included fois-gras ravioli, escargots and baked camambert with honey; followed by duck, steak and pasta alla vongoli for mains. The whole meal was washed down with some excellent red wine and we polished up with a carambar crème-brulee and panna cotta. The only thing missing from the whole affair was a sense of shame. The waitress had to stop and pick her jaw up when we asked her for more bread, after having devoured that and all the starters in under 10 minutes. All in all a very pleasant evening, made more enjoyable when the cousin and co joined us because she happened to be in Paris and that's how we roll.

Naturally, I got home and collapsed into a lifeless heap almost instantaneously.

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Photos

The French are Coming
Staring at you from every damn subway, no I don't know what it is, just keep it away from me.

Queuing
And queuing, and queuing, and queuing (proud that I can spell this).

The Gargoyle
Rawr.

The Bells of Notre Dame
Look at that badass. The bell not papa.

On top of the Tower
Damn it's cold.

Les Egouts
Yes it really did smell that terrible.

Realistic Rat
The French have obviously never seen a rat.

Me and my Mouse
Look at it. Isn't it epic? xD

Mature Children + Dad
We are, really.