Tasse demi-plein

At 6am on the Sunday before last, once Gemma had sorted herself out after falling down the front steps (fortunately and amazingly no debilitating damage done), she and my dad and I set off for Paris. First stop Newhaven, to catch the Ferry to Dieppe. I have made this crossing a number of times, always on the now discontinued 2 hour Hoverspeed boat. The only service now is a 4.5 hour Transmanche Ferry. I had assumed that as it was so slow it would be big and posh. Instead we endured uncomfortable seats in a restaurant which we shared with people who made equal facility of both fork and knife to deliver food to their mouths. The fare itself is of the swimming around in greese type that went out of fashion a couple of decades ago. Don't get excited when the boat seems to arrive a little early, there is a half hour of manoeuverings before you can clank out of the hold on to the French tarmac.

Lunch was light but pleasant and took place in a little restaurant in Forge les Eaux, this time we were accompanied by people demonstrating reassuringly French wackiness; curly moustaches, loud checked jackets and the like.

Then a further hour and a half of driving through beautiful countryside; the weather was moody which gave the landscape a dreaminess. Eventually we migrated on to more serious roads for the last few tens of kilometers arriving in the banlieux below ground via those fantastic subterranean motorways before popping up somewhere between La Defense and the Arch de Triumph, turning right on to the Periferique for the last spurt to Port de Sevres, location of my brother's temporary home.

Our hotel had an arrangement with a car park beneath the Parc Andre Citroen , site of a former Citroen factory. This is a carpark where they play classical music. I reckon if one were to draw a Venn diagram of the clients of that facility and of Transmanche ferries, the area of the intersection between to two circles would be very small. In the course of sorting things out with the manager there, my French ran our of steam and I sought the assistance of a nearby couple. Fortunately, although from Torquay, he had lived in Paris for 20 years and everything became clear. His wife was Venezualan. If you have ever heard me banging on about my (not fully developed) shared soul theory, he is an "archetype", someone you feel you know even though you don't, charismatic and enigmatic. We bumped into them a further twice on our way to the Eiffel Tower. Did you know that it was the tallest construction on the planet when it was completed before eventually being overtaken by the Chrysler Building in New York?

The next day we ambled the streets of Le Marais enjoying the many cool shops before hooking up with my dad at L'Hotel de Ville and heading for the Centre George Pompidou. Adjacent to that visceral development is to be found the Atelier Brancusi. I recognised the name of an artist whose work was being promoted there: James Turrell. I was introduced to him (not personally) when I first took an interest in things Arizonan, he works with the land and builds craters and things. We visited his installation at the atelier and as we filed out, there was a video running about some of the works he has done in the South West of the United States. I might attempt a post on this subject later but for the time being I can share with you that it featured the area of "mesas" occupied by those Hopi Indians. Indeed, for one of his most famous works at Roden Crater, he collaborated with a hopi chieftan. Mr Turrell describes the Hopis as "sky people" because they live on these extremely dramatic plateaux. I found this so fascinating that I watched the whole thing through, attempting to take notes. I imagined how stimulting it would be to own a a dvd of the film. We decanted from there into Richard Rogers' vast atrium and eventually to one of the shops where a copy of the "Passageways" DVD found its way into my hand without my having even looked for it.

Painted-on clouds

Dinner would take place at Brasserie Flo where I have been many times. Located down a tiny street in a not particularly salubrious part of town, it is almost a charicature of itself. The waiters look like horror film extras. My brother and I both had the steak tartare (medium spiciness); you don't need breakfast the next morning when you've had that.

It's a burger Jim......

On the way there, as we approached the Balard Metro station, a young tyke snatched the twenty euros I was clutching in my left hand (and had intended to use to buy our tickets) and sprinted off. I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself about this; in my younger days this would have generated a knee jerk reaction in me which would have resulted in a ruined evening, even if I had retrieved those notes. However, it was not a big deal, after all, he could have taken the 200 euros I had had in my hand a moment before or worse attempted to relieve my 82 year old dad of his cash or hurt someone; I could go on.

Le Pont de Bir-Hakeim

Before running the gauntlet of the Champs Elysees the following morning on our way out of town, we took a walk across the Bir-Hakeim Bridge ending up at Trocadero before boarding the Metro for the last time and enjoying the view from that elevated section of line number 6 that goes from Charles De Gaule Etoile to Nation (recrossing the viaduct). The Croque Monsieur I had in Rouen combined with the ferry home gave me a nasty tummy.

It all worked out nicely considering Gemma might have hurt herself badly when she fell, the 20 euro incident could have escalated badly and I might have started to have diahorrea in the car instead of on my front steps.