Arivée

BRIXTON: Waking up before five to catch the third Eurostar of the morning at Waterloo is not an ideal way of starting a holiday but it is the cheap option, gives you extra time at your destination and is an infinitely better option than it's similarly timed Gatwick or Stanstead cousins. And we were in Paris, on our way to our hostel in Republique by 10:30, including winding our watches forward an hour.

First stop after depositing our bags was a coffee shop and an abrupt lesson in the cities extortionate prices for anything liquid. A good coffee and a light wallet later,we hopped on the Metro to visit Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise and pay respects to the graves of Balzac, Proust, Stein, Wilde, Modigliani, Piaf, Bizet and the original TomKat Heloise et Abelard. A visit to Apollinaire's tomb was also in order but we couldn't find it. In fact even with our map we were luck to find the modest flab marble slab, just off a main path, that honoured Proust. With the map though, and it's sometimes ambiguous grave markings, the whole thing feels like a Celebrity Death Treasure Hunt.



James Joyce isn't buried their though. So our next stop was to find the bookstore Shakespeare and Co. on the Left Bank. The bookstore was something of a lending library to the Lost Generation writers in the 20's. It's original owner, Sylvia Beach, was actually the first person to publish Joyce's Ulysses. (She continued to champion the book long after Joyce cunningly sold the rights to Random House for $50,000 leaving poor Beach with nothing.) The bookstore is rather average but we both bought over priced books as souvenirs. At least I got John Ashbery's new book.

Paris has probably the most recognisable over sized metal phallus in the world and it was off to the Eiffel Tower next to queue and ascend. Up the top I didn't want to pretentious prick (contrary to my very nature I know) but I couldn't help thinking it was no World Trade Centre. We picked out the landmarks and then walked up the Champs Elysees for that other source of Gaulish testosterone, the Arc de Triomphe. Kate took photos while I marveled the delicate artistry that makes up the truly monumental thing.



Then we walked back to the Eiffel Tower to watch it's (albeit crappy) light show before grabbing some French toasties (over here they call them Croque Monsieur and charge you 7 euros for the pleasure) and heading back to the hostel.