How we first met

I saw you in the mirror of a hot summered day.  And just how long had I waited to meet! There were fleeting glances before.  Casual sightings that seemed to end as soon as they started.

But where did this story begin?

Let's rewind to the icy climes of January.  Mother has just died.  Mother who entombed her emotions behind a solid concrete wall after the death of her daughter aged eight and her husband aged forty eight.  Mother who had no answers and no words for a confused young boy.  Mother who in years to come will reject her own great grandchildren.  There's some some healing to be done.

And at the start of the year I'm thinking too of my approaching sabbatical. Three months off! I left school at seventeen and this will be my longest break ever. I'm not sure if I'm excited or just a little bit scared at the prospect.

Then I speak to others of their sabbatical experiences. Their great journeys exploring the world - Australia, Japan, Singapore, South Africa.  I realise this will not be for us.  Our youngest grandson is severely epileptic and we can't afford to be more than a few hours away in case of yet another emergency hospital visit. It brings back memories of when we first learned of our own son's handicap. We cancelled a tour of the States .. to mourn together.

But this time it's different, there's some healing to be done.  And it's a blast from start to finish - here are just some of the highlights.

A trip to Cornwall in our camper van to hear Sigur Ros conjure an Icelandic storm in music amidst the dying embers of a summer day at the Eden Project. Taking the photograph of one brave young lady who I subsequently discover has undergone brain surgery for her own epilepsy.  A co-incidence or a God incidence?

Our return to Latitude and two very special acts.  The first is a sixty three year old short-order cook and latter day James Brown impersonator who's not giving up his chance to shine. In the lunchtime sun he cooks up a magic experience as powerful as the years that fill his frame.  The second, two teenage prodigies who rock a dance-tent rammed to the gills with fresh-faced youngsters.  Charles Bradley and Disclosure are separated by several decades but share one thing in common. They WILL seize the day!

A special visit to Paris to celebrate our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary. We married young and couldn't afford a honeymoon .. not that we cared. We embraced and walked the sands of our hometown beach to eat fish and chips for our first meal alone as a married couple, a tradition we repeat each and every year to remind us of shared and deepening love. And so it is again in one of the best fish restaurants in the capital of France, and it tastes just as sweet as it always has.

And so to a very special week on my own.  Something I've never done before.  A Street Photography course at an Arts College in the heart of London.  What joys await!  A riotous journey across Notting Hill Carnival, my stomach filled with cheap chicken-jerk and a four-pack of Red Stripe in hand! So many great photo opportunities ….

Yet it's the still of an afternoon that moves me most.  A photographic assignment that finds me venturing into St Pancras Old Church.  It's empty but for two elders polishing the congregational brass. And it's there I smell it. Brasso!  Oh what memories that brings back.  An age of innocence as my mother polishes and dusts and just four years old I help her fold the fresh-laundered sheets!  A time before the concrete wall fell into place.  A time of healing …..

And it's there I find you. A street away and a dusty antique shop.  I look into a mirror and smile and smile and smile. And take a photograph of the first time I meet what I can be …….

Healing.

Picture Paris - the story

Dear Sheddists,

I'm delighted to report our safe return from the latest sabbatical foray.  Paris is hot, very hot, and this is our story.

The vagaries of the French transport system - Part 1

It's Friday morning and a short-hop flight  allows just sufficient time for some most welcome on-board croissant comestibles before we touch down at Charles de Gaulle airport.  The wait on the taxi run-way is almost as long as the flight itself (a harbinger of French travel joys to come) but at last we're released blinking into the sunlight. Blimey, it's warm!

We join a snaking line of bemused arrivistes to be shepherded through the surly-manned Border Point for a ritual and cursory inspection of our passports, only to encounter yet another lengthy queue ahead as we line up outside the billeterie to purchase two Paris Visite passes. A significant portion of our newly acquired Money-shop shiny euro specials now changes hands in return for the freedom of the Parisian rail, Metro and bus networks for the five days of our tour.

An uneventful thirty five minute train journey to Gare du Nord lulls us into a false sense of security before tipping us out onto a concourse of mind-boggling signage, none of which appears to make much sense in French, let alone English. We enquire, in vain, of several passers-by.  They speak in loud French voices, they gesticulate enthusiastically, often in several different directions at the same time, but we are none the wiser.  Eschewing their helpful guidance we head off in completely the opposite way we've been told and locate successfully the Metro line that will take us on the next stage of our journey.

A few stops later and out again into the unrelenting sunshine, this time to be greeted by a mountainous climb to the summit of Montmartre. Fortunately, our freshly-minted Paris Visite passes rise to the task and elbowing aside a group of small, but highly irritating Parisian schoolchildren we board the funicular railway.  Two hundred metres of breath-clenching climb and we're at the summit and on our way (or so we think) to our chosen destination.

How wrong could we be! Having traversed the slope to Montmartre we now discover our holiday B&B lies on the other side of the hill, so down we go, suitcases skidding jauntily across a myriad flight of steps until at last we arrive.  Our hostess bids us welcome, pours us each a glass of much needed cold water and as we mop the sweat from our brows unfolds a map of Paris to show us the Metro station no more than a hundred yards or so from the house where we're staying.

Ah well, that's life!

Saturday's exploits

A good night's sleep and a superb breakfast to follow sets us up for the day ahead.  Once more we brave the Metro, this time with map in hand and a markedly clearer picture of where we're going!

First stop is Sainte-Chapelle, a magnificent Gothic masterpiece, every window brimming with radiant stained-glass scenes from the Bible. It's almost too much to take in.  I pause for a second to help a tourist hold up a picture of her cats so she can take an in-situ photograph for her grand-children.  Odd, to say the least!

We make our way out and proceed a short distance along the side of the Seine to Notre Dame cathedral.  It dwarfs Sainte-Chapelle in its own buttressed Gothic splendour.  Despite repeated warnings a number of visitors continue to take photographs, disrupting the calm of the building, so we leave in search of lunch.

After a few false starts we track down a Senegalese restaurant and sample the delights of Franco-African cuisine.  The menu proves a challenge as the maitre d' knows little, if any English. It goes without saying neither mrs electrofried nor I speak a single word of Senegalese, so ordering our food  descends rapidly into a bizarre game of gastronomic charades.

Eventually we choose from the menu and settle back to watch what appears to be the Senegalesian equivalent of 'It's a Knockout' on the thoughtfully provided satellite TV.  Half an hour and a brace of optimistically priced African beers later our maitre d' returns bearing aloft two steaming plates of food.  Mine is meat-laden, grey and spicy; mrs electrofried's is meat-laden, grey and mild.  Fortunately, appearances prove deceptive as both prove more than acceptable.

Suitably refreshed, it's off the Pompidou Centre for a stroll around the modern art galleries.  We visit the  Simon Hantai exhibition, the lifetime works of this French/Hungarian artist providing a colourful challenge as they become more and more abstract with the passage of time.  Somehow Damien Hirst's skull cage (also on display at the gallery downstairs) seems like childish finger-painting by comparison.

And so with synaesthetic visions of stained-glass Gothic glories that render hot-spiced steaming plates into a torn-up modern art collage we return to the B&B for a much-needed shower and rest.

Anniversary Celebrations

Sunday is our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary and we're off in hunt of fish.  It's an old family tradition that dates back to start of our marriage. Having plighted our respective troths at an implausibly early age we couldn't afford a proper honeymoon, so after all the guests had gone we went for a romantic walk along the beach followed by fish and chips out of the paper.  We repeat this each and every anniversary to remind us of where we've come from, and today is no exception.  But first, it's a visit to the Sacre Couer at the heart of Montmartre.

On the way to the Basilica we're delighted to chance upon 'La Traversée de Paris estivale', a celebratory procession of automobiles and motorcycles of a decidedly uncertain vintage.  We have the good fortune to be standing on a street corner (not usually an auspicious place to be seen in the heart of Montmartre's red-light area) as a continual stream of ancient vehicular traffic meanders its way slowly across town, successfully choking the Parisian streets in its wake. 

Amidst all this glorious automobiled chaos we spot a couple in full wedding regalia making their way across the road to choose two postcards from the souvenir shop opposite, presumably as part of their own plight-trothing celebrations. We take this as a good omen and walk on to the Sacre Couer, taking in its resplendent shimmering form as we near.  Like Notre Dame we find many of our fellow tourists sadly lacking in respect for their surroundings, so pausing only for a quick prayer we head off down the slopes to the nearest Metro station.

A short journey secures us a spot of early lunch at the legendary, Brasserie Wepler right in the heart of Place de Clichy.  It's been recommended by the chef boyfriend to Fancy, the improbably named but ineffably courteous young American who's been left in charge of our B&B whilst its owners embark on a well-earned family retreat to Turkey.  Yet again, she's come up trumps and the restaurant proves a real delight.  And so it should, established over one hundred and twenty years ago its previous patrons include the likes of Picasso, Utrillo, Modigliani and Truffaut.  Mrs electrofried plumps for smoked haddock on lentils whilst I select the Mediterranean prawns,  and so we renew our piscine vows for another year to come.

The afternoon is left free for more sight-seeing.  A walk to the feet of the Eiffel Tower and a leisurely cruise down the Seine provides a suitably romantic end to our anniversary celebrations. 

A tale of two arches

The last day proper of our tour finds us again aboard the Metro, but flushed with yesterday's successful tri-angulation of its subterranean depths we catch the wrong line.  In search of the historic L'Arc de Triomphe we end up instead at La Grande Arche.  

One of Francois Mitterand's better ideas, this soaring monument to humanity dominates the skyline for miles around.  Sadly, an accident in 2010 means the public no longer has access to the roof-top viewing area, but nonetheless it's an impressive sight.  Grateful for this chance discovery we now board the correct line to the smaller, but equally impressive L'Arc de Triomphe.  This time we can scale the giddy heights, and after a heart-pumping climb to the balustrades we drink in the views.  Seemingly all of Paris lays out before us in beautiful miniatured symmetry.

We return on foot along the Champs Elysees, with its bizarre mixture of ludicrously expensive retail outlets and ostentatious designer-built car-showrooms.  Rather like their contents, it's a triumph of style over substance.  We follow all the way down to the Garden de Tuileries and then on to the pyramidal entrance of the Louvre.  The somewhat grand name for the Garden reveals its rather more humble origins as the site of some kiln-works.  To our uneducated eyes its formal design, virtually unchanged since its makeover in 1694 by the royal landscape architect, Andre le Notre, fails to impress.  Despite the greenery and open spaces of water it lacks anything remotely resembling a flower.

We disappear once more below ground to our final destination on this short tour, the Pere-Lachais cemetery, and what a strange jewel it turns out to be.  Home to over one million cadavers, its Gothic monuments and eccentric statuary are a sight to behold.  Half the tourists appear to be engaged in a fruitless search for the last resting place of the late Jim Morrison, lead chanteur of the infamous sixties band, the Doors. It turns out to be somewhat of a disappointment, a simple gravestone tucked in behind a number of far more impressive monuments.

We are, however, in for a treat.  Mrs electrofried chances upon a rogue, cork-haired tourist guide by the name of Rafael whose pigeon franglais betrays a rich, and possibly entirely invented knowledge of the inner workings of the cemetery.  In quick succession we are lead to the tombs of Proust, Balzac, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Marcel Marceau and a host of other famous names.  We might even be tempted to name this leg of our tour, "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!'

Dear Rafael delights in the more salacious tales of the dead, prominent among which (literally) is the story of Victor Noir, a Parisian journalist shot dead by Pierre Bonaparte during a duel.  His death is commemorated by a life-size and exceedingly realistic statue showing his prone body immediately following the moment of death. Its verdigrised form is distinguished by a shiny and rather prominent bulge in the trouser area, witness to the myriad rubbings of fallow lady-folk eager to fall pregnant.

Fittingly, the final day of our tour ends as it starts with us being relieved of a significant part of our holiday budget.  The rogue, Rafael pockets our money with promises of enduring friendship and free tours for our family in years to come then flees the scene.

The vagaries of the French transport system - Part 2

Our return to Charles de Gaulle airport is marked by yet another surreal encounter with the vagaries of the French transport system.

The computerised boarding-pass system refuses to acknowledge the existence of dear mrs electrofried, leaving us with little alternative but to join a growing queue lining up next to the sole representative of Air France assigned to deal with such mundane matters.  Thirty minutes of frustration later we emerge with a fresh boarding pass, only to discover it duplicates that of yours truly!  It's then ripped unceremoniously in two by the next official we meet, who points us toward an empty check-in area where the errant boarding pass is at last issued to us.

Ah well, that's life!!!

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Picture Paris - Volume Two

Picture Paris - Volume One