Paris

I still find it faintly amusing when British people say they are going to Europe for their holidays, forgetting that our Land of Hope and Past Glories is both geographically and economically an integral part of it. It’s perfectly understandable, though - not only only does our island mindset give us a false sense of self-sufficiency and the language barrier further distance us from our eurocousins, but also when you get there, things are subtly different from the moment you get up in the morning.

For example, toilets on the continent have not one flush, but two. They are usually in the form of two different-sized pushflaps side-by-side which are all but numbered 1 and 2, and which deliver different quantities of water depending on the type of deposit you intend to make into the Channel. I find the fact that someone sat down (as it were) and thought about this little design feature quite fascinating.

The breakfast, too, can take some getting used to. Whilst I thoroughly approve of part of the French approach to brekkie, such as buttery croissants with jam and pain au chocolat, I find that a selection of plastic cheese slices and cold donkey salami is somewhat harder to get excited about. But then again, we traditionally eat chicken foetus, fried funghi and most parts of a pig for our breakfast - so perhaps it’s not too alien after all.

I headed out to the  Blackpool Tower once more today, fighting my way through the “you speak English?” fake refugees by responding in a vaguely Slavic language I made up on the spot (which I later christened “Pisov”). I had learned in China that getting wound up by scammers got you nowhere, and that the best way to cope was to make the situation amusing for yourself. For some reason, the con-artists couldn’t see the funny side and got quite agitated. Success! A taste of their own medicine.

This time the Blackpool Tower turned out to be fully open - it had only just opened, in fact - so I joined the short queue and bought a ticket for the top, shuffling into the lift with the digital counter telling me I was the 34th person up it that day.

I hadn’t expected the lift to be so, er, transparent, and my general dislike of heights had me pointlessly clinging to the handrail as Paris rapidly got smaller beneath us. However, I felt a lot safer as we reached the top, as it was an enclosed viewing platform with solid floors and no whipping wind, and I studied the morning Paris skyline. Unfortunately it was pretty misty, but to the eastern side the sun had cleared the mist and the views were fine indeed.

I noticed there were stairs to a level above the enclosed deck, which took me to an outside platform. I forced myself to stand next to the edge, telling myself I’d done much more dangerous things in my time, such as using a spoon, but it wasn’t an enjoyable experience and I have a feeling I’ll never completely lose my irrational fear of heights.

Back on terra firma I cycled back to the hostel to find that yet again I had been moved to cater for a school group that had arrived. Settling into my dorm, my heart sank - quickly followed by my stomach contents rising - as the garlic-drinking Eye-talian pensioner from last night shuffled into the room.

He was the worst dorm-mate I’d had in a while. The stench of the garlic in the room made me gag as I returned from the bar that night. How I longed for a noseplug. I had earplugs at least, although they didn’t stop me waking up on several occasions to hear him talking in his sleep (in between snores). And get this: on two occasions I woke hearing him shuffle to the communal room basin to piss in it.

Old people of today, eh? Not like they were in my day. No respect any more. What’s the world coming to?

Email this to a friend