smokingboot

We went to the Sacre Coeur on my birthday; a beautiful church, and

larians used an interesting word to describe it; relevant. The stained glass windows are modern, despite the church's 19th century origins. Yes, it has power and passion, though for me it cannot compare to Notre Dame.

Then we went down into Montmartre and enjoyed the narrow prettiness of the streets, the music tinkling from a nearby piano, the sun-weary geraniums gasping 'geezadrink' at tourists. We went to the square where all the painters sit and offer tourists flattering portraits or caricatures; there was one man who did very hard, angular depictions, and I almost fell for his patter; he didn't even speak to me, he spoke to

larians: 'She will suit my style very well. I will lower the price for her.' And I had a feeling that yes, he would make me look very good. But it required me sitting still for 10 minutes and I find that hard; and we had other things to do with the euros that day.

Now, about Chez les Fondues, also called, 'Refuge Les Fondues.'

november_girl mentioned it to us. You go, you sit at long trestle tables with total strangers, you climb over tables to get to your seat, the place is full of wood, hot oil and fire, so for the love of god, try not to knock anything over.The wine is served in 'biberons,' baby bottles, which I, like a fool, thought meant leetle tiny bottles; wrong again. These are yer actual babies' milk bottles, rubber teats and all. The teats are snipped for easier access, but still you sit there and suck while your meat fries.

The company at first looked worrying. Between the trapped looking danish lesbians and a group of our yankee cousins, we looked to the latter for aid: no good,they were fighting a cheese fondue and it was winning - they should never have let it get its tendrils round the table legs. The danes, finding themselves with no way out, made impeccable conversation with us and then we were joined by a Parisian lady of sparkling manners and excellent English. Her beau spoke well too, but she was a veritable star, and demonstrated that habit Parisiens keep exhibiting: They always seem ready to invite one to eat and drink and talk, and relax with them. She and her partner were moving to Toulouse to buy a house together because Paris was too expensive. The six of us enjoyed the night's conversation so much, it was with genuine regret that we broke up the party.

It was our fault; we had to go on to the Moulin Rouge. Ah! Champagne! Dancing! Colour! Dwarf ponies! Snakes! And, for those connoisseurs of antiquities, real breasts! It was a night of laughter; the taxi driver gave me a wand of jasmine flowers as we left the cab. How I love this flower! I crashed into bed smelling of petals and Dom Perignon. The champagne scent disappeared, but the jasmine wand, tucked under my pillow, lasted for days and days...

What a wonderful day. Happy Birthday me!