It is about our trip to Paris.
In each part we write about the same events and happenings, but from different points of view. We then simultaneously post the parts onto our blogs.
My pov is in my usual font colour, C.J.'s is the one in red.
Understand?
Read on!
This photo basically describes our day trip to Paris in its entirety:
This picture was taken on the morning we arrived in Paris, fresh from the 10 hour coach trip. It's about 7am and a Saturday, meaning fuck all is open. This is C.J. standing in front of a Metro station looking pretty miserable after a really miserable trip (she only had the photo taken in order to shut me up). The photo's blurred because I'm so exhausted to give a shit about whether the shot was in focus or not.
The original idea was for C.J. and I to go to Paris to see an exhibition viewable for a limited time only (as well as to see the many Parisian sights) and to arrive by coach as it was cheap. So we would take the late-night Eurolines coach from Victoria Coach Station, London; sleep on the coach; and arrive at Gallieni early morning then take a late-night coach back again on the same day to arrive the next morning in London.
Sure sounds like a plan.
C.J. was so excited she had to put "Paris <3" into every online conversation we had.
But what a crap plan it turned out to be.
I tried to sleep, God knows I tried, but I just couldn't. C.J. and Anthony (the guy we met at the coach station) seemed fine but I was persistenly fidgeting (a few days after Paris C.J. commented on how dangerously unhealthy my sleeping positions were).
Getting up on the Eurotunnel train to find the toilet whilst sleep deprived didn't make my Parisian experience anymore fun. Our coach and only a few white vans occupied the 12 coach train, so walking to the toilet for 5 minutes in a basically empty train which lacked any windows or natural lighting was my idea of a living nightmare or hallucination. The "please return to your vehicle" warning displays didn't help my dreamlike panic state when I was running back to the coach, but being forced to wait 2 seconds for the 20 million doors between carriages to open.
Once returned I woke up 6 hours later at the bus terminal, feeling pretty unwell and pissed off due to the poor quality sleep. Then I realised "shit, I'll have to use my A-Level French in this state" unlike my previous thoughts of "hurrah I'll have to use my A-Level French in practical situations and not for debating about vegetarianism".
We got on the Metro, said goodbye to our new-found friend Anthony after a few stops and got off to take a photo of the barren Parisian night.
I wanted to be upbeat and positive about the situation and to show I knew what I was doing but truth be told I wanted to hide in the familiarity and comfort of a non-foreign-speaking country and didn't want to be with C.J. any longer, The Burden.
God, I haven't even mentioned anything about Paris properly yet. But yes the coach journey hurt.
Bad.
"It's in Paris...?" I responded, wondering what the hell he was thinking.
And then a plan was hatched to travel to the supposedly wonderful city in France, a journey much like that of the Lord of the Rings, only it was a nine hour coach ride and in the end I wish I had ended up with arrows in my back, rather than the foot of an inconsiderate foreigner.
And yes, I was pretty damn excited. I don't think I ever typed so many <3 s before; in reference to Paris. But alas, I returned, cold, wet, tired and heartbroken, plus almost unconscious; and I was actually coping better than Germanotti. So you know he must have looked like Alice Cooper, only sadly, no eyeliner.
The train ride to Waterloo was pretty uneventful; not many drunks, I only got hit on twice and nobody tried to stab me. The coach ride started off well. There were two of us, and then we made a friend in an Anthony (it'd be cool if we had gotten his facebook,no?) , a guy who was meeting someone called Caramel. I whispered to Germanotti when we first overheard him on the phone: "that's a stripper name if ever I head one", a nice little joke that G disclosed to our new travelling friend after we had known him all of an hour. Thanks, man. At least he laughed with us and didn't seem to mind I called his friend a stripper, so its not like I had to worry about Anthony putting shit in my mouth whilst I slept.
All too soon it became that awkward time where other people start wanting to sleep and I was staring wide eyed at my companion; slightly hyperactive. Then old Germanotti folded himself up like a fucked up deck chair and I swear I spent at least ten minutes looking at him, wondering how long it would be before he realised sleeping with your neck under your leg was a bad idea. He never did.
That boy got himself into some worrying positions. Worrying, yet ever so slightly erotic. At one point he had his hand firmly clasped to his man luggage, by which I mean his junk.
I woke up startled. The fucking coach was glowing yellow and some arsehole was shouting french on some speaker; we were getting on the train thingy. Germanotti left to use the bathroom, meanwhile I fell asleep with my face squished against a cold and unforgiving window. I awoke, startled again. Some dingus was wrestling my numb leg, so I kicked out; the luggage handler had returned, and was kindly trying not to wake me whilst he wedged himself in the small gap my curvacious arse had afforded.
More sleep occurred. A rather heavy head decided to lodge itself against my right boob; I was too tired to care whether it counted as sexual assault or not. My fidgeting companion then accepted an offer of my lap to rest his sleepy head on, but he rudely complained, saying "your vagina is too hot" or something along those lines.
Take from that what you will, dear readers. You have my email address...
We then arrived in doucheville, by which I mean, Paris. A frustrating argument took place with a machine. I was in no mind to be operating any machinary, so Germanotti was kind enough to get the ticket robot to ejaculate a ticket for me. We then barged through a barrier, that was only there to injure weary travellers and dislocate shoulders for laughs.
A warm metro train took us to some French place; my companion can regale you with the names of the stops, I was merely an English girl in Paris. G can speak A level french you see.
Once we left the warm, warm sanctuary of the metro platform, we whizzed up and down steps and walked into the cool air of PARIS!
At this point I was excited, regardless of how tired and dehydrated I was. And then that bastard friend of mine whipped out his bastard camera and took the miserable photo which I am sure he won't remove from the top of this page. I didn't want to pose at first, but in the end I stopped moving so he would shut the fuck up, because I love him, naturally.
But a fucking jacket couldn't have kissed away all the mental and physical scars I suffered from this trip. I don't even think a casual shag could have cheered me up after Paris, sorry Germanotti. It was just...
Bad.
 |
| Fact. |
"Want to go to that?" asked Germanotti via msn, after he sent me a link to a Lady Gaga art exhibition in Paris.
"It's in Paris...?" I responded, wondering what the hell he was thinking.
And yes, I was pretty damn excited. I don't think I ever typed so many <3 s before; in reference to Paris. But alas, I returned, cold, wet, tired and heartbroken, plus almost unconscious; and I was actually coping better than Germanotti. So you know he must have looked like Alice Cooper, only sadly, no eyeliner.
The train ride to Waterloo was pretty uneventful; not many drunks, I only got hit on twice and nobody tried to stab me. The coach ride started off well. There were two of us, and then we made a friend in an Anthony (it'd be cool if we had gotten his facebook,no?) , a guy who was meeting someone called Caramel. I whispered to Germanotti when we first overheard him on the phone: "that's a stripper name if ever I head one", a nice little joke that G disclosed to our new travelling friend after we had known him all of an hour. Thanks, man. At least he laughed with us and didn't seem to mind I called his friend a stripper, so its not like I had to worry about Anthony putting shit in my mouth whilst I slept.
All too soon it became that awkward time where other people start wanting to sleep and I was staring wide eyed at my companion; slightly hyperactive. Then old Germanotti folded himself up like a fucked up deck chair and I swear I spent at least ten minutes looking at him, wondering how long it would be before he realised sleeping with your neck under your leg was a bad idea. He never did.
That boy got himself into some worrying positions. Worrying, yet ever so slightly erotic. At one point he had his hand firmly clasped to his man luggage, by which I mean his junk.
I woke up startled. The fucking coach was glowing yellow and some arsehole was shouting french on some speaker; we were getting on the train thingy. Germanotti left to use the bathroom, meanwhile I fell asleep with my face squished against a cold and unforgiving window. I awoke, startled again. Some dingus was wrestling my numb leg, so I kicked out; the luggage handler had returned, and was kindly trying not to wake me whilst he wedged himself in the small gap my curvacious arse had afforded.
More sleep occurred. A rather heavy head decided to lodge itself against my right boob; I was too tired to care whether it counted as sexual assault or not. My fidgeting companion then accepted an offer of my lap to rest his sleepy head on, but he rudely complained, saying "your vagina is too hot" or something along those lines.
Take from that what you will, dear readers. You have my email address...
We then arrived in doucheville, by which I mean, Paris. A frustrating argument took place with a machine. I was in no mind to be operating any machinary, so Germanotti was kind enough to get the ticket robot to ejaculate a ticket for me. We then barged through a barrier, that was only there to injure weary travellers and dislocate shoulders for laughs.
A warm metro train took us to some French place; my companion can regale you with the names of the stops, I was merely an English girl in Paris. G can speak A level french you see.
Once we left the warm, warm sanctuary of the metro platform, we whizzed up and down steps and walked into the cool air of PARIS!
At this point I was excited, regardless of how tired and dehydrated I was. And then that bastard friend of mine whipped out his bastard camera and took the miserable photo which I am sure he won't remove from the top of this page. I didn't want to pose at first, but in the end I stopped moving
 |
| This time, I think France won. |
And that miserable, blurred photo you see before you is of me, pre-paris. The pink is actually my orange scarf and I'm bundled up in my thick black jacket, which was a lifesaver man.
But a fucking jacket couldn't have kissed away all the mental and physical scars I suffered from this trip. I don't even think a casual shag could have cheered me up after Paris, sorry Germanotti. It was just...
Bad.
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