ere at Sandwich we consider ourselves citizens of the world, eternal nomads and intellectually driven adventurers on a quest to find the ultimate enlightenment through the process of world travel. In other words, we liked Europe and are willing to marry for passports.
London is described by Minga and Ginga as another version of the 7 Levels of Hell much like Dante’s Inferno where he described the personal purgatory of us mortals once deceased.
London is described by Minga and Ginga as another version of the 7 Levels of Hell much like Dante’s Inferno where he described the personal purgatory of us mortals once deceased.
London is also like an abusive boyfriend whom you naively think you can change and who’ll one day love you back instead of beating you down physically, mentally and spiritually. London is also exactly how Dicken’s described it – a replica of an industrial time with some modernism but equal in the level of inequality.
In comparison, Paris becomes Voltaire – a place of beauty where one wanders, falls into cafes, sparks up and philosophises amongst the endless beautiful people. Plus being unemployed there is a status symbol of the cool artiste.
A tale of two cities indeed – The Wifebeater vs The Romantic Unemployed
Paris the Hobo Voyage begins with Minga and the Ginga undertaking the odyssey that is a bus trip of 9 hours that includes a hideous overcrowded tour coach and a massive ferry filled with refugees and class rejects from Britain. (Don't diss the rejects because clearly we fall into that category).
Arrive at some ungodly hour in the morning. End up queuing for an hour to receive one Metro ticket. Yet salvation arrives in the form of our favourite Tahitian/New Zealand resident Parisian homo – Christophe.
He gallantly takes us to lunch where we gorge on rich steak and beautiful wine since our poor taste buds have been deprived of real food for so long.
Wander over to cousins to be accosted by her spawns. Two adorable yet highly ADD dysfunctional girls who get frustrated at my limited French yet adore me nonetheless.
The next day is a day of continuous wandering. As if reliving all three Lord of the Rings films, we just walk, endlessly taking in the incredible architecture, hideous smells and gorgeous men. Eye rape the same beautiful men as Christophe. As eyes are exhausted we slump down by the tragic Seine and attempt to sunbathe whilst repelling some randoms from across the way.
Wander yet again out to the Isle de la Cite in search of glorious patisseries then onto the St Michel Canal to gulp more replenishing ‘vin’ whilst never fully taking eyes off the aesthetically pleasing locals. However, the fact that we are both ridiculously socially inept in the ways of picking up, one wonders why we even bother.
That night we’re invited to a Swedish party full of Brit expats, the Shiny Jew Alice (her words) and Swedish Anna who makes the same type of meatballs I once had an Ikea in Toronto. Lovely bunch, genuine, funny and constantly intrigued at the epic failings that is Minga and Ginga’s lovelife (or lack thereof). We all curse Irish Boy and Darcy but realise Alice is the winner in the rejection stakes after some cunt had called her ‘the fat girl’. Decide Alice is new hero. We organise to crash Brit Russell’s date tomorrow night then stalk the girl on Facebook. Finish forth bottle of Vin.
“Le Marais (Jewish area) won’t be open Easter. Oh no hang on, what do we care about more, religon or money? (pause) Yeah Le Marais will be open” – Alice
Next time Part II
1 comment:
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