I am currently embarked on a  journey to Paris where I hope to work in the English language bookshop Shakespeare and Company. Although there are perfectly good flights that would get me there in no time at all, I have decided to travel through the UK visiting old friends who have since moved away. The following is an assortment of excerpts from my travel journal.

2nd November (Vendredi) 2012

This morning I checked out of my hotel, strapped my rucksack to my back, lifted the guitar and the other bag, and set off for Shakespeare and Company. Alas, on arriving I was told that Sylvia was away and I’d have to return the next day to ask about tumbleweeding. I immediately nipped round to my internet cafe and contacted an old uni friend’s dad, Roger, who had mentioned I could crash at his if I needed to…

…walking around the Latin quarter, shops spilling into the street, one called rue Mouffetard which translates as “Skunk Street”…

…walking out past Port Maillot along Charles De Gaul Avenue…

…met Roger… …he wanted to go to a little French place around the corner, but it was closed so we headed off to “Big Ben’s” English pub for a burger and a couple of pints, which was exactly what I needed…

Samedi 3 novembre 2012

I am now sitting in the library of Shakespeare and Company waiting to meet Sylvia Whitman, the owner. I have just read part of De Quincy on his days at Oxford, there’s the bustling tread of tourists, and in the background someone is playing Chopin on the piano. The places smells of books and old upholstery, even the cold is somehow right…

…call back tomorrow…

Dimanche 4 novembre 2012

Today I discovered that I AM to be a tumbleweed as of Wednesday! Everyone at the shop appears friendly and welcoming. I went to a literary tea party there this afternoon hosted by a tumbleweed, Patrick, as the poet who usually hosts it was ill. We had Earl Grey and madeleines.

Each person was invited to contribute something: a thought, an idea, a poem they loved, or one they’d written. There was everything from a music historian passing through who spoke of the power of music to lend a sence of time and place, and how it can be used in literature through to a Polish woman who had very little English but sang a Polish lullaby about ducks. I gave them a dose of the Baguette Song as it seemed appropriate. Things were rounded off by Patrick reciting a poem of his own concerning the London riots. Fast paced impassioned lyrics to finish things off with a bang.

Tom’s Guide to Crossing the Road in Paris

I have absolutely no idea what the powers that be in Paris intended when setting up the traffic systems. Perhaps they were all too busy eating croque madame sor playing boules to give the matter much serious thought. Perhaps they were feeling vindictive. Or perhaps -and this is the theory I favour most – perhaps they’d got two thirds of the way down a bottle of Chateux de Haw-Hee-Haw and decided the system should serve a dual purpose of traffic control and cultural conditioning.

This might seem unlikely, but bear with me. To cross a road in Paris one naturally goes to the crossing. There is usually no button to press, so one must wait for the green man as we were all taught at some point, either by our parents or Jon Pertwee.

But you will notice few people wait for the little green man, in fact usually they cross when the little red man is lit up and there are no cars. The second the lights change to green for the pedestrians, the cars start trying to nip across. This might be because the French are all colour-blind. Here is what they see as RGB:

So the system is in fact designed to make you assert yourself. According to Roger, you should wait for the green man then step out “bravely” eyes on the middle distance keeping watch on the traffic out the corners. Apparently as soon as you make it obvious you’ve seen a car they will attempt to run you over. It is a study in ignoring the obvious.

In some places there are little buttons, or things that look that way, with a picture of an old man with a cane, the idea being that if you need to use the lights to cross the road then you’re past it. Now going native, I deliberately run in front of the traffic to prove I’m not scared, and as a result am looked on with admiration and wonder by pedestrians and motorists alike. They keep trying to attract my attention with shouts and horns, but I’m far to modest to respond.

More instalments at irregular intervals soon, later, or not at all.