Once upon a time, in a land far away...
Okay, it was last Friday. But that doesn't have the same sort of ring to it.
Last Friday then, at Waterloo. Meet, had said Gavin, by the café on the Eurostar concourse about nine. Not difficult really but oh what exertions were required to achieve that simple aim.
It might seem contradictory but despite having a reputation for advanced planning (excessively advanced in some opinions) I'm also something of a last minute person. So while last January I was wittering on asking who would like to go to Paris for Pride in contrast at 2am Friday morning I was still wandering about the house trying to decide which t-shirts I should take, what to march in, how to dress for dinner and so forth. Packing is a series of compromises: both what you want to take and what you think you might need has to be slimmed down to fit a bag which one can actually carry.
Of course at that point genuine excitement and anticipation made sleep seem impossible yet somehow I did only to wake at six, considerably in advance of the alarm clock. All the usual morning ablutions and out of the house at ten to eight. Nip down to Stratford and take the Jubilee to Waterloo. I was early so I avoided the escalator direct to the Eurostar concourse and instead went upstairs to have a ciggarette while overlooking the assembling travelers. Thus did Gavin find me, waving up from below, and so I decended again for the first meeting of the day. Next arrived (I think) Adrian and then Amanda. Coffee and orange juice and leering at pretty young men occupied the next 20 minutes until checking in.
I've long liked the Eurostar, it's just so convenient, but this time was better than normal as Gavin had arranged to travel First Class (at an absurdly affordable APEX fare) which is considerably more comfortable than standard, offers free drinks, a free lunch that was quite edible for train food, free newspapers and the cutest trolly dollies.
The journey devides into two halves separated by the tunnel. This is because the train crawls (relatively speaking) the 70 miles to the English coast then revs up to full speed for the 150 from Calais to Paris. Blame Thatcher.
Arriving at the Gare du Nord one walks strait off the platform onto the concourse, easy. Then I rush everyone over to the left to the tabaconist that isn't there as they're rebuilding that end of the station. Oh well, onto the Metro and I happen to have enough change for the ticket machine: buy a carnet of ten - 45 p for any journey within zone 1, effectively everywhere within the ring-road.
3 Stops to Republique and thence to the hotel to check in by 2:30 which, with the change in time zone, makes it 4 hr 40 mins door to door. Hotel 26 quid a night, double bed and (albeit miniscule) en-suite.
Walk into town to shop - or at least window shop. Boyz Bazzar, TTBM, wherever caught our eye and eventually IEM, a fetish shop of which I had fond memories but which proved to be over expensive.
Poor old Alex's plane was delayed and then encumbred with a party of school children but eventually he arrived, checked in and we walked down from Republique to Bastille to pick him up - 20 minutes later than I'd predicted in part because I completely missed the turning.
And then there were five. Sean and I, three years before, had enjoyed a very good restaurant which we'd found simply by walking around the area so I wasn't quite sure where it was and couldn't remember the name. More in hope than expectation we wandered off up the rue de Lappe and chanced upon the very place within fifty meters. Good, take a bearing and wander further in search of a bar and apperitifs. The bar was chosen by virtue of having a muscled bouncer (Gavin atrractor) talking to a lad in a slinky shirt (me attractor) at the door, okay sorted. Shortly thereafter we were joined by Orestis. And then there were six. Letch the barman, who wasn't unapreciative, and then down the road to dine.
The Bistrot les Sans Culottes, 27 rue de Lappe, 75011. 01.48.05.42.92 - make a note, it's well worth a visit. Orestis had eaten and moreover had to return home to finish packing for his summer home in Athens so we were reduced to five again half way through the meal. I don't recall what everyone had but I ordered a "stew" of mussels and scallops with vegetable under a fine pastry cap followed by breast of duck and then the infamous crème brûlée (I seem to have contracted Dennis' disease). bottle of Sancerre and two of St Emillion, desert wine Muscat de Frontignan, cognac, coffee. The whole 1,200 FF or a touch less than 120 quid for five.
What did we do then? I've left this too long and my mind's gone blank. Oh! Drinks! At the Café Bastille with another very cute waiter
Saturday: the day of the march. Adrian and I aquired pain au chocolat, pain au raisin and found a café to have breakfast. Next stop At Jon (Peanuts for those who recall) and AJ's place just around the corner from Place Denfert Rochereau where the march assembled. Here start the pics ( Evidence! click on the thumbnails for the full sized image. In too many cases what the picture shows isn't necessarilly what I'd intended but never mind). Somewhere at this time we also met Greg and then Olivier turned up se we began to be a crowd. And between times Vincent had arrived too.
They call it a march, but in truth it's an amble - that doesn't change. But about every thing else is different year to year. Starting with the route. This year avenue Denfert Rochereau, boulevard Saint Michel, bld Saint Germain, pont de Sully, bld Henri IV and so to place de la Bastille. Ruler on map makes that about 4 kilometers wich would be the shortest I've been on. Late departure, Frequent café stops (one to escape a shower) and a few short cuts it still took four hours to wend our way to the Bastille.
The march was lead by the gay motorcycle club where we should have found Hervé and Bertrand but we didn't. I assume that they found sofa somewhere.
Being seriously laid back we didn't rush up and down so missed much I suspect, didn't see half of the floats which are strung out for the length of the march. Impossible to guage just how many people there were but Monady's "Le Monde" gave the figure as 200,000 marchers and 150,000 just looking on. Given the apparently endless crowds that is quite credible: slighly larger than the last two years but short of the 300,000 at Europride in '97.
Being at Bastille just short of 7 we had to put on a spurt of speed. Vincent had very kindly booked us a restaurant and enjoined to be there prompt at 8 in the strongest terms. This is understanderble but not Gallic. Last year an "8 O'Clock" picknick didn't really assemble until nine. The year before Sean and I arrived an hour "late" for Steve's party only to find ourselves the first to arrive.
Washed and brushed up, a brisk walk from the hotel took us into the Marais and the doors of Eclache & Cie, 10 rue Saint Merri, 75004. 01.42.74.62.62. Gay owned, staffed and frequented the night of Pride it was packed with poofs. Fine by us! Greg arrived a few minutes after us and eventually Vincent - that exhorter of promptness - a while after making us nine at table. Greg, Vincent, Jon, AJ, Adrian, Amanda, Alex, Gavin and myself. We were booked for 10 but any one of half a dozen candidates for the spare place...
I can't now recall what I had to start but I did get my traditional bloody steak (on this occasion with sauce Roquefort). And the by now inevitable crème brûlée. Healthy Bordeaux to drink and what with apperatifs about 24 quid a head. On to drinks at... well for a while the Café Open and then somewhere else - I did ask Gavin but I've forgotten; still we managed to find seats outside to oggle the passing tallent. Not least amongst which were the "firemen" distributing free Ricard. And as the evening progressed we were joined by various friends and aquaintances. Jon and AJ went clubbing, what the others did I'm not sure although I do recall Greg cadging a lift back to Nation.
Back in the hotel and "Pricilla Queen of the Desert" was on the box.
Sunday morning (just about) off to rue de Bretagne for coffee and croissant breakfast and so Amanda and Gavin could do a little cheese shopping. Joined by Vincent, his dog and Greg we wandered around a bit until seeing Amanda and Adrian off on the metro to catch their train home. Greg took us off to a Japanese reatuarant for sushi and sashimi lunch. There Alex joined us and we shopped the afternoon until it was time for Alex to pick up his bags and depart for his flight. The rest of the afternoon I wandered the Marais and did ral shopping - buying a t-shirt for that evening. It later transpired that Gavin had shopped too, aquiring a shop assistant in the process.
Sunday evening I learned a new meaning for the term rendez-vous. A rendez-vous is apparently a designated place where one can have confiodence that no one else will turn up. On this inteligence I shall now, whenever offered a rendez-vous, make efforts to be elsewhere. This course I recomend to you all.
Dinner back at Eclache & Cie. Liver paté, duck and crème brûlée, ricard and a fillette of Cahors. Very satisfactory. Gavin found me there and we went to Café open for drinks and sightseeing. I retired about 2 but himself was off to a club.
Monday morning saw me up and searching for croissant and coffee. Thus fortified off to the Marais again to save vast amounts of money by finding that the shop's I'd had my eye on (a chemisier and a coffee shop) were self-indulgently closed on Monday's. Oh well, the ruck sack was full and the bank perilously close to empty any way. Oh well, settled for a second breakfast at Café Open with the French papers. Monday morning provided an interesting contrast to Saturday evening.
A bleary Gavin phoned to announce that he'd woken up - although he didn't specify in which arrondissement. So eventually met again at the hotel - I'd phoned him and dragged him away from 'lunch' (lunch also has a revised meaning amongst modern day queers: usage would now suggest translating it as 'picking up a waiter'). And so the prosaic stuff of getting the metro to the Gare du Nord, the inveitable last minute chaos of boarding the train and the journey home. That for me meant renewing the travel card, taking the Jubilee to stratford and walking back. Safe and sound within the door by 6.30 in time for "I'm Sorry, I haven't a Clue". How very English.
So, it's over. Which just means that the time fast approaches to plan for next year! :)