Living in a bloggers paradise

So, DAY and me had a great week - with me working (and trying to shift this bronchitis) and him sightseeing.  Meeting after work to go in search of evening entertainment.

One of my promises to DAY was that I'd take him to the Depôt - the infamous Paris gay sex club / nightclub.  You can imagine that it's not somewhere I go to very often (yeah, right).

Anyway, Friday was the night that we'd planned our Depôt excursion.  And we had a lovely evening - we started at the usual bar, where we met up with friends (the Fierce People) and had a few drinks.  We then headed off for dinner at Paris' cheapest Chinese restaurant.  Midnight found us dancing to trashy disco at a Bear's bar in the Marais.

By one thirty, we were about ready to head to the Depôt.  And it was about the right time too - any earlier and the place would have been empty, it being a 'late night venue' and all that.

As we paid our money and headed downstairs to the lower bar (and the labyrinth...) I turned to DAY.  It seems he'd seen the same thing as I had - and neither of us really knew what to say.

On the dance floor was a wiry, thin guy dancing away to some euro pop.  He was wearing a bright white baseball cap and the brightest, whitest sneakers.  That was all that he was wearing.  Apart from the white at either end he was naked.  Dancing away and wobbling his tackle in time to the music.

"That boy looks just like a Q-tip" said DAY.  I told you he was funny.

Anyway, after a couple of drinks, we split up for us to each take a bit of a tour of the establishment.  This turned out to be less than satisfactory for both of us - the boys touting their erections in the doorways of the cubicles didn't really do it for me, nor for DAY it seems.  A bit of a moment with a Mexican later, we met up again and decided to hit the road.

We got home at four and fell into bed and into a coma.

The next day, we walked our hungover asses to Père Lachaise cemetery, where we admired Chopin, Wilde, Piaf and Morrison.  The sunshine and fresh air did us good.  It was only when we took the métro for the schlep across town to Etoile that it went wrong.  

Halfway through the thirty-minute journey I looked at DAY.  He'd turned green and there was sweat dripping down his face.

"You ok?" I asked, worried that he'd throw up over the train.

"Mmm hmm" he said.  From his mumbled answer I could tell that he didn't need to be talking.  That all he needed was to concentrate on not sharing his breakfast with the other passengers.

The nausea seemed to come and go (for both of us) during the day, but luckily it passed in time for us to head out for DAY's last night in Paris.

As we sat eating dinner at the Palais de Tokyo - on the terrace, looking out at the Eiffel Tower, glittering away - I realised that this boy was a keeper, a friend for ever.  It's been a short visit, but one that has been so full of fun, laughter, ridiculousness and hilarity.  

I wish he lived nearer.  As I waved him off at the airport I felt so pleased to have this new friend in my life, but equally I wished that I had a friend like him who lived in Paris.  Someone who 'got' me.  Someone to share ridiculous moments with.  Someone who makes me laugh and who puts up with my idiot-ness.

I've said this before, I know.  That despite all the other great things this blog thing has brought me, it's the friends I've made through it that surpass anything else blogging has to offer.

And for that, I praise blogger every day.

Chocolate, chips and pierced pudenda

Yesterday I was in Brussels with my lovely visitor, the DumbAss Yank. Please don't think this name as derogatory - it has been mutually agreed upon and is a term of affection. Honest. And he's a bit of a dumbass yank too. If I'm honest...he he.

Anyway, yesterday DAY and me went to Brussels on the Thalys for a day of sightseeing, beer and chips with mayo. And lovely it was too. DAY is a classy dude with a great sense of humour - as those of you who read his blog will know. I've been laughing pretty much non-stop since he arrived.

Arriving, as the trains from Paris do, at the poorly located Gare du Midi, we started to walk into town. Brussels was grey and wet - a real change from the hot and sunny Paris of the previous day. We'd adopted (or been adopted by?) a young American guy, who was also in Brussels for the day, but who seemed unsure as to why he was going there or what he was going to do when he arrived.

The three of us, on our hike into town, happened upon the Taschen store. Now, I'm guessing that most of you - being the classy folk that you are - know of Taschen. they're a high-end publisher of art/architecture/design/filth books. Their store in Brussels is new and very fancy. We went in to have a look.

As we perused their artistic volumes, steering clear of the deluxe 'Tom of Finland' so as to not scare the young American hanger-onner, we were approached by the shop assistant.

He asked if he could show us one of their books. It was a weighty tome, with its own pedestal and fancy presentation box.

The book was "The Book of Olga" - a curious collection of photo's of a Russian Oligarch's wife, taken by the marvellous Bettina Rheims.

The sales assistant started to leaf through the book, whilst the three of us looked at the photo's. As he told us the story of how the book came about, we marvelled at the images contained within.

Olga was largely naked. Largely having a great old time, being tied up, tied down, and getting funky with various 'models' (both real and plastic).

As he opened the pages to reveal a double page 'spread' (quite literally) featuring Olga's pierced pudenda in all its meaty glory, I had to stop myself shaking.

I had started to giggle on the inside and knew that I couldn't look at DAY, for fear that one little smirk from him would send me running into the street.

As we declined to buy a copy of the book - a snip at 600 euros - and left the shop, I realised that this was as European an experience that these two Americans would be likely to get.

I mean, it's not like you'd walk into a bookshop in Tulsa and be presented with a fey young man extolling the virtues of a pornographic book, telling you why the photograph with the legs akimbo was artisticallly relevant and saying how the picture of Olga with her legs in the air and her tits somewhere around her ears was 'a celebration of a man's love for his wife'.

I mean really.

Only in Europe.

Left to my own devices, I probably would

So, Debbie has left me.  

She's gone off on her holidays to some far flung island with her fancy foreign lover - who, worryingly, also works for me, but not in Paris.

Of course, the fact that they work together and don't want to encourage gossip means that it's all top secret.  Cloak and dagger.  Ridiculous.  Trouble is, they're not fooling anyone.  Pretty much everyone in the company knows of their 'affair'.  It's the most exciting thing to happen since the factory employees stood round in a circle one lunchtime to watch one of the boys off the line get blown by his girlfriend.  Truly, this happened.

Anyway, I'm not getting drawn into it.  Anyone asks me where she's gone, I don't know.  They ask me who with, I don't know.  I may be keeping schtum on the outside, but inside I'm dying.  Pretty much like Chandler when he's not allowed to make jokes.  I so want to gossip about this, but it's just not fair.

I guess I'm lucky that I'm the only gay in the village at work.  There's no chance of me ending up in some career-defying clinch with a colleague, unless of course, there's an 'adventurous' 'married' man amongst their ranks (trust me, there usually is). 

The old adage of 'don't get your honey where you get your money' still applies, I suppose.  Even in these enlightened times, it's hard to date / sleep with / get caught doing something inappropriate with a colleague and not have it affect your reputation.  I guess it could also enhance your reputation.  Depends.

That said, I've had my moments.  There was once a Scottish guy who worked with me a long time ago - in the UK, at a different company.  He was cute, horny, a rocket in the sack.  Turns out he was sleeping with both me and my (female, married) secretary.  Eee-uw.  That was embarrassing.    

And then the Scandinavian customer who threatened to take his business elsewhere.  But let's not go there.

Debbie is doing herself a mix of good and bad with this whole thing.  The management of the company are pleased that the pair of them are refusing to comment - seeing this as a professional act on their behalf, keeping work and private lives separate.  However, in terms of who the company is gossiping about - well it's Debbie.  Poor girl.

I'm doing as much damage control as I can, but I know that she'll sort them out when she gets back.

When I said to her that people will talk about the situation, she replied,

"In France it is fine to have many lovers before you marry.  I am young.  I like sex.  If this offends people, then it is their problem."

I fear it may be her problem too.  But hey, I'm not one to judge.

After all, it's not like Sweden has remained a secret.

La France laïque

When Chirac welcomed Pope John Paul II to France all those years ago (1996?97?  I know, I should google this, right?) he bade him welcome to "secular France - la France laïque".

Things haven't changed since then, if anything the division between state and church is more reinforced than ever, with schoolgirls being sent home for wearing headscarves and all religious paraphernalia banned in the workplace.

In a modern society, this secularity is a good thing, it seems.  Religion is religion and the rest of the day-to-day is well, not religion.  Let's keep it that way.  Religion plays no part in affairs of state here in France.  Unlike in the UK, where the Queen is both Head of State and Defender of the Faith.

So with all of this "we are not a religious state" attitude, you'll be surprised to note that tomorrow is a national holiday.  Why?  It's Ascension of course.  The country will come to a standstill for the day in order to celebrate Jesus ascending to Heaven (that is what ascension is, right?).  

Government will not be sitting, civil servants will not be working.  For what is undoubtedly a religious holiday.  In a secular society.

You can do the maths yourself, I'm sure, but this doesn't add up to anything logical, does it?

Naturally, I felt the need to discuss this with Debbie today (I know how much you all love that girl.  I did this for you).  This is how the conversation went...

"So, celebrating Ascension in a secular country.  How does that work?"

"It is not a religious holiday.  It is part of our culture" she said, looking at me like I'm crazy to not understand.

"But it has to be a religious holiday.  It's celebrating Christ ascending to Heaven.  How is that not religious?"

"Because it is part of our culture.  We are a Catholic country, after all."

"Hmm.  Not really though.  You are a secular country, where the main religion is traditionally Catholic, but even so, only half of the nation claim to be Catholic" - I'd looked my facts up before starting the conversation - useful with Debbie. 

"Yes, and being secular is very important to the Republic.  It is a cornerstone of who we are"  she quite rightly replied, giving herself the benefit of being on both sides of the argument - therefore undeniably correct.

"I agree"  I said.  "The division between church and state is important here in France.  But I don't see why that doesn't extend to people getting days off to celebrate religious events."

And there's the crux of the argument for me - 'we'll be as secular as we like, until it affects our days off, then screw it'.

"You are just being difficult.  Why do you have to question everything?"  She seemed to be getting annoyed.  "Just accept things.  Enjoy the day off.  Maybe you should go to England and eat cucumber sandwiches."  

I wasn't sure where she got that one from, but as insults go, it didn't really work.

"Anyway, I don't care"  she said.  "I am not Catholic, but I will take as many of these Jesus days as they are willing to throw at us".

"Lucky that Pentecost is just around the corner then" I replied.

I ducked as the stapler went flying past my ear.

Moving on up

I'm trying to move offices at the moment. Running the gauntlet of the French real estate world (again).

How difficult would you think it is to find some decent offices with warehouse space attached?

Well, it's kind of impossible.

As Phil and Kirstie would say, most of these places require 'vision'. Vision that means looking past the dead pigeons on the floor (really), ignoring the fully operational toilet in the corner of the office (really), forgetting that the floor moves on the mezzanine level (boy did it).

The French realtors are a breed unto themselves. They are regularly 30 minutes late for appointments, have to be chased for any follow up and generally have little or no information. They certainly never have the answers to my questions.

On Friday last week we stood outside a building - in the rain - for thirty minutes before deciding to go home. I was furious.

Fifteen minutes later - 45 minutes after the time of the appointment - my mobile phone rang.

"Hello sir, I have arrived. Where are you?" It was the realtor.

"Oh, I gave up and left fifteen minutes ago" I replied.

"But I came all this way to meet you!" he said, indignant.

"Yes, and I was there on time. You weren't".

"Well, this is very bad. I will not work with you again. I am here now, but you have chosen to cancel the appointment at the last minute. We shall not do business together".

He got even more upset when it turned out that I wasn't in the slightest bit saddened by this news. I told him that I wasn't bothered. That if his idea of good service is leaving me outside in the rain for half an hour then he needs to think again. That he isn't the only realtor in Paris and I'd be very happy not to work with him again.

"Now, monsieur, let us not be hasty...." he said, trying to win back the situation.

I went back to the office and instructed another realtor.

Let's hope this one turns up on time.

Let's hope he finds me an office.

I mean really, how difficult can it be?

Sad songs

My cousin died at the weekend.  She's finally at peace, out of pain, missed sorely by her family.

Her little boy has decided that they now need to move house.  He's decided that now Mom's dead, the house will be haunted forever.  There's no telling him otherwise.

I'm sad that I won't be able to get over there for the funeral, but I guess that goes with living overseas, right?  Needless to say, my heart and thoughts will be with them all on that day.

The songs they've chosen for the funeral are some of the songs that my Mom used to listen to a lot around the time of my Dad's death, so I can only imagine how it's going to be for her.  My brother will be there to hold her hand, but I personally feel pretty helpless, pretty useless.

Anyway, I'm sad but not depressed.  Angry but not ranting.  

I'm questioning how my Aunt keeps her faith.  She's a devout Christian.  I asked her whether her faith was a comfort, whether she found the answers when she prayed.  She told me that she's certain that there's a reason for my Cousin being taken so young, but that God has yet to tell her what the reason is.  

She countered this by saying "and he'd better bloody well hurry up and tell me the reason or I'm going over to the Muslims".  

Laughter kind of seems inappropriate, but as she laughed at her own joke, she seemed to ease up.  

She smiled, sighed, and said "she was a lovely girl you know.  To see her suffer like that isn't right.  Suffering like that for so long.  She'd have been better off dropping down dead in the supermarket."

"Just like my Dad did," I reminded her.

"Oh yes," she said.  "Now that was a ridiculous way to go, wasn't it?"

I had to agree.  Attention seeking to the very end.  

It must run in the family.

I'm in love (with a fairytale)

Eurovision weekend.  The weekend of glitter, sequins, sparkle and camp.

Ah yes, this year was no exception.  All the freaks were there.

From the big old Greek poofter dancing on top of a big hair straightener (it would take a lot to straighten this boy out, trust me) to the strangely asexual German 'heartthrob' bumping and grinding with Dita von Teese.  From the big Maltese girl belting her heart out, to the English girl getting a violin bow in the eye (really, she did).

We had the elegant superstar Patricia Kaas crooning for France being beaten by the ridiculous Azerbaijanis who seemed to have forgotten that the 80's are over.  But maybe they're not over yet in Baku?  Azerbaijan is the 'land of fire' as their points person told us at least fifteen times during her ten-second slot.

As a side issue, I did once know of a girl from Baku with a ten-second slot, but this one was slightly different.

The Russians put on a fabulous show, and everyone seemed to be having a lovely time.  Alas, if only the Swedish girl had hit those notes (any of them).  If only the Turks had been able to sing as well as dance.  If only Britain hadn't put Andrew Lloyd Webber on the stage.

But, for once, partisan voting seemed to be a thing of the past.  Sure, Croatia gave top marks to Bosnia and Greece got douze points from Cyprus, but this year it seemed musical talent won the day.

Very early on it was obvious that Norway were going to win.  

The little boy singing did indeed look like a hobbit.  But that's not such a bad thing.  He had a great song, and some very good dancers to giddy things up a bit.  He was bound to win.

And win he did - with a huge majority.

It all put me in mind of the year that Abba won with Waterloo.  

As the French commentators said yesterday evening - "Abba were lucky that year - France had pulled out due to national mourning and so the Swedes had an easy ride to the winning spot".

God bless the French.  With Patricia Kaas ending up way down the table there'll be a lot of ooh-la-la-ing to look forward to over the next few days.

No doubt they'll come up with a good excuse.  

National pride does have to be protected at all costs, after all...