Idiot Boy and Paris.

My sincere apologies for delays my dear and doting friends. Much has happened in the past two weeks. Many countries traversed and one Idiot Boy met up with in Paris.

Idiot Boy struggles sometimes. Sometimes he dresses all in black and wears all of his important documents in security pouches held together by masking tape attached to his belt during a Parisian heat wave. It can be difficult to be Idiot Boy during these times.

Idiot Boy's security system led to a never ending search for respite, and the improvement of forms of respite. Evian spray was our first encounter with true respite: Ming. Our East Asian World Vision sponsor child. Not a son, but he has a close and disposable place in our hearts.


Ming was soon replaced by Mong, father of Ming, stradling the long lines of obese Americans waiting for the lift up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Mong brought much joy to Idiot Boy. Much respite. Young children and women were pushed aside in the worship of Mong.

And yet, more respite was sought by the Idiot Boy.

We visited the Louvre. For the air conditioning. Idiot Boy, wearing a beret cap, took it upon himself to police Article 33: the no photography rule on level 2. A bolshy middle aged American Dan Brown dared to question the authority of Idiot Boy and asked whether he worked in the Louvre. While passionate about the security of great art, Idiot Boy is not a Louvre employee. Being thus caught out, Idiot Boy could only continue to shake his finger at him and said 'No No No' in his best French accent. He was subsequently challenged to follow said American while he continued to take photos, regardless of Article 33.

The enforcement of the Article 33 took it out of Idiot Boy. But he felt contented with his small, yet important, role in protecting the treasures of the Louvre. Thus, he could rest in respite. On level one.

And wherever respite called. Idiot Boy controls not the call of respite. He merely answers it with determined relief.

Life is hard for Idiot Boy.

France likes me drunk and stupid.

When first I embarked on this great, noble, transnational expedition, the words 'roughing it' figured greatly in my imaginings. I also imagined this week prior to my return to Paris on Tuesday would involve me living in some kind of farmhouse in a tiny village riding a bike with a wicker basket amongst the passing sheep and kindly, rosy cheeked farmsfolk. Perhaps stopping, if required, to help an injured baby sparrow back into it's mothers nest in a medium sized peach tree. I thought it not entirely out of the question that I may pick up, and quickly master, the ancient art of weaving.

And then I ended up in the capital of Chamapgne. Literally, there's a capital. It's Reims. They are still slightly angry about the Revolution.

Reims, I believe, is also the global capital of white pants and boat shoes. Sometimes the white pants all catch the rays of the sun at once and I am temporarily blinded by the glare. I believe it may also disturb the trajectory of overpassing satellites.

Dear friend, I did try so hard not to look like the scungy backpacker I am. Washed my hair special. Wore a dress and put on blush just so the people at the Mumm champagne house wouldn't scoff haughtily at me. And this is what France did to me. This is what constitutes a street sign in this fine country.

So I did not make it to that particular champagne cave that day. I instead had to resign myself to a rosé in the big avenue, wearing sunglasses until 10'o'clock on account of the aforementioned luminiscent pants.

But I was not fazed, dear reader. Not I. I picked myself up from the filthy floor of dejection and misdirection and boldy strode out in search of more champagne. I thought, join the party Cel. You don't own white pants but that doesn't mean you can't scull a brut like the best of the bourgeoisie. And I think humanity advanced just a little that day.

The first champagne place was staid enough. Went on a little tour. Nodded. Had a good little Brut Rose. And all was good in the world.

At my next stop on my personal champagne tour/crawl I was put on a little motorized white car (preceeding and following pink, middle aged Germans in white pants) and was told such things as 'Champâgne, the king of wines, had now become the wine of kings'. Then bubbles were thrown on me and I was subjected to a light show. And I thought, that could have just made me epileptic. It was like getting drunk by osmosis.

When I got off I half expected Gene Wilder to ask me to lick grape flavoured wall paper. But no such luck. Instead I was walked into a super fancy pants bar, surrounded by big groups of fancy pants middle aged people, and was sat in front of a table with three glasses of champagne. Spent the first 5 minutes trying not to giggle out loud.

And I thought, you've here placed me in something of a quandry Mr Piper Heidsieck. Please elaborate on the word 'moderation'. For I have eaten but one banana and a chocolate croissant today and here I have my fourth glass of champagne in front of me. What an interesting predicament I find myself in.

Decided to sit there and drink it like the sophisticated and graceful young woman I am. People did keep glancing over, no doubt think I was mysterious and aloof. But then, those looks could well have been ones of concern.

Remi: The most French man in the world.

Remi is the most French man in the world. And he doesn’t care. So that makes him even Frencher.

Remi does not like French people. Or people generally. He calls most of them bitches. We watched the first half of the World Cup final on a cobbled street craning to see the TV screen over the heads of drunk fourteen year olds. At half time Remi announced ‘I’m so over it Celina” and we left. Instead we wandered the streets rolling our eyes whenever the city roared in unison.

Remi smokes constantly. He buys croissants and baguettes every morning for breakfast and makes coffee on the stove. He drives a Smart. He is waiting for his mum to die so he can inherit her book collection. He is a socialist but hates the socialists. He got me off a train fine by pretending he was trying to pick me up and that the conductor was interrupting sleazy French love. And I am not allowed anywhere near any of his cooking utensils.



And he has just shaved himself a moustache. Mainly to annoy his girlfriend, my best friend, but also because it is a moustache. And because he is the Frenchest man ever.

I don't deserve to get anywhere.

I have a theory and the theory is this: universe is heaping my life’s quota of good luck on me now and there will be some terrible balancing in the future. I had expected the balancing to come in paper cut form, that is that I’d keep getting little annoying but psychologically traumatising incidents of bad luck. But the universe is messing with me. Obviously I was spared the bed bugs – the perfect paper cut opportunity. And when Lucy was in Madrid we were sitting right next to eachother and a bird shat on her leg. Mine was entirely bird poo free. Not even splatter. I told Lucy it was good luck, but really I knew. I get all the good luck in the world and I suck it away from those surrounding me.

So I have started to test the universe.

I had to get to Girona airport for my flight to Paris. Plan was to sleep in the airport seeing as my flight was at 6am and I am a cheap, cheap young woman. I realised, about 45mins before the last bus left to Girona from Barcelona that I didn’t have my plane ticket. I didn’t know what airline I was flying, what airport I was flying in to, when I would land or if whatever airline I was travelling with would let me on their plane. And I was like, ‘Come on universe. I’ll take ya.’

I made it to the airport after running for the bus with all my gear (thus confirming my suspicion that I would probably win The Amazing Race) and spending the ride trying to think about the beauty of a Spanish sunset and not the prospect of being stranded in a town I had never heard of. The airport was essentially a box. It had a café called Café Café, two ATMs, three vending machines and one bathroom. Good times, good times.



I spent the night with my bags tied to my ankle and locked together (gypsies are in airports too) wondering about the universe and what it would do to me in the morning. At 4am I bolted from the plastic comfort of the three chairs which had become my bed and ran to the check in counter ready to pull the dumb little girl who just might cry at any moment thing. I do it very well.

But I didn’t need to. The universe had my back.


I arrived outside Paris and remembered that Remi, who had offered me a place to stay and a lift, had no idea I was in France and I had no way of telling him so. But, you know, it all worked out. Because the universe has my back.

Nutshell.

I return, my children! Fear not for my safety. I have merely been delayed from updating this blog by the general crapness of technology.

So clearly I’m not going to update you comprehensively on my exploits. Shenanigans really. But I’ll get you through the end of Spain.

Went to Granada – where Monique and Jo became pock covered freaks and I got a nice olivey tan. Our hostel was infested with bed bugs, but it also had tap beer that was left totally unguarded at night. You win some, you lose some. This oversight in security somehow ended in me, Monique and Brisbane Dan crashing a party across the 1m wide cobblestone street. I apparently was heard to call through the mail flap “Quiero fiesta! Me querio fiesta!” Dignity aside, we were eventually invited in and a great inter-cultural exchange was had by all.

Apart from being really, really classy we did do stuff. Culture stuff. Saw flamenco in an underground tiny white hall and spent half of the time trying to figure out if I’d sound local or stupid if I called out Ole! Decided on stupid so I just took photos the whole time which made me look really local.



Went to the Alhambra. Never before have I so much wanted to have go-go-Gadget powers. I was walking though these gorgeous halls thinking ‘Go-go-Gadget shovel arms!’ and how much I hate all tourists in the world who are not me. Felt particularly aggrieved seeing as I had never heard of the bloody Alhambra before in my life.



Then, you know, went to Barcelona. Had an overnight train which is never a good idea. Especially if you are by yourself in the back corner and surrounded by very annoying people who are most likely gypsies. I have a great, great fear of gypsies. I think most people in Europe are in fact gypsies and their sole aim in life is to wait for a slip in my amazing concentration to rob me of all of my possessions. And then probably put a hex on me. And then laugh in their caravans while dancing a jig and swallowing swords. Anyway the gypsies/annoying people kept feeding their kids chocolate milkshakes at 2am and shouting. My Spanish being pretty much limited to crashing, not complaining about, loud parties I could only try and catch their eye and make a really angry “what the?” gesture. However, the only person who look at me was a ten year old gir and I was wearing a sleeping mask which said ‘Do Not Disturb’. I stared that bitch down though. Now that’s hard core.

Anyway, this is a long entry. Barcelona was nice. They have like, famous buildings and stuff.

Monique and Jo got ugly.

This is really after the event. No longer in Spain at all. But it's important for you all to know, Monique and Jo got ugly.

Not such much ugly persay, but rather hideously infectious. A result of our hippy hostel which told us that bed bugs were "just nature". Nature which has made Monique and Jo disfigured to the point of leprosy. People stare. Sometimes in sympathy but usually in horror. They really look like they should be in some kind of orange plastic tent with air pumped in through some kind of large tubular filter.





Jo has 63 bites on her right knee. Over 130 on her left arm if she counts up to her bra strap. Monique's turned in to welts. And I got one. I suspect this is due to the overwhelming power of my mind over my nervous system. The girls didn't so much appreciate me suggesting this. They also didn't really appreciating me imposing half hour moratoriums on them talking about how much they itched and how much the current temperature was aggravating or alleviating their discomfort. They didn't take kindly to my requests for calamine lotion for my bite. But they did somewhat embrace my offer to walk at a disassociating distance from them.

So everyone's a winner really.