The concept was a simple one: I needed to go to Paris to go see the French Open. I’ve always wanted to visit Turkey and never had the chance. It seemed only natural then to join the dots and turn it into my very own Orient Express.
We decided to go via the original route of the Orient Express (red line). Because I only had three weeks of leave, I picked two stops en route to Istanbul to explore - Budapest and the Transylvania region of Romania.
And so it began in Gay Paree, where I spent long days at the tennis, and long nights walking off the terrifically rich food up and down the hill in Montmartre.
In hindsight, Paris felt like a footnote to the whole trip. I don’t remember much other than the tennis.
But I do remember our cosy citrus-coloured apartment, with the Sacre Coeur casually gleaming outside the window.
I remember getting off 24 hours of flight time to meet a friend at an indie music festival on the outskirts of Paris. The music, booze, the crowd jumping on stage to strip off their clothes … I remember thinking I’m too old for this shit.
I remember the late night, after-dinner walks up to Sacre Coeur, the gelati, the hawkers selling miniature Eiffel Towers made in China, the reggaeton buskers dancing on the steps next to the furnicular on chilly summer nights.
I remember my only day away from the tennis, catching up with an old friend, dodging the rain inside the opulent Palais Garnier, hitting up the grands magasins packed full of Asian tourists bulk buying Louis Vuitton.
What more can I say?
Paris is Paris. So defined. So assured of its own identity that it borders (and indeed is a form of) commodification. French enough to be foreign, but not foreign enough to be outside my comfort zone.
It was the perfect place to touch down, to “do stuff” and chill out at the same time, to get used to being a tourist, being an outsider. And at the end of our four day sojourn, we were ready to head off for REALZ.
Towards the Orient!
xx doots
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