A Hangover-Free Trip to Paris

Paris from the Tour Montparnesse - A city that's always holding something back.

We went to Paris last year for a friend's wedding. We spent the afternoon before the wedding walking along the Seine and wandering around Montmartre. For the morning after the wedding, we had big plans: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame, and on and on the list went.

Then we stayed late at the party, drinking and dancing until they closed the place for the night. We didn't stop there, but stood outside double-fisting our roadie drinks with the bride, groom, and a few party-hard guests until enough was enough and we all went to bed.

We were too hungover to do anything other than call the lobby for a late checkout. It was a classic, brutal reminder that one of the things you lose in your 30s is the ability to metabolize enough alcohol to able to function the next day. We were functioning just enough to catch our flight that evening and not get kicked off.

Last weekend, we returned to Paris with a chip on our shoulder and a powerful determination to do the things we were too stupidly hungover to do. We might have overcompensated – Kata's pedometer phone app said we walked 22km on the first day.

We walked around Park La Villette, along a canal to the Battle of Stalingrad Square and witnessed a 11am trance dance party We continued down to Notre Dame – avoiding the line-ups and walking around it, then walking around the island itself. Then we just kept walking. Over Pont Neuf, through the Louvre's courtyards, into the sun-scorched Tullieres, all the way to the Obelisk in Place do la Concorde. We had crepes and cold drinks at a square with a Gothic church, then went scarf shopping for Kata, then dinner at a Brassiere in quiet neighbourhood.

The weather was sunny and warm, so we opted to stay outside instead of going into dark, air-conditioned museums, and marched and marched and marched through Paris. 

We did venture into one museum the next day. Kata insisted we see the inside of the Grand Palais, so we saw Artists & Robots, which wasn't on our list of things to see but turned out to be an interesting wide-ranging modern art exhibition of sculpture, paintings, and installations that combined people artists with robots, technology, algorithms, and artificial intelligence. As we watched robot arms drawing still life sketches and hexagonal floating things, I leaned over to Kata and mentioned this was an amazingly thought-out exhibition. She, who lived in Paris on a university exchange, smiled knowingly, patted me on the cheek, and said, "They're good at that here."

And on we walked that day, though we took it easier – my phone said we only clocked in 12km. We walked to the Arc de Triumph, then onward to the Eiffel Tower where, because we were seriously sore-footed, we found a shady spot to rest in the shade and look at the tower and watch the drink sellers ply their trade. But once rested, we continued our march through Paris, to some cafe and then to take in the view of the city from Tour Montparnesse, then a hearty brasserie repast.

Despite all the sights, we didn't get to do everything that Kata wished for us to see. Had the weather been less favourable, we would have gone to a few art galleries – Louvre, Palais de Tokyo, Musee d'Orsay – on our mental checklists. Had we gone to the galleries, we would have lingered and savoured it all and not have pounded as much Paris pavement as we did.  

But as with so many things in life, you can't do everything, though between restful moments of bliss over cold drinks or fine food, we certainly tried. There always seems to be something to see in Paris, but I also got the sense that it's a city that holds things back, so you're left with wanting to see a little more. I'm okay with that.

SUPER INTENSE TRANCE PARTY AT 11AM
AT BATTLE OF STALINGRAD SQUARE!!!!

Some church.

Photographing the mind of an artist that is a computer.

The Arc within the Arc de Triumph

Tourists in Budapest

Taking in the Danube from atop Gellert.

We had less than a day in Budapest, so we left our hotel and went for a walk, heading south towards Gellert Hill.

We went along the Danube on the Buda side, strolling beside the river, avoiding bicyclists, dodging rollerbladers, weaving past tourists stopping to snap photos of the Hungarian Parliament Building across the river – and pausing to snap our own. Then under the Chain Bridge, through a side street, browsing in a small design shop, until finally reaching the foot of Gellert Hill.

We climbed the switch-backing paths, catching glimpses of the city below, and savouring the spring flowers. We were hungry when we reached the top, but we still lingered to appreciate the view.

Then we walked down the hill, through the park on the backside of Gellert and, without really meaning to, we went to a touristic, Hungarian restaurant.

The restaurant looked traditional. There was a big, old ceramic furnace in the corner and red,table clothes with traditional Great Plains-ish patterns draped atop the tables. Even the waiters seemed authentic –  grumpy, old men in white shirts idly walking around and waiting on the three occupied tables, but mostly trying unsuccessfully to look as busy as they could in a not so busy restaurant.

We sat down, ordered our food. My novice food-ordering Hungarian language skills seemed to brighten the grumpy waiter's mood. We even earned a further nod of approval when we ordered a bottle of Kadarka.

When our food arrived – which was delicious, by the way – a traditional Hungarian band was tuning up. Why would a band get ready to play so early? we wondered.

At 6:03pm, they started playing a Hungarian folk tune that sounded familiar from my years spent living above touristy Hungarian restaurants with outdoor bands on Vaci utca. At 6:04pm, a table beside the band abruptly stood up and left while the band played, eliciting an angry, hurt, surprised reaction from the first violinist.

At 6:05pm, a busload of Chinese tourists filed into the restaurant, occupying every spare table. The grumpy old waiters lept into action, taking orders and bringing drinks. As the band played, most of the tourists stared longingly into their phones. Some did talked among themselves. One old lady put her head in their hands and dozed off.

The band started playing the Blue Danube – the 2001 song... the spaceship one, not the bone smashing song, which is not a dinner-eating tune –  as the grumpy old waiters hustled from table to table, bringing food to tables filled with filled to delighted tourists. Even the dozing old lady took her head out of her hands.

The familiar tune was treated with indifference. The tourists remained glued to their phones  as they ate or poked suspiciously at their nokedli, while the violinist strolled up and down the aisles, playing his violin solo.

The dessert was served and the the band took a break. They smoked outside and sipped water at the bar. While the grumpy old waiters to carried away the plates, we drained our wine, settled our bill – which brightened our grumpy waiter's mood – and walked into Budapest's gathering dusk.

One of the prettiest parts of BP is the other side of Gellert Hill.

Britain's Blizzard... or Brizzard?

Western Europe's and Britain's recent snowpocalypse and the total chaos it caused over the weekend reminded me of an experience similar to that country's recent wintry woes.

While I was working in the dark world of tobacco advertising, I was sent on a business trip to Bristol with a few colleagues to make a few presentations. We managed to line up the trip for a Thursday, so we could spend the weekend in London.

We arrived at Luton Airport on Thursday morning to chilly, soggy weather – nothing unseasonable. This weather held up through the two-hour drive to Bristol and an entire day of meetings, a client dinner, and an evening of refinements on the presentation.

The next morning, I groggily awoke and parted the curtains.

Bristol gets a real taste of winter.  

The city was blanketed with a few inches of snow, which was still coming down. As I sipped my third coffee in the hotel restaurant, I watched people slip and slide through the snow as they stared at the winter wonderland around them. Cars fishtailed as they turned, slid as they hit the brakes, and spun their wheels with their feeble all-weather tires.

For Bristol, it was a snow day. The city's authorities told everyone to stay home. The trams stopped running. The client's office was closed. We held the client presentation huddled on couches around my lap top on a coffee table in the hotel bar for the two clients who braved the snow.

As we drove back to London in a hired car, we saw the first evidence of the existence of snow plows in Britain – the highway was clear, though there were few other cars enjoying the salted and cleared the road.

All weekend in London, the snow continued to fall. I went spent an afternoon in the Tate Modern, so my shoes could warm up and dry out. I went from pub to cozy pub with a Londoner friend, where other Londoners had escaped to drink liquid warmth by the pint. I walked down semi-empty sidewalks and slushy, snowy, unplowed roads. The only places that were reliably open all weekend were the Indian restaurants, the pubs, and curiously, the White Chapel Market.

By Sunday, we arrived to the airport hoping the Brits had learned to handle the snow, we were somewhat disappointed. The snowplows were struggling to keep the snow off the runways, delaying flights. The airport personnel let us and our fellow passengers outside onto the tarmac, unaware the flight crew was still de-icing the plane. We shivered outside in the wind and snow, waiting to be admitted onto the airplane. When the airplane took to the air, I clapped and a few other passengers joined in. We had escaped.

Spending a weekend in Britain during a snowfall, or "snowstorm" as they call it, is like living through the first day of snow in Canada – drivers forget how to drive, snowplows take a while to get to the streets, people discover they haven't put on their snow tires.

In some countries over here, a serious snowfall comes once every few years, so they're institutionally unprepared for it and most people aren't sure how the handle the snow. It's like our first snow of the winter on a near-collapse-of-society level.

Canadians – and some hearty American states – have the advantage of having a few more snowfalls to deal with throughout the year, by which time we've forgotten how to deal with snow again and we're all clueless about how to drive, walk, breath, et cetera. 

That being said, there are few better places to spend a snowstorm than in a cozy pub in England.