Tips On Visiting A Country Without Seeing Any Of It And How To Abuse Room Service

 

Well, I have only one tip really and that is make sure you visit the country on work.

That way you can spend just as much time on a very rickety airbus plane, followed by a long wait for the proverbial conveyor belt to deliver your luggage upside down. You can stand at arrivals when you reach your destination looking lost and generally confused, searching for a man you don’t know, who may or may not have a sign that has your name mis-spelt on it and doesn’t speak a word of English. He will lead you to a smelly van and take you on a mystery tour to a hotel you can’t remember the name of and leave you at reception with a porter who will then take your very light luggage which you could carry yourself, up to your room and hang around looking uncomfortable whilst waiting for a tip. By the time you clock that he is in fact looking for a tip, you realise you haven’t actually got any change or what change actually is in Kroner or Kronan because you thought that Checkolsovakia was in the E.U and therefore must use euros as their currency (because you are very very silly, and not very up there in the intelligence department).

And..

Because when you got off the plane at Prague and waited some time for Mr Anonymous to pick you up, you got very thirsty with all the travelling. You saw a snack shop located very near arrivals so trudged over to pick up a coca-cola. When it came to your turn to pay, the assistant poured out a long stream of Germanic sounding words, with her tone going up at the end, which you took to mean she may have been asking a question, but you had no idea what. Panic stricken, you realised that you had to make a quick decision and fast. The options were;

a) Try speaking back in her language using similar Germanic melody and make it up as you go along,

b)Speak very bad French or..

c)Ask if she spoke English.

So, You use the little wit you have and decide on choice c). This turns out to be the right move and she replies in English as bad as the French you don’t speak. You hand her 10 euros and she gives you back change of 40 Kroner or Kronan or whatever it is. You find this overwhelmingly confusing, so as you wheelie your pink suitcase back to the arrivals area, you desperately try with your unmathematical brain to work out why she gave you a higher figure back in play money change than what you paid her with.

Hence,

when it comes to tipping the uncomfortable porter, you are not sure how much to give as you may be giving him the equivalent of 1000 pounds or euros or kronan or kroner… So you decide to ask if it would be possible to pay him later when your boyfriend gets back to the hotel..

By then you are completely Europeaned out. I mean please, I am I-R-I-S-H and I have lived most of my life in probably the two smallest islands in Europe. We don’t know much about the Euro mainland.

I have spent the past 5 months swimming freestyle in Paris and suddenly I found myself in Prague for 2 days on work with my brain completely suffocated.

After the uncomfortable and by then, slightly miffed porter left my room, I closed the door and exhaled. Time for my systematic hotel room check which goes something like this;

- Open all doors to cupboards and and drawers.

-Switch on and off all lights a couple of times, then work out the best ambiance collective.

-Airplane myself on the bed from as far a distance as the room will allow.

-Read the hotel instructions, including most importantly the room service menu.

-Take a tour around the bathroom, checking out array of complimentary smellys and lotions.

-Turn the water on and off in the bath to check water pressure.

-Make sure they have triangled the toilet paper (Why do they do that?).

-Switch on the tv and flick through the euro channels en route to the movie channel.

I found it all much to my satisfaction, and with a couple of hours till Frenchy got back from set to the hotel, I kicked off my trainers and dialled room service.

“Errr hallooooo, can I have one gin and tonic to room 215 please?” I said in my hotely voice.

Not long passed before I heard my room service knock at the door. I lay on the fabulously massive bed with BBC world news on and drained my gin whilst watching how the beavers had been set back into the lochs of Scotland on the tv.

Heaven.

Soon enough my tummy started to groan with hunger. I called Frenchy and he told me they were running late on set it would be another hour or so before he got back.

I decided I would have little snack before he got back and we ate.

“Errrr hallooo” I cooed down the phone “Couullldd I pleesseee have a prawn coctaillle to rooom 215?”.

 The room service fairy arrived again, with a little bowl containing a bowl of iceberg lettuce and 4 prawns teetering on top looking completely outnumbered amongst all that lettuce.

Not long after I had finished my lettuce, Frenchy arrived through our hotel door tired and hungry. We both giggled and yelped in an utterly childish fashion at the fancy room we had for two nights, punctuated with “Have you seen this?” and ” Look at the shower!” and “LETS GET ROOM SERVICE, I’M STARVING!!”

“Errrr hellllooooooo” I wafted down the phone receiver “Cud weeee haaave a cluuubbb saanndwich, the laaaamb cutleets and twoooo blaaaackk russssianss pleassse to room 215″.

It was a while before we got our room service this time. We waited and waited and got hungrier and hungrier. Frenchy decided to have a quick shower. Whilst he was in the shower the room service knock came at the door. I opened it to find a shiny silver trolley with a very pissed off room service waiter in the passenger seat. He rolled the silver trolley in and I stood there beaming at him, I was officially having the time of my life. I said thank you very much and he glared at me like I was the anti-Christ.

“SSSsssssssservisssssseeee is not incluuuuuuuddddded” He spat out.

My face turned a shade of pink and I guilt fell on me from what seemed like a fair height. I stuttered and apologised and ran into the bathroom with my tail between my legs.

“Have you got any change?” I asked Frenchy.

“No, why?” He replied.

“Because the guy says the service is not included”.

“I never get asked that here” He answered through a mass of soapsuds “I don’t have any change at all”.

I turned and made my way back to the room service fairy who was standing there as bold as brass and explained that we would pay him tomorrow, we had no change.

“Thissssss isssss the third time I have been up here toniiiiightttttteeee” and with that he turned on his heels swearing all the way and slammed the door behind him.

Shocked is not the word. Maybe I had taken advantage of room service, but whats a girl to do? When in Rome……

That aside, it was a brief but pleasant couple of days. We saw not much else of Prague apart from the following evening after work when the crew congregated at a beer house. We spent the evening pleasantly gluggling huge pints of czech beer, sampling huge sausages with mustard and chomping giant sized pretzels. I managed to snap a couple of shots of Prague on the way from where we were working to the beer house;

 

And because I am very very naughty, I ordered breakfast in our room again, in a room servicey kind of way on Sunday morning before we left to go home. It was a wonderful breakfast and the room service fairy did not deliver that morning. Instead a kind little lady wheeled a delightful trolley in with a good morning smile and left without slamming the door.

 

Room Service abuse.

You just can’t beat it!

The People That Live In A Fridge

Along with the many advantages and joys of being lucky enough to move to a different country, comes the wonderful opportunity to find little gems like the one I found, or rather found me this week.

Paris is known for The Louvre, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, The Champs Elysees and how could I not mention the Eiffel Tower.

But how many people know there is an old building situated in the 13th arrondissement that was given a re-birth in the 1980’s and is just as stimulating to me as visiting any of the well known Parisian landmarks?

It is the rock and roll version of the Louvre and it is called Les Frigos.

I was lucky enough for my work to lead me here this week. I had read about it on the internet and had mentioned to Frenchy that we should go and take a visit one day. We hadn’t got round to it, but fortunately this amazing building sniffed me out and lead me to its rusty doors to take a peek.

It started its life as a huge refrigerated warehouse in about 1918 as far as I can gather. There was a train that ran from Orleans-Paris carrying food supplies. The railway ran right into the heart of Les Frigos where the food would be off loaded and stored, but in 1945, the building was abandoned due to diminished supply and demand and was left for dead.

In the 80’s, it was re-born again and taken over as a massive squat to struggling artists who couldn’t afford to rent ateliers in the capital. Slowly the building started to breath again and hoards of bohemians gave the it a new meaning, spray painting the walls, inside and out. In return Les Frigos gave these artists something back, a place in which to create and express, to live and be free to do what they wanted to do.

Les Frigos is no longer a squat. It was bought over and is now rented out legally. I’m not sure how this has affected the more struggling artists as I’m sure the rent for a space in this building has now gone through the roof, but the spirit of its artistic re-birth can still be felt.

As we got to the old rusty door, I could feel a surge of excitement. There is something about this place as it sits in its concrete shoes looking old and decayed. You just know that there is something going on in there. Something exciting. Something unconventional and very much alive.

This is the entrance hallway where the mailboxes are;  

I’m sure this is not everyone’s idea of interior design, but as a space it is jaw dropping. As we walked through the corridors and up the central chimney shape with its huge concrete spiral staircase to get to the different floors, my stomach started to churn. It felt to me like a huge magnetic bohemia. A place where it was good to graffiti, a place where everywhere you turn there was self expression in its most wildest form.

The stairway, 

 

And the corridor,

 

As you walk down these corridors there are huge doors on either side, behind them lie the personal spaces of artists and musicians, free to do what they want with. Vast concrete rooms, each with a different story to tell. You can hear music coming from different areas. The floor above me sounded like a muffled night club, below I could hear a piano playing the most exquisite classical melody.

I stopped for a cigarette on the circular landing in silence. Looking up, looking down, bending my ear to try to catch every sound, craning my neck to see as much as I could, standing quite still to feel the creativity that was crammed within the walls of this place.

The space that my work took me to belongs to an art director. I was lead to his front door that had his name spray painted in huge letters on it.  The door was as you would expect the door to a massive fridge to be. A huge steel slab with a large handle on the side. My excitement grew as I got nearer to finding out the possibilities of what could lie behind. I wasn’t disappointed.

This particular person had used his Venetian culture as inspiration for where he lived. Once inside, it was like walking into a animated camp version of the Sistine Chapel. Huge murals lined the walls along with golden winged cherubs standing guard nearby. Sumptuous velvets hugged corners and embroidered wall hangings hung from the archways that separated each room. The decay of the building and the urban-jungle feel of the corridors was a complete contrast to the decadence of the way this place had been designed. It was.. it was… Well, it just was.

To give you an idea, here is a picture of the bedroom;

 

 

And below are pictures of the main room. The photos do not do it justice as unfortunately I didn’t have my camera with me, but hopefully you can get a feel of the place.

 

And just to give you an idea of how different these spaces can look, I found a picture of another at Les Frigos,

So there it is. I had to share it. It is a wonderful, exciting place and if ever you are in Paris it is well worth the visit.

After all, it could be home to the Leonardo Da Vinci of the future and who would want to miss out on that?

Shamelessly Blogging For An Escape…

 

 

 

An escape from moaning, boring myself, boring the world, boring boring BORING

boring.

I refuse to blog today about what an incredibly unlucky day I have had.

I refuse to blog about the fact that I thought the public holiday that started on Thursday, rolled over into Friday, but I got that wrong (surprise, surprise) and I was supposed to be at work.

I refuse to blog about the fact that nobody at work could contact me due to my mobile phone being completely broken, to tell me to get my ass in there.

I refuse to blog about the fact that my friend who is making Frenchy’s wigs for the shoot he is doing, called me up on my bosses work phone today. I refuse to add that she asked me to pick up the wig she finished for Frenchy but had no time to drop off. I also abstain from mentioning that she forgot that I work at a wig company too and my boss considers her competition and therefore the enemy.

I refuse to blog that she called me again on the said phone of my boss to tell me she had given me the wrong address of where to pick the wig up.

I refuse to blog that I ended up having to stay late at work due to my boss having the hump with me and therefore being late to pick up the wig for my boyfriends job… that has nothing to do with me.

I refuse to blog about the fact that when I was finally allowed to leave this evening, I had to call up the guy who was looking after the wig to tell him I was running late… on the work phone… because I don’t have a bloody Goddamn mobile..because it is ARRRRRGGhh

Broken.

I refuse to blog about the fact that my boss was none too pleased that I had to use the work phone, to sort out the enemies wig job.

I refuse to blog about the fact that when I dialled the number my friend had given me, it was a wrong number, so I then had to call her up in London to ask for the right one, then call the guy who had the wig, then call Frenchy in Prague to let him know that this is not cool.

All on the bosses work phone.

Finally, I refuse to blog about the fact that everyone thinks I am probably living on another planet and  wondering at what stage in my life did I unscrew my head.

I just refuse to blog about all that OK?

So instead I am going to escape to ridiculously, huge photos of  French vegetables..

The Round Courgette.

See how round it is? We don’t get this shape in London.  How interesting. How amazing. What a wonderful post this is.

The Tomato.

See what a beautiful shape it is? Not like the the tomatoes I am used to in London. How interesting, How amazing. What a wonderful post this is.

Another Tomato.

See how there are tones of green, red and purple running through it. Not at all like the tomatoes I am used to in London. How interesting. How amazing. What a wonderful post this is.

And finally,

The Dinner I Cooked On Saturday Night.

Fillet of pork stuffed with black olives, apricots, garlic and parsley. Dauphinoise potatoes and French (native) beans. All that was missing was a little cider or white wine reduction to wet the pork. Though we can’t afford booze to cook with at the moment, seeing as though every drop is needed to soothe our frazzled nerves.

How interesting. How amazing,

What a wonderful post this is.

The Angel Of Bullshit

Sunday afternoon, the time is I’m half past giving a shit and I am sitting in what looks like a flat that has been ram-sacked by some ridiculously untidy burglars.

Frenchy has left to fly to Prague for work and will return on Tuesday night. I am left alone with the mess and instead of getting it together and sorting it out, I choose the,I’m in denial tactic and hang out of my computer and blog moan about it instead.

I am wondering, is it just me?? or do all relationships go through times of complete .. well.. shit?? When money is too tight to mention (obviously Mick Hucknell has experienced it, but was he in a relationship at the time??).  Work and money interfere with having romantic nights out, not being able to afford anything that is even slightly considered a luxury and feeling so stressed out with us both trying to cope that by the time its bedtime, the only thing we can do is fall asleep??

We don’t have any children, so we don’t even have that excuse. I feel slightly guilty moaning about all of this, but as we pinch pennies and lose keys, mobile phones just seem to break without good reason and our home seems to inexplicably fall apart , I start to think that there could be a possibility that our Guardian Angel has taken a holiday without filling in the form to let us know, leaving the Angel of Bullshit to move in and cause havoc.  To top it off, we wake up every morning to find our 3 legged cat has once again done a big poo by the front door instead of using the litter tray, which sums up the whole point I’m trying to make here. 

We have been snapping a bit at each other, then after a brief moment of mutual avoidance, we apologise and try to remind each other that these moments are tough and we need to concentrate on getting our lives back on more solid ground.

Is it just me or are there times when there is always too much that needs sorting out and not enough time or will, to actually .. sort.

Is it just me or does the strain of both partners struggling financially cause wear and tear in the patience department?

Is it just me or do things break down in your home all at the same time? Our drain in the sink in the kitchen is completely choked, 3 light bulbs blew in one day this week leaving us in complete darkness until the following morning, PMS caused me to break several important kitchen items including our coffee maker which is the only thing that seems to get us out of bed in the morning, my set of front door keys have mysteriously been eaten up by the Bermuda Triangle that has found its way into our home, the door of the tumble dryer has broken and we have resorted to having to put a safety belt around it in order to convince it to stay shut and my mobile phone just gave up the ghost feebly, by being in my pocket whilst walking home from work in the rain.

I mean please… do me a favour.

Dear Angel of Bullshit,

Throw us one, or at most a couple of crap things at a time, because we are only human (not like you Mr Nasty), and fairs fair, we understand that life is made up of ups and downs.

Just don’t keep throwing us all the shit stuff at the same time. It’s getting reeaaally boring now…

Yours in a unwelcoming kind of way,

PPL

My Boyfriend Went To Morocco And All I Got Was This Fabulous Coke Can!!

Spot the difference…

I love it!!  

A coke can in Arabic!!

I have an embarrassing addiction to Coca-Cola. I love everything about it, including the packaging. Shameful I know..

Which has led me to start a collection of Coca-Cola cans from around the world. 

I only have 2 at the moment…. 

But I want my collection to grow, and this is why I am writing this banal post.. 

World… PPLongstocking needs your help!!

If anybody stumbles across this post and lives in a far away land that happens to sell Coca-Cola in their native script, could you please consider keeping the empty can for me and sending it off to my abode in Paris???

I have a creative plan for my collection.

I will happily pay for postage and all costs. Happily.

Yep… euh.. That’s it..

Ta,

PPLongstocking