Paris

Beneath the Eiffel Tower is a big, red London Bus, apparently on its way to Picadilly but in fact stationary and populated by a delightful Parisian soiree. I am waiting for Jack to call but he is at a French theatre school so I knew there was a strong possibility of hazy timing. I pass this time drinking orange juice at the bus party, organised to promote its arrival in Paris and its availability as a venue for such shindigs. I was invited in by one of the owners because she is curious about my venture as I am about hers. Then Jack calls so I wave goodbye to my fellow passengers and set out accross the city to find him.

Just below the Sacré Cœur, Jack's studio apartment is painstakingly Parisian: battered spiral stairs, Toulouse-Lautrec posters, absinthe, crumpled bed, ancient typewriter, commode (thankfully with a real toilet underneath), bird cage (sans bird, too expensive), old chair, window that won't close, piles of books, sheet music on the walls. Its an atmospheric place to stay but Jack says it can sometimes be a little solitary and claustrophobic. I don't help matters with my big bag and sleeping cushions, which use up the very last of the available floor-space.

The drama school the next day is bubbling with manic, creative energy, the Jacques Lecoq International Theatre School. It is tucked away behind a blue door and courtyard amongst the eclectic mix of products and services that populate the area around the Chateau D'Eau Metro station. (Interesting fact: This station is the target in the Paris version of Mornington Crescent). On leaving the station you are bombarded by the hard sell, African guys convincing you to buy everything from haircuts to cigarettes, shouting at the top of the lungs. There is the same sort of energy at the school but the focus is on physical rather than vocal expression. In the main hall, everyone dressed in black, groups are performing, strange shapes are formed, faces twisted, things shouted, masks worn. I usually don't have a whole lot of time for theatre that takes itself too seriously, but here you can't help but be swept up in the enthusiastic atmosphere of total commitment. The school is guarded and administered by the wonderfully prim Marinne. Her neat grey hair and conservative skirt and blouse are in marked contrast with the vast array of styles emerging, sweating, from the workshops.