Encore du Paris

The ghost flits past me and down the alley to where an old man digs in a flowerbed, watched by a girl in period costume on a second floor balcony. A small scene from a piece of street theatre, for which I was a guinea pig audience member. The walk took us through tiny streets, into carefully manicured gardens, over and along the Seine, into a church, a block of flats and finally back to the Seine again, where we wave as the tour boats chug past.

By the river, on the far bank, a man sags against a low wall, occasionally bending to slowly sip from a bottle in a bag. On our side a couple embrace passionately. Theirs is by no means a youthful romance, it has the look of a clandestine affair but I am probably jumping to conclusions. It started with a kiss but I never thought it would come to her wrapping her legs round him like this, like a public game of bench twister. There is no doubt that the French are not averse to public displays of affection, a cultural difference that is bound to impact on the psyche of the nation.

While my clothes are taking a spin in the laundrette I have walked up the stairs to the Sacre Coeur. I meet Ba-Kong, a South Korean guy travelling alone through Europe. He doesn't speak very much English, let alone French or Italian. Its a pretty brave thing to attempt but he has survived so far, though confesses he is quite scared. Back by the washing machines an old man stares at his rotating laundry, until I make a comment, perhaps about the weather. We converse for the duration of a thorough drying cycle. I struggle to cope with his polemical French, I fear sometimes that his opinions are less than open-minded but I am occasionaly forced to just nod, hoping that I am not agreeing with anything too far to the right. He looks away while I hurriedly get changed into my clean clothes then bid him goodbye. The neighbourhood around us is predominantly Ghanaian, festooned with barbers shops that are themselves festooned with wigs of every possible size, shape and colour. Perhaps this is the cause of the balding Frenchman's discontent.

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.

Brest - Paris

The elderly lady on the bus this morning doesn't like sky scrapers. I show her the map, pointing out Exeter, she asks if there are many planes there. I say no and she nods approvingly. There are alot of such buildings near where she lives on the suburbs of Brest and, as she says she grew up on a farm, I can understand her dislike for them.

Kite-surfing is Kevin's main passion but he is on his way to Paris to meet his second, his girlfriend in Paris. It is a good story and he is a great interviewee but as with so many people I am nervous when I initially approach him. My brain is constantly telling me that the person I'm approaching looks uninterested or will be unfriendly. I run over possible openers in my head, glance over a few times hoping to catch their eye and feel courageous at the same time and then suddenly I am speaking without even realising it. I know that's a cliche but honestly, it feels like closing your eyes and the next thing you know you're plunging over a cliff. I am continually surprised by the beginnings of these conversations, because my mouth just seems to start talking on its own. I have to admit this whole paragraph sounded a little more manly in my head, but its true.

Speaking of manly, Herve is from the French navy. I'm amazed that he is OK to do an interview, considering the reluctance of all train personnel. I ask what the navy is like, relating my some of my own small experience of life on board ship, and he concurs that it is similar. Having talked about the less than strict standards of fidelity among sailors, I am embarrassed when he then mentions his girlfriend. He's just joined up and she is finding it hard, but he says that is just something she will have to get used to. The ship is currently based in Brest but Herve is looking forward to travelling abroad, the main reason that he joined.

The dining car is a hive of activity, not unexpected considering that it serves food that is enjoyable to eat. I am joined by five apprentice train drivers. One is initially keen to be interviewed but another warns him from associating with the press. I put the recorder away and talk about their studies, that they are going to complete in Rennes. I say that I have never met any trainee train drivers in England, which they ascribe to the fact that English train drivers never actually learn how to drive.

Another man is having a heated phone conversation about money, small, wiry with patchy grey hair and big glasses. I have a feeling its a messy divorce because he shouts down the phone for a few moments then sits before his anger crescendos again and he bangs the train walls and looks near tears. Then he realises he is on a train and sits once more, rubbing temples, shuffling papers.

In Brittany the landscape has been beautiful, sunlit hills and beautiful towns, dominated by huge castles and churches. As we near Paris it does become more dull but after Le Mans the train accelerates to over 300km/h and landscape, boring or otherwise just becomes a blur.

Charles, a consultant returning from a meeting with a client and frequent train traveller, is looking forward to the rugby. We have an in depth discussion on many different issues but at the end I eschew my usual wishes of good luck and all the best, because I would prefer that he watches an emphatic English victory. (Charles - I'm very slightly sorry that your trip to Paris may have been a slight disappointment. Hindsight Ed.)