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Chris Cleave’s novel steams along from the very first page until the end. It’s cutting, truthful, raw book that looks at the life of a woman who lost her son and husband in a terrorist attack on a football stadium in London. The book’s been in the media a lot because it was released, and all the marketing started, on the day of the London bombings.

Written in the first-person epistolary format, the narrator write a letter to Osama bin Laden about her life and her experiences pre- and post the attack. Her little boy was only 4 when he died, and her husband had the ironic job of being a bomb difuser with the London police.

It’s a poignant novel that I think has the potential to become a classic like 1984 or Farenheit 411, it’s hard to imagine what it’s like to live through the vivid, destructive, and downright emotional scene she lives through—and there’s an urgency to the writing that remains with you long after it’s finished. All in all, an excellent.

I had written this post a while ago, and now that I’ve actually walked around parts of London, taken the tube, and seen a section of town where a major part of the book is actually set, it’s even more relevant. Or maybe just more relevant to me, to my own reading experience and my thoughts about tragedy, how people deal with the awful things that can happen out of the blue and the maudlin feelings that often crop up after one hasn’t had any sleep.

We spent the last day in Paris getting ready for Dublin. I packed while Tina ran errands. The flight was delayed for an hour, so we sat in the hilariously Jetson-inspired airport for a couple of hours eating homemade sandwiches and cherries.

It was late when we finally arrived in Dublin, having passed the time on the plane reading The White Lioness by Henning Mankell. We took the bus into town and walked around trying to find our hotel. I’m telling you 90 Euros a night doesn’t go too far, but at least we have our own bathroom.

That night we had a pint and a half at the Celtic Lodge. They had a traditional band playing, complete with strange tuning and a mic that kept cutting out. There were some crazy people at the pub, including a really drunken Russian man who tried to pick up Tina, who told him her name was “Sue.” I automatically became “Barb.” We walked around tipsy-like to The Spire, a large phallic monument meant to celebrate the millennium. There we ran into some kid from Idaho who thought it was quite funny that Tina didn’t have a French accent, but she was from Paris. Heh. Being a little tipsy in Dublin was actually kind of fun.

We got up the next morning and went for a tour of Trinity College, saw the Book of Kells and then walked around. I bought a lovely woolen sweater because Ireland is cold! Not unlike the trip the RRBF and I took to California, thinking it would be super hot, we didn’t pack any warm clothes and froze our asses off.

Today we’re off to see Christ Church Cathedral. And then another church with a crypt in the basement with real mummies. Oooohh!

Dublin’s lovely, a real mixture of old and new, and parts of it feel like Yonge Street on a Saturday afternoon. I’m excited to see rural Ireland next, lots to do in the next 10 days!

We leave for Dublin tomorrow, and with no proper internet access, I might not be blogging again until I hit London. But fingers crossed I can fit one or two posts in along the way.

This morning a giant jackhammer woke me out of my reverie. Since I had a hard time falling to sleep last night, I felt like it was hitting me, not the pavement. I made a valiant effort to go back to sleep, but then a giant claw-like machine scraping at the pavement started to go to work and I gave up the dream entirely. And it’s a good thing I did—I had the most wonderful day in Paris.

There was an outdoor market in Tina’s neighbourhood where I bought some fresh cherries (yum!), a cucumber, and perused the various different clothing booths. Then I stopped off at the bakery for my usual pain au chocolat, which is just about becoming an obsession with me. What am I going to eat in Dublin? I also bought two different tourtes for dinner tonight, hopefully Tina will like them. For a brief, charming instant I felt what it would be like to live in Paris all the time, shopping at a market, buying fresh produce, eating yummy things for dinner, and doing it all in a different language.

After eating my breakfast on Tina’s veranda, I consulted the trusty Lonely Planet and headed off via the Metro to the Hotel de Ville, which faces out, and I quote, onto the “majestic place de l’Hotel de Ville, used since the Middle Ages to stage many of Paris’ celebrations, rebellions, book-burnings and public executions.” Ahem, it was slightly tamer when I was there today—they had outdoor beach volleyball set up. As a point of my good luck, I almost got beaned by a ball; it whizzed by but didn’t hit me. Had it, I would have had one hell of a black eye, and maybe even broke my glasses. Ahem.

From there I set out on what would become my passion for the day: outdoor architecture. On the way to Musee Picasso (which is wonderful and fully worth the 5.50 Euros), I stopped off at 11 – 13 rue Francois Miron, where there’s a great example of a 16th century building. Last night, I decided to spend the day in Marais, with the idea of seeing both the Hotel de Ville and the Picasso museum, but what I hadn’t planned was following the Lonely Planet‘s Marais Medieval Meanderings walking tour. Essentially, I walked all around the neighbourhood looking at really old, really cool buildings—my non-tour pit stops included: the Picasso museum, full of his minor works all donated by his family; Maison de Victor Hugo, which is free but not too, too exciting; and having lunch at the vegetarian restaurant Piccolo Teatro, where they served a gracious (ahem) helping of cabbage and quinoa (but it was good regardless).

The walk was kind of like a scavenger hunt, and each mark on the map held a building instead of something silly like a matchbook, where there was hundreds of years of interesting history. I honestly walked for miles today. The Marais is absolutely beautiful, from the Jewish kosher stores mixed in with the high fashion boutiques, to the remnants of a fortified medieval wall on the way to the oldest private mansion in Paris. And it’s funny, because I honestly didn’t set out to do the walking tour, all I had on my agenda was the Picasso museum, and I stumbled upon it while eating lunch by myself, reading my book so I didn’t feel too, too alone.

It was a marvelous day, sunny with a glimpse of a thunderstorm in the afternoon, and I can’t remember the last time I felt so honestly happy. Well, exhausted would be a better word, but I truly enjoyed myself. It’s too bad my RRBF’s at home, because he would have really loved the walk.

Ouch! My RRBF warned me not to get new shoes for Europe, and he was, of course, right. Sore tootsies at the moment after spending the day trooping around Paris. I got up bright and early this morning, and headed out the door with my fabulous pain au chocolat, an apple, some trail mix and a nectarine. Ha! You’d think there was no food in Paris. Annnywaaay, my first stop was the Louvre. Every single person I spoke to (and including my Lonely Planet guide) told me that it’s a totally overwhelming experience, too much to see, and too little time to do everything. “Pick a section and go from there.”

I went first into the Denon wing, with one singular purpose: to see the Mona Lisa. You know, it’s a wonderful painting, but with the throngs of tourists all flashing their cameras and shoving people aside so they can capture themselves beside her, it’s a bit silly. When does art become a tourist attraction in and of itself so much so that it completely and entirely detracts from the natural beauty of the object? I stood there for a couple minutes and got jostled around before I gave up and went into the Richelieu area, my section of choice. Instead of even attempting to see everything, I decided to spend some quality time with the paintings, the highlight of which (for me) was Jan Vermeer’s The Lacemaker.

From there I travelled via the Metro to Montmartre, where I had lunch at a wonderful vegetarian restaurant called Au Grain de Folie before climbing up many, many, many stairs to see the Sacre Coeur. It’s beautiful, and I really wanted to take the 234 stairs to the basilica, but while my hip might be super-duper, my muscles are most certainly not. Instead, I walked around the neighbourhood for a while, looked at all the crazy tourists getting their pictures drawn, and then decided to visit Espace Salvidor Dali.

Now, I’ve already admitted I’m not a fan of dale’s canvas work, but his illustrations, the majority of what this exhibit, are marvelous. A visionary, to say the least, dale’s interpretation of classic stories from Alice in Wonderland and the Bible, to Tristan and Isolde to Milton, are incredible. Most were ink on paper lithographs, but a lot of the biblical scenes were done in watercolour. Just wonderful. The sculptures? Eh.

I walked down the hill to Pignalle Metro station, explored a couple of stores forgetting each time to say, “Bonjour” much to the chagrin of the sales associates who are now convinced I’m the rudest girl on Earth, and am now about to eat some French potato chips and read a book. Ah, vacation!

But, ouch! I wish I had bionic toes that weren’t so very sore.

…T-two days to Ireland!

We ate traditional French crepes last night for dinner, and they were delicious. Mine had spinach, egg, tomato and onion. And then for dessert, I had liquid chocolate and walnuts. Couldn’t finish either, but certainly tried my best.

I like the French tradition of sitting at a cafe prior to diner and having a drink. Mine, of course, being non-alcoholic because I’m not supposed to drink while taking the imuran (I am certainly going to have beer in Ireland though, Tina’s friend Nicole said, “Beer’s not that bad.” LOL).

Oh! And I do have my pain of chocolat for breakfast this morning, Tina got some when she went out running this morning. Yes, she’s active, fit and in great shape. I am sleepy, tubby and bionic, which means one day, I too will finally be able to be in great shape. Now if only I had the energy to start. Today seems as good a day as any.

Sitting at dinner the other night, Tina’s ex-pat friends remarked that when they have visitors from home, they’re always amazed at that fact that they don’t spend every waking moment being fabulous in Paris. That in addition to working, they’ve still got errands to run, dishes to wash, laundry to fold; in short, they’ve got to live here, just like everyone else in the world does to some degree. So, I think I spent a pretty typical day off in Paris yesterday. I woke up so late that all the bakeries were closed so I didn’t get to have pain au chocolat (bummer!). I went to a small store, bought some fruit and some muffins, and ran a couple of errands for Tina in the rain.

Then, I napped and read for the rest of the day. It was raining hard, which always makes me think of Sylvia Plath. One of her journal entries reads something along the lines of, “When it rains, days later, poems about rain land on the desks of editors across the country.” I’m terrible at paraphrasing, but there’s something about a rainy day in Paris that makes you think about writing poetry, thankfully, I was too sleepy to do so.

Now I’m up at the crack of dawn (well, it’s 8.30 AM), and am raring to go. Today my plan is to visit the Louvre, see the Mona Lisa and only the Mona Lisa, and then take the Metro to Montmartre. In Montmartre there’s the Sacre Coeur and a Dali Museum. Not a huge fan of Dali, but Wiebke, my roommate from university would have appreciated it—she loved his work. Speaking of Wiebke, if anyone knows where she is, Hannah and I would love to get in touch.

Off I go to be a tourist in Paris. These Pumas were made for walking, and not in that gross semi-pornographic way Jessica Simpson’s boots are these days.

Well, it’s almost noon here in Paris, and I just woke up? What’s up with that? I was so tired after my long day yesterday that my body just conked out and stayed that way. I did go to the Musee d’Orsay, and it was wonderful, full of beautiful paintings and brilliant sculptures. There were a number of works by Van Gogh, which moved me particularly because of his struggles with depression and insanity. There was also a portrait of Berthe Morisot by Eduard Manet, which I stood in front of for a good ten minutes. Her story sounds so fascinating, an artist herself, Morisot and Manet were good friends and she eventually married his brother. Seems that something else might have gone on—it would be a good book for Tracey Chevalier and/or A.S. Byatt to write.

Before I got to the Musee D’Orsay, I walked by the grounds at the Louvre, listened to all the people be confused because it’s not open on Mondays, and then wonder what to do. But most of all listening to absolutely clueless people discuss architecture in ways that they just sound foolish, not that I’m an expert, but I certainly don’t make proclamations to everyone around about the switch from 15th century (the Louvre) to 16th century (the buildings surrounding the museum). Wha?

After spending a good 3.5 hours in the museum, which including having lunch by myself, something I had never done before, I walked around the Seine to Les Invalides and took a look at where Napoleon is buried. I didn’t actually make it to the crypt (by that time I was tired), so I hopped on the Metro and came back to Tina’s. I fell asleep on the couch for a while, and then Tina and I visited some friends of hers, had a wonderful birthday dinner.

Apparently there’s a group of ex-pats in Paris that form a sort of strange community where everyone knows everyone else and it’s only a matter of time before one makes the rounds. They all seem to love Paris, which is wonderful to see. We told funny stories about Canada and the United States, and ate delicious food. They drank. I didn’t (stupid disease!) because I’m saving my own imbibing for Ireland (t-three days!).

On the best part of the night last night, Tina and I went out for dinner to this little restaurant in her neighbourhood (I’ll fill the name in later, because I didn’t write it down). We had the most wonderful trout with julienne green beans, and then for dessert, I had warm bananas in a pastry with vanilla ice cream and molten chocolate poured all over it. It was absolutely marvellous. This morning, the wonderful friend that Tina, I woke up to two fresh pain du chocolat, my absolute favourite and a delicous cup of tea. You know, I’ve never eaten a bad meal in Paris, it’s brilliant how wonderful it is.

Oh, and we were talking about French Women Don’t Get Fat, and Tina was verifying that a lot of it is genetics, but that the culture over here is just as obsessed about weight and body image as we are in the west. I said it was a diet book disguised as a fancy lifestyle book, and I think I’m sticking to that original observation.

The Eurostar trip to Paris yesterday afternoon seemed like it would be a dream. When I got on and saw that I was surrounded my older couples travelling together, I know it would be quiet. But then, as with most things you tend to idealize by looking forward to so much, my excitement soon faded.

I find the seats and the trains themselves to be kind of shabby for how expensive they are, and being a single traveller, you certainly get a bit shafted—my seat was beside a mirror—the couple in front and the family to my right had much better views.

After being up essentially for a good 24 hours by that point, I was really looking forward to a nap…until the 4-year-old to my right started playing a video game. Thank goodness I brought ear plugs, they’re much better than having a temper tantrum because I’m so tired and can’t take the beep-beep-crash-beep of the Game Boy. What happened to playing a couple of games of cards? All three kids in the family took out the games and started playing even before the train even left the station.

I slept for all three hours of the trip, with a brief stop for lunch, which was lovely hummous followed by a nice dish of curried tofu in pasta. It was yummy, and the saving grace of my journey. It’s worth the tiny bit of extra money to travel upper class on the Eurostar, just to get a nice meal and not to have to eat potato chips and chocolate bars, or even the bad packaged sandwiches. Well, I’ll admit that had a dreamy quality to it, so it all wasn’t lost!

Then, the adventure really began. Tina had given me directions to her house, which is all fine and good, but I decided to take a taxi (she said it would be between 12-20 Euros). Except the taxi driver totally ripped me off. We went on a wild goose chase, pretended not to speak English when I tried to tell him we were totally lost because I’d seen the 12th arrondissment and knew Tina’s apartment had to be around there somewhere. He drove me around in circles for about 20 minutes and the entire ride cost almost 40 Euros, which is just under $100.00 Cdn dollars. Now I was mad, fuming mad! I made him give me a receipt and never tipped him a cent, but should have gotten out of the car and grabbed my luggage and just handed him 20 Euros. Tina’s going to try to get some of my money back. She’s feisty. I have hopes.

Today’s my birthday. I am officially the same age my mother was when she had the accident. My heart’s feeling totally battered and broken, and I miss her so much these days that I think I might just spontaneously turn into a puddle of salty tears. I can’t decide if I want to celebrate the fact that I’m a year older or mourn the fact that she never got to see the world past this age. Thing is, it’s so hard to because you realize that 34 isn’t all that old.

Now I just have to make sure I do something with my life that she would be proud of. These days, I don’t know if she would be, and maybe it’s because I’m just tired from travelling and frustrated with jerkoff Parisian cab drivers who take advantage of people on the day before their birthdays in a country their mother would have loved, if only she had made it to her next birthday.

Today, I’m going to the Musee d’Orsay. Have my Metro tickets burning a whole in my pocket, and have some crisp new Euros of my own to burn.