One Night in Paris

The alarm goes off at five. I roll over and check to see if my mortgage partner is awake. Her stir and slide to the floor suggests so. I’ve now got the bed to myself. I adopt a diagonal and catch another forty winks. Knowing that I’ve lapsed into forty-two, I make a bid for planet Earth. My feet touch down and I’m taken out of space, landing heavily on gravity. How has this been allowed to happen? On this our half-term holiday, why am I up before BBC breakfast? Hell, even Theresa May is probably still asleep. Dreaming of a sliding door world where she wasn’t saddled with Brexit. A universe where she didn’t have the worst hand at the table. Where in the poker of politics, no one could tell she had a two and a seven. A place where she was nicknamed ‘The Steel Lady’ and not Maybot, the malfunctioning robot.

The reason why we were awake is because we were off to Paris. Off to Paris to saunter down the Champs Elysees with the apple de mes yeux. We were also off to see a show. Not just any show. A show that our mate was in. The Girl’s schoolfriend, Clare Halse, yet again had a leading role; this time in Guys and Dolls. 

In the programme.

We arrived at Kings Cross just before seven and were immediately thrown out of half-sleep into hyper-reality. The queues for the train were long and far. Tourists for Europe. Families for Disney. Businessmen for work. Fortunately, we were there early. (If The Girl were a Mr. Men character, she would be Little Miss Punctual.) An hour later and we were on the train heading to Paris. My reading has been atrocious this holiday so I took the chance to redress this. The material for the journey was Hologram For The King, a sort-of re-working of Miller’s Death of a Salesman by Dave Eggers. Whilst consumed in my book, The Girl came back with a treat from the buffet cart: a croissant and a café au lait. We hadn’t yet entered France, but her choice in food and boisson got me into character early. (For the record my persona for this trip would be Manuel Ennui: a philosopher, thinker and poet that through the power of a withering glance can change a person's mind.) The book was good, the company great and the journey on time. We were in Paris.

Preferring to see a city on foot, we made the forty minute journey to the hotel on our pieds. Dropping our bags off, we then made our way to a nearby café, where we waited for the leading lady to meet her public (us). We caught up with Clare on how things had been going, and it was lovely to hear how much she had enjoyed her run in Paris. After the physical demands of 42^nd Street, she’d appreciated how this role had more of an emphasis on voice than movement. It’s easy for us to look at performers and think they only do eight shows a week, each two and a half hours long, and think they’ve got an easy life. But the demands on your body are incredible. Keeping your body match fit means yoga classes, runs and vocal lessons are a must outside of theatre time.

The three of us then made our way on the Metro to Montmarte or as I nicknamed it, ‘The Bristol of Paris.’ The reason why I’ve given it this sobriquet is because it’s bloody hilly. I used to live in Bristol – more or less at the bottom of a hill. My university was at the top of the incline. Each morning I would heave my pasta belly and beer head up the slope, vowing never to mountaineer again.  But yet again here I was. Climbing up flight and flight of steps. The Girl has walked marathons. Clare dances them. In comparison I'm unfit. But it was worth putting on my walking boots because it’s such a lovely place to have a nosey.

The Catholic Church spent their money on this as opposed to Key Stage 3 textbooks.

First, we went to get some food in the Soul Kitchen. Here, the staff put pay to the idea that all French people are miserable with lovely, personable service. Clare recommended the three course special, where you get starter, main and dessert for 19 euros. I hadn’t eaten for six hours (a new record for me), so I wolfed mine down double quick. From there, we went up by the Sacre-Coeur, a Catholic church so lavish and expensive, it left me wondering why we had to share textbooks in our Catholic comprehensive. The church stands on top of the hill; perhaps as impressive though is the view going the other way. Looking away, the whole of Paris spills out before you. Astronauts say that it’s only in getting to the moon that you realise the beauty of Earth. So it was here. Sometimes things are worth climbing for. After this, we went to the Musee de la Vie Romantique where we got talking to a couple celebrating their 10th anniversary. She had been a child actor and once worked alongside Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Apparently Elizabeth Taylor's timekeeping wasn't as good as my wife's. 

The Romantic Museum is what it says on the tin: romantic and a museum.

Saying goodbye to Clare so she could go home and get ready for the evening, The Girl and me got some cheese, olives and meats, and made a picnic of our hotel room. After eating enough fromage to give us nightmares for eternity, we put our glad rags on and made our way to Theatre Maringy for a performance of Guys and Dolls. I wanted to try out some GCSE French, so I said to the Box Office lad, ‘J’ai une reservation dans le nom de Clare Halse.’ How fucking French do I sound? Someone roll me a cigarette whilst I prepare a bus strike. ‘I can’t find your reservation, Sir.’ To me, I sounded like Serge Gainsbourg; to him, Derek Trotter. Necking our drinks like Brits, we made our way into the auditorium.

I’d watched Guys and Dolls on TV at Christmas and been surprised to find Marlon Brando in it. All machismo and grunt in The Godfather and On The Waterfront, I had no idea he could sing and dance. Despite being second choice to Gene Kelly, he is surprisingly good. Overall, I liked the film without really loving it. I felt quite different on seeing it live.

Whilst the movie seems to drag in places, this production had a kinetic thrill. The transitions between numbers are sharp, unrelenting, never giving you time to think your way out of 1920’s New York. The humour has real zip too. The original script didn’t cut the mustard, so the producers had comedy writer Abe Burrows re-write it.  Long-term engaged, never married, Miss Adelaide and Nathan Detroit are hilarious creations. Nathan is afraid of commitment; Miss Adelaide longs for it. So much so she fabricates to others the strength of their love. She’s told her family they are married. Told them she has children. But Detroit isn’t ready to play husband or father. He wants to play craps. It being the 20’s, a time of prohibition and illicit frisson, he's a man married to excitement. The only thing he’ll bend one knee for is shooting dice. The challenge lies in finding a game when the police are trying to shut you down. Joey Biltmore offers his venue on one condition: Nathan pays him a $1000 retainer. Trouble is Nathan hasn’t got the money. A man he knows does though. Sky Masterson. He will bet on anything. If Nathan can just find a sure thing, he can dupe Sky into parting with his cash. Cue Miss Sarah and the Salvation Army marching band. I bet Sky couldn’t get a date with that doll? Sky shakes his hand, takes the bet.

Outside the theatre.

Miss Sarah is played by our Clare in the Paris version. Her character is one that goes on a journey from buttoned-up moraliser to revved-up firecracker. When Sky promises to get more people into the Salvation Army in return for a date, Miss Sarah relents. The scene for the date? Cuba. The stage transformation from New York streets to club Havana dancefloor is incredible. The breakneck speed of the band is mirrored in the frenzied steps of the performers. With Miss Sarah unknowingly under the influence, she sheds her shyness and loses herself to the rhythm of the night. Clare said before the show she was worried about doing drunk. She needn’t have worried: George Best would have raised a glass to her.

The Girl has three close friends from secondary school- Clare being one of them. All four are so proud of how much each has achieved; it’s just they get to see Clare at work. In 42^nd Street the singing demanded control and finesse; here though it can be unfettered and charged. In ‘If I Were A Bell’ there's an exuberant chime to her voice; the celebratory clamour of a wedding day. Most incredibly, there are moments when her voice feels operatic, demonstrating how a contained character is capable of huge, important emotions. Last time I saw Clare, I was dazzled by her dancing; this time it was her voice. How depressing to have two talents. I haven’t even mentioned her acting, which is lovely, particularly alongside grandad Arvide in ‘More I Cannot Wish For You.’

The next morning we went to Clare’s apartment for breakfast. I had croissants in a nod to my French persona, and a bowl of cereal in homage to my British one. We then parted ways, wishing her well for her last few shows.

The Girl and I made our way down to Bateaux-Mouches, which translates as boat something or other – I really should look it up. This took us all the way down the Seine, taking in the sights off The Musee D’Orsay, Notre Dame Cathedral, Louvre – and pedestrians waving. Why is it that we feel compelled to wave at people on boats? Anyone who waved at me, I waved back. I could see them smile as I did so. In turn, this made me smile. This circular reciprocation of goodwill is a strange phenomenon in a world where people are feeling more and more isolated. Maybe we just need to walk around with cardboard boats – like a Year 2 version of Moby Dick- and we’d be more welcoming to one another. The trip ended by taking us back to the Eiffel Tower, which is even more impressive from water than land. I even broke my selfie embargo to have a picture with The Girl. With the water a diamond mine, the sun a golden wonder, her in the foreground, that in the background, there really was no better place to be.

Does this need a caption?

Leaving the boat, we walked the way we rode, going past the landmarks on foot. At the end we arrived at Shakespeare & Co., one of the most famous bookshops in the world. This version was 2.0. Sylvia Beach, who founded the original, was the person responsible for publishing James Joyce’s seminal work Ulysses and encouraging the publication of Ernest Hemingway’s debut. The shop was a wonderful collision of lending library and store; in literary history though it’s best known for being a modernist hang-out, where Ford Maddox Ford rubbed shoulders with Ezra Pound. Now in its second incarnation, the store is still as characterful, boasting a staircase collection of Agatha Christie, an upstairs piano where a housecat sits, and pictures of famous guests. There’s even camping mattresses among the shelves that fold out to sleep aspiring writers. It's a booklovers paradise.

Shakespeare would approve.

So that was that. We made our way home on the Eurostar- this time though in Standard Premier. For some reason it was cheaper to get an upgrade, therefore the return leg involved more leg room and a light meal. More impressively, a complimentary beer, as well as tea/coffee service. At one point, I had a book on my knee, a beer in hand, my wife next to me and a cuppa waiting. C’etait magnifique. One night in Paris. Memories for life.