A short sojourn

Have you been missing something in your life? The short, pithy, effortlessly wry commentary on the life of a young woman you may, or may not, know? Well fear not, luvvies, after a wee holiday I have taken off my travelling boots and been recalled to both my cyber duties and my Tiny Town.
While my trip did start off with a work-oriented tour of two of the lesser-known cosmopolitan hubs of the UK (Bradford and Hull, anyone? Think Billy Elliot without the hot men in chicken suits), after that things got a little more exciting. Why? Because, after stopping in London to collect two friends, I went to Paris for the weekend. That's right, you heard it. Paris. Me. Weekend. Friends. English-speakers.
Bliss.

We had SUCH a great weekend, truly, it was everything a Parisian experience should be: we laughed; we cried; Companion No 1 got the squirts; we bought him lemonade; we laughed again (with him this time, instead of at him), and so on; it was just very, very fun. To this day, I'm not entirely sure what we spent our time doing; I'm pretty sure that we just indulged in incredible food while sipping on the better part of a vineyard. The time in-between must simply have passed in a digestive haze.

One thing I do recall, however, was my absolute highlight: the Centre Pompidou. For those of you even considering heading to gay Paree, you simply must go - I'll never communicate with you in pseudoanonymity again if you don't. It's a contemporary art centre that houses a permanent exhibit, films, galleries, etc, and it's simply amazing. It has a fab collection of art post-1905, and has a huge focus on both great curatorship and public accessibility - when I was there, it was busy with a lot of school groups, some aged about as young as five.

Now, I love the little people (not in the way they're saying Bill Henson does, but you get my drift), but as a rule, the combination of chiddlers and contemporary art does not a happy Her maketh. However, the Pompidou simply has to win best practice as an art space that not only engages the public, but inspires and entertains the most finicky of audiences. Hell, I even saw teenage boys in there who weren't speaking Gruntish.
It was just the perfect balance between both traditional gallery presentation and interactive sectors: a personal favourite of mine was the very fun Galerie des Enfants (my French is bad, but I do know that means the 'kid's gallery' ... I'm sad to say that building blocks were involved), but the whole centre was just incredibly well presented and run by people who seemed so passionate about what they did. Definite points, Frenchlanders.

However, after spending four days with mates from home, it was a bit dire to catch my train to Belgium on Sunday, even though I'm heading back to Melbs in the not-too-distant future. I woke up this morning, thinking about my first day back at work and how far I was from home, and had the distinct, sickening, feeling that somewhere in the night part of my bowel had been removed. Did my friends take it back with them on QANTAS? I thought I just gave them some excess luggage; perhaps it would have been more socially acceptable for them to take my heart instead ...? Oh my, alone again, alone again, jiggedy jog.

On second thoughts, perhaps it was just the duck tartare.

Quack quack.