PariBerlis

18th of February I took a night train to Paris, beloved Paris.
I arrived at such an early hour that my conscience stopped me from calling my host. Hence, I spent some hours in the train station, too tired and unmotivated to go out into the cold. As I live in the south of france, I had completely failed to notice the fact that it was winter, and had brought nothing more than a spring jacket.
As I was quietly eating the macaronis with carrots that I had brought, someone started talking to me. Which could have been nice, if it wasn't for the fact that he had a slight desperation in is way. After having fought him off, in a verbal manner, I asked myself if I was wrong or right in reacting like this towards a "too" social behaviour.


After a couple of tired, blurred hours the radio-voiced man called me, and after a brief description and several confused text messages I courageously found my way to 41B on Rue something something. Greeting me was not mr Spy, but an altogether high-spirited italian girl. Familiar to me since several pleasant occasions before.
We decided to take a stroll, and find the previous residence of la Môme, also known as Edith Piaf. So we did, and we also seized the opportunity to be excessively french; buying some delicious pâtisserie on the way back. Feeling somewhat less french and a tad more touristy taking a picture of ourself eating previously mentioned in the middle of the street... but anyway
My love for cemeteries got enforced after a visit to the famous Père-Lachaise. There found personalities of several different genres, namely Oscar Wilde, Morrison and Frédéric Chopin.
Oscar's tomb was surprisingly modern, and covered with thousands of red mouths from never ending admirers. I find it somehow comforting how a man of brilliance, despised and hunted down in his day, at least receives such a considerate amount of love some hundred years later. Though it is not much of a comfort for him. (As he is dead, after all..)

Paris was beautiful, as always. And whatever people tell me, about the dirt, the people, the stress: Je m'en fiche.


Next stop: Berlin.

First thing that hit me, was that everything seemed wide, big, and cold. The first meal we consumed was, ironically enough, exaggeratedly american donuts and hot chocolate. Yummy though. Next to us was a group of british teenagers, that filled me with several and not necessarily compatible sensations: 1 British accent is bloody irresistable 2 Teenagers are bloody insupportable.

As my memory already starts to fail me, I am not able to give a detailed account of the entire visit, I will instead give a short selection of diverse and random grains of memories:

How we didn't find Clara, and Clara didn't find us. It was raining. I was désesperée, and annoyed. But somehow destiny brought us together.

All the Back Street Boys posters in the subway. At one moment we started singing Back Street's Back ALRIGHT at the exact same time as some other random strangers.

How we managed to visit no less than THREE H&M in the capital of Germany.

The scrumptious and innovative drink (cherry, banana, raspberry vodka?) accompanied by contradictory and painfully but wonderfully nostalgic Kent from 1995.

How a big team of running, threatening, but somehow infinitely comical policemen attacked our three male companions. And how we, not knowing whether to laugh or be afraid waiting innocently next to an indian restaurant. (Being uncomfortably eyeballed by dodgy boys)

How an involuntary and expensive visit to a tacky but seemingly popular dance club somehow turned out to be a rather delightful evening.
Did anyone ever see Myleen dancing to Hiphop ?


How Karin fell asleep in Starbucks.


Back in Paris I felt odd, but was quickly carried by the wind, as dear Olivier was his old overly positive self.
Despite some cryptic personal crises, some wonderful moments were passed, and some important works of art were seen (louvre, at last), as some important fights were won (how i missed you, tekken)

Fragonard