In five minutes, I’m heading south, way out in the French wilderness, far from civilization and high-speed internet access.
Do you know how many years it’s been since I spent 48 hours without Internet access? Neither do I.
See you at the end of the week.
When I moved in, a few months ago, I had little time to spend on elaborate interior decoration. One of the only picture on the walls was a gift from Martine for my birthday last year.
When I finally decided to put more effort into redecorating my place, I immediately thought of asking her for a few more prints: she promptly mailed me a dozen of them, which arrived last month, although I was too busy fighting deadline psychosis at the time to do much more than file them in a corner and wait for brighter days. At long last this week, I was able to shop for some framing material and start hanging them on the walls.
And they look absolutely gorgeous!
For some reason, I have a stupendously high proportion of pro and semi-pro photographers amongst friends and acquaintances, and they all have beautiful works to boast of… But some of Martine’s pictures, on top of their moving aesthetics, have this striking liveliness and journalist-like veracity that make you feel like you are standing a few feet away, inside the picture. Her pictures are the closest to a stroll through the backstreets of Tokyo you will ever get without buying a plane ticket.
If you are looking for stunning photographs to decorate your life and bring a corner of Kichijoji’s parkside coffeeshops or a wandering Tokyo commuter’s smile into your existence, here is your chance: Go pick and order now!
I take that back.
Hell, is a small but noisy rodent seemingly stuck between your bedroom ceiling and the neighbour’s floor, scuttling around aimlessly at 3am, only stopping every ten minutes to gnaw on stuff.
That critter is single-handedly squandering any tiny amount of goodwill Walt Disney may have ever earned his species.
You, my friend, have picked the wrong neighbour to fuck with. I’ve dealt with more resilient than you before.
Yesterday, I had convincingly authentic Japanese food for the first time in Paris and felt it deserved a mention here.
Issé restaurant (“tempuras & tapas”) has a soberly stylish decoration and seemingly caters to a large japanese-speaking clientele, both reassuring points when compared to the flurry of Chinese-speaking sushi chefs and horrifyingly cheesy pseudo-oriental kanji signs, customary of most other places that claim to offer Japanese cuisine in this city.
The menu there is classic, yet not stereotypical, which means a lot of small dishes, no ramen, and only a few makis on offer. Somewhere between a typical Tokyo restaurant and a high-end izakaya (lots of the same food, but less greasy): we had loads of tempuras (shiso, seafood, a bunch of other veggies… even mozzarella…), seaweed salad, agedashi tofu, and a couple other dishes. All great and tasty (ok: I reckon my agedashi tofu is better, but I may be biased) and infinitely more reminiscent of the whole Tokyo experience than many a j-food joints on rue Saint Anne.
Prices were about average to high, but very reasonable for the quality of food (around 20-30 euros/person for dinner and a drink).
And for those who ever lived in Japan: sit there, sipping an iced ohlong-cha with schochu and nibbling on edamame, and I swear you won’t be able to shake the natsukashiness away.
Sartres says “others”.
I say: “others, checking out sales at a major Parisian department stores on a hot Summer day”.
On the other hand, that satin-lined tux is so gonna get me envious looks from every last pimp in the neighbourhood.
Yes folks, satin-lined.
Damn. There goes my vacation plan to Manaus next year.
If you happen to live in France, 9pm to 10:30pm tonight is possibly the best time of the decade to:
On the other hand, if you’re looking for a quiet romantic evening, I’d stay out of Brazilian restaurants.
Anyway: we’ll be on the Pont des Arts with some fine food and a bottle of red wine, enjoying the quieter surroundings until late, quite likely all night, if Brazil’s pummelling of the French goes as planned.
Heard tonight, while crossing the Seine near Notre-Dame, where a guitarist was giving a [rather mediocre] rendition of Albéniz’s Suite española, op. 47:
Oh, honey! I know this one, that’s the Gipsy kings!
When she kissed me on the cheek on the way out, the other morning, she said I was prickly.
I think she meant I needed a shave.
And before I permanently close this exciting chapter of my life, I would just like to add…
[clears throat]
YYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrgg
Thanks.
Moving on.