We are going to Mexico, in three weeks! That’s you, me and my buddy Hugh. I am going to take many-a-picture of tacos, beaches, historical points of interest and margaritas so you’ll feel like you were part of the Mexican fiesta! Arriba!
– I’ve just checked if Arriba is Mexican; it’s Spanish, but they speak Spanish in Mexico so it’s fine Speedy Gonzales.
Mexico is equal measures exciting, and terrifying – for the most trivial of reasons of course. It is Hugh and I’s DREAM DESTO. When we discovered that Hugh has a weeklong break in February it was Mexico on our mind! Or maybe we were hungry, so more accurately; it was tacos and guacamole on our mind! After much umming and ahhing Hugh decided, and I agreed, that it was going to be too expensive to go. Instead, we planned to continue our cool, (geddit) European winter excursion to Sweden or Iceland. I felt slightly peeved. Please don’t misinterpret my dismay out of ignorance or brattiness. I would love to visit both Sweden and Iceland; however the very notion of travelling to a country with the word ICE in its official name sent shivers down my spine. I became ill AGAIN. Ill sounds so much more dramatic than sick doesn’t it? Note to self, scrap the word sick and replace with ill from now on. After the third night of Hugh waking to my sniffing and fever (again, fever, much better word than temperature) in the middle of the night he excitedly returned home from training to announce Mexico-was a-go.
Don’t you go thinking I played him; don’t be all ‘Team Hugh’ because I didn’t. I was desperately ill with a fever, and remained very positive and brave about the whole ICE-land excursion. Hugh the ‘Cold Warrior’ had quickly become Hugh the ‘Cold Man’, just as I had; but the lady version. My bikini-body quest begun, limited to three weeks I might add. I hauled my winter self out of hibernation! It was no easy feat. I’ve spent a lot of time since the temps have dropped scrolling through my Instagram feed. Flicking through #sun, #sand #tan #beach #hot ‘omg so hot’ photos, multi-tasking by flicking warm delicious foods in my mouth to ease the cold suffering. Its Gallete des rois season and everywhere I turn I see flaky almond scented pastry cakes and the promise of becoming royalty, (I am Queen in 2015 already). There are no rules for the cake kingdom that I have entered into. A Gallete des rois can be consumed each day of January, with a new King or Queen crowned daily. The kingdom is rather large. But you can see the problem. Who in their right mind would turn down the chance to become royalty in Paris, even if you do have 31 opportunities. I am happy to pen a petition to bring the ‘month of cake’ tradition to Australia and New Zealand in the depths of winter. It is morale boosting for the citizens.
Our local Galette des rois provider
Galette des nois in all its glory – sold with authentic Crown.
A King hopeful – still yet to be crowned.
On a more healthy note – photos from our Sunday night ritual. Dinner at the all you can eat sushi restaurant. It is common knowledge that sushi is still healthy even when cream cheese is involved. It is 18 euros a head, to eat as much as you like. The only catch is that you are charged 2 euros for every piece that you don’t eat, a non issue with Hugh around. We have frequented this restaurant numerous times and every time we bump into one of Hugh’s teammates with an all you can eat menu in hand. I am sure the waitresses panic when they see a group of players walk in ready to chow down on a weeks worth of salmon and rice.
Now I am going to need you to forget for a moment I didn’t share the Galette des rois photos. You’ve forgotten? Ok continue…
I’m tossing up a few extreme measures for our surprise beach vacay in the middle of winter. In Paris ‘water bikes’ are the rage. I have my ear to the ground when it comes to what the French femmes are doing to keep so svelte under their glamorous fur trim coats. Basically with the wet bike, you pay to pedal a bike in a private cabin filled with water, up to your knees, or waist? It works your stomach and legs. As it is my aim to transform into a parisienne in front of your eyes, I have decided I will try this phenomenon and report back to you. I’m sure there will be some sort of lost in translation story. Perhaps I can sneak in 20 sessions before I go to Mexico? At this present moment, my thoughts on donning a bikini with my transparent skin and rippling single ab? Concerning, I need some chocolate to calm me down.
The past week Hugh and I have found ourselves in a proper routine. We have cooked at home and spent a lot of time on our new couch. Saturday afternoon Hugh’s team played and won and we went out for dinner afterwards to ‘Bones’. It’s a seriously contemporary hip place. Dimly lit so no photos; actually, so dimly lit that I held the menu centimeters from my face. Not that reading the menu was important, it was full of ‘enchive salad with bbq celery’ and other hot right now foods. It was delicious, admittedly.
On Sunday, we got our culture on at a Mayan exhibition at Musée du quai Branly. Here’s where my head was at when Hugh suggested we visit the exhibition pre Mexico. Maya, to Aztec leads to chocolate but sadly, no chocolate, at all. I daydreamed that within the exhibition a lady would be perched in the corner with a carved spinning wooden wheel asking those who walk by, “What do you see?” I would whisper “Um, a raspberry frog” and she would present my perfect chocolate*. Aside from the lack of cacao, the Mayan glyphs were fascinating. Most of the descriptions in the exhibition were in French which as we all know by now, were not that helpful to moi. Instead I examined the figurines and bowls more than 1,000 years old. I was pleased that glass separated me from said bowls.
*if you haven’t watched Chocolat you will have missed this reference and quickly decide that I am a bizarre person.
Prior to our cultural jaunt, we hit the shops as its SOLDES time (sales). Paris sales are out of this world good. Special shout out to Cahartt for making coats and jackets for the big boys out there, but no points for their pants department. 36 leg is impossible wherever we go. If anyone out there in cyber space knows of jeans in 36 leg please help a brother out. I’ve decided to do some scoping and fight the fight for the big guys… hmm doesn’t sound as badass as I’d hoped. On our way to Le Marais, we caught the metro. I live the metro life 2/4 ,7 because I am sans car. Hugh… not so much. For those that don’t know, Hugh’s a bit of a panicker. Panicking Pete is his name so this is a particularly good story. The trains in Paris come every 1-10 minutes, but it’s rare that you are waiting longer than 5. We changed train lines and as we approached the platform we saw a train offloading passengers, ready to depart. “You’re wearing sneakers, they’re made for running” Hugh called decisively as he ran toward the train with reckless abandon. The glass doors of the platform and the carriage doors were closing and beeping loudly as we attempted to leap through. They jammed shut, sandwiching us, until Hugh yanked us both through the door. The last ‘yank’ regrettably caused a human slingshot effect and he was propelled with force onto a young ten-year-old girl sitting on a seat with her Mum. I cannot imagine how she felt as 120kg of person was thrown at her, but at a guess I would say, not good.
Hugh was very unhappy with the way I laughed and laughed, but it was classic Panicking Pete, and classic #metrolife.
P.s. wish me luck for my water bike excursion. I have visions of myself having the same luck as Ross on the spray tan episode of friends where he becomes confused by the instructions and ends up orange. God I hope I don’t flood the place.
P.P.s See you in Mexico.
Nothing screams love like Cogex…
trailing behind the Cahartt kid
The Mayan exhibition