Je Ne Parle Par Francais

When I was 19 years old, I went to Paris. I did all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re in Paris – at least, all of the free things. I ate snails, I saw the Eiffel Tower, or Tour de Eiffel, if you will ( I know French things); I saw the Moulin Rouge; I visited Pierre La Chase cemetery, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Tuileries, Versailles. And I did it all while pressing through crowds of tourists, the nasal whine of over-privileged American teenagers piercing the summer haze.

But do you know what I remember most vividly about those few days in Paris? An antique chair sitting in a shop window in Montmartre, with a wheel of rotating artificial tongues in the seat like an anatomical ferris wheel.

And it’s still there, friends.

Eight years later, I was in the city of love with Buckle. We went to Versailles, ate pistachios and pretended to appreciate history. We went to the Musée de l'Orangerie, ate ice cream and pretended to appreciate art. We went to Le Musée des Arts Forains and rode a penny farthing carousel.

Ours was an epic journey across Paris consuming all foodstuffs in our path and leaving only crumbs in our bloated wake, the last syllables of “Do you have an English menu?” still ringing in the air. If the French call the orgasm ‘the little death,’ what is that moment of quiet reflection  after you’ve inhaled a plate of potatoes roasted in rosemary and duck fat?

A Notable Absence

Another notable absence- the scoundrel! – but hear me out, why don’t you? We moved country. We moved time zones, continents, hemispheres. We arrived from the bright, eternally effervescent sunshine of Queensland to London for reasons unknown. Because the option was there, and why not?

Seizing opportunities, we made a couple of stops during our transatlantic travel. The first destination was chosen out of convenience more than any sense of exotic wanderlust. Is there an international flight out of Australia without a stop over in Singapore? We stayed in a converted opera house in the middle of Chinatown and swooned under the humid vibrancy of the heaving street life.

The evening we arrived, Buckle was on a quest to consume as many dumplings as his puny mortal vessel would hold. Tim Ho Wan is the cheapest Michelin star restaurant in the world, and therefore the only Michelin star restaurant the likes of me will ever be welcome. Famous for dumplings, their menu is a pictorial encyclopaedia of the little bundles of warm, delicious joy.

Obviously, you can’t visit Singapore without eating at least one chilli crab. Even people picked up by immigration at the airport are fed a spicy crustacean before being forcible ejected from the country. And understandably, because chilli crab is everything. Everything. Fragrant and juicy, it leaves your mouth tingling and your lips numb

We caught a taxi across the city to visit the Singapore Botanic Gardens. Like Dubai, and other young business centres, Singapore is filled with strange architectural trophies-come-skyscrapers. Misshapen altars built to the gods of economy.

The gardens sat in the middle of it all – nestled amongst the concrete and smog. Stream rose off the plants and settled in our lungs as we watched the orchids, hanging from their stalks, dance in the breeze like delicate marionettes. All except one little pot of brown and maroon flowers sitting on a stump, with a little plaque reading, “Lady Margaret Thatcher.” I heard once that children grow into their names and it must certainly also be true of flowers because those orchids had the look of a plant planning some strict reforms.