Training in Paris

Despite it all seeming like a bit of a jolly, I would argue that this weekend’s trip to Paris did actually involve some useful training & toughening up for the trip to Nepal, and thanks to the wonders of technology I’m able to update this blog whilst whizzing through the English countryside courtesy of Virgin’s in train wifi service.

So how did a weekend away to Paris help training, I hear you ask incredulously. Well, for a start there was the yomping.

When packing, we had forgotten to properly check the weather forecast, so having assumed it would be the same cool grey we’d left behind in Blighty we were carrying only warm clothing. It was a bit of a shock arriving to 30+ degrees and blazing sunshine. This was further accentuated by

  • A heavy bag
  • A complete misreading of the metro map
  • A near messianic mission on the part of Chrissie to get to a particular children’s clothes shop, which was only open on the Saturday we arrived (having arrived in the afternoon)

So putting all that into account, I think we can tick off trekking with heavy loads in heat as part of the training plan.

Oh and the hotel room was on the fifth floor, with the kind of caged lift you’d rather not frequent. Particularly as this one had the size and ambience inside of a velvet lined coffin – I think I’ll take the stairs, thank you. Tick off lots of ascent / descent from the training plan.

That out of the way, we had a lovely meal in the evening at a Au Tournebievre, a place I can thoroughly recommend, followed by a lovely lunch at Les Ombres the next day, with a great view of the Eiffel Tower

By this time though the weather had turned a touch – complete deluge and the temperature dropping 15 degrees. Tick off dealing with large changes in climate from preparation list.

Unfortunately, later that afternoon it appeared I’d caught something nasty, which as the day wore on turned into something very nasty. Let’s just say it was the gastric equivalent of hurricane Katrina rather than Katia, and rated a 7 on the disarmingly blunt Bristol Stool Scale.

This pretty much put the kibosh on plans to go to Chair de Poule, a cafe / bar of a cousin of the legendary Paperjam, whom I spent a pleasant (drunken) evening with a couple of years back during a banger race around Europe. Probably a good thing really, as it is in the achingly hip Oberkampf part of Paris, so my middle aged paunch is probably not welcome.

So, interesting intestinal diseases also ticked off the list of possible challenges to cope with.

I’m still feeling ropey now, and not sure where it came from. Possibly a steak tartare too far?


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