Hotel Mauberge
Rue de Mauberge, Paris

It's a little old hotel, about 7 storeys high, only a block or so from the Gare du Nord. High windows and light wood floors, breakfast not included. Yesterday afternoon we set out to walk to Notre Dame, with the rest of the masses. Walked through an interested district -- all wig and hair extension shops, and black people speaking Caribbean-accented French.

Down at Notre Dame we lit a candle for Miguel's grandma at the shrine to Sainte-Jeanne-D'Arc. Then the Latin Quarter for dinner, including onion soup and escargots and very tasty red wine. Behind the bar a happy fellow who sang along to the music and tried out different languages on the patrons. Wandered to the Palais de Luxembourg and sat by the Medici fountain, then got kicked out later by the whistle-blowing gendarmes. "Fermeture, fermeture". So then, still pretty full of red wine, we decide to find the Eiffel Tower, and walk down by the river. When we reached the tower it was lit up magnificently, but we didn't go up, as although Miguel has not been travel-sick he felt the ride sideways up the legs, in the elevator might be too much.

Back across the river, to the Metro. We discuss strategy to get back to Gare du Nord and our hotel, and come up with changing at Strasbourg St-Denis. The machine refuses to take Miguel's visa card, so we scrabble through pockets, wondering if we will have to walk our weary feet all the way back to rue de Mauberge (and when we get there, will the front door be locked) when suddenly a little woman appears in the kiosk next to the machine and everyone who has been standing around doing the same as us rushes her to buy tickets. Miguel manages the transaction: Deux personnes s'il vous plait.

This morning we were slow to start. Pere Lachaise is mentioned, to see Jim Morrison's grave, but dismissed. So, the Louvre. Seasoned now, we take the Metro. 18th and 19th C paintings by French folk turn out to be closed onSundays. This, being our driving force for the visit, invokes no small amount of gloom. La Giaconda, the ubiquitous Mona Lisa, in her new home, is surrounded by bickering Americans. Miguel wonders why I don't want my picture taken in front of her, to prove I was there. I say, "If we've got you, (which we did) I was with you so that that would prove it. And anyway, who would I be telling who wouldn't believe me?"

My favourite bit is 17th C Italian memento mori cartoons -- "Le mort surprise une jeune femme a sa toilette" Death is holding an hourglass, the young woman is primping in a mirror. We take a picture of one cartoon, and then notice the sign saying that picture taking is forbidden in this room (everyone was happily snapping the Mona Lisa, so apparently not everywhere) so we scurry off. Contemplate visiting the Egyptians, but opt for lunch. Chevre sandwich and donair, then a little church where a choir is singing.

We've been trying out our French on people. Some respond in English, but a lot have humoured us, and the waiter at dinner last night told us that the coffee Miguel likes, espresso and hot water, is called "cafe allonge". I just ask for cafe au lait, and I get what I want every time... This afternoon we sat outside at a street cafe and managed to order our respective coffes, then sat in the sun and drank them with some smugness. A wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Miguel is napping, now, but in a bit we're off to see Sacre Coeur and Montmartre. Tomorrow is back to London and on to Sheffield.

There are homeless people here, sleeping over heating grates, and fleets of young Eastern European-looking girls begging, hands outstretched and beseeching noises, outside the stations and cafes.

When we were sitting eating our lunch, outside the little church in the Latin Quarter, we attracted a flock of pigeons. I was telling them to go away, but they weren't listening. A small boy, who had been in the church with his parents, came around the corner, saw the pigeons and set to -- running wildly through the flock and kicking, saying 'waa, waa' and they all flew away.