Paris, it all started with a tampon.

That's right, but let's not get ahead of ourselves here. 

After two hours on the Eurostar I arrived at Gare du Nord station. The cultural differences were instantaneous. French signs, French music coming from the French speakers and of course French men, in particular hot French policemen with their sleeves rolled up and bad ass tattoos. Me likey.

I lined up in the cab rank and took out the address of the apartment. A young guy thrust open his boot and ushered me to come forward, yanking my luggage off the sidewalk and into his cab. 

"Parlez-vous anglais?" I asked clumsily.  

"A little." he said

"I'm going to 205 Saint Germain Boulevard sil vous plait."

He nodded and we sped away. The ladies and I chose to rent a small apartment in Saint Germain because we had been told that it was the most chic district in Paris, who can argue with that?

After winding through many quaint Parisian roads and briefly spotting the very tip of Eiffel Tower we arrived at Saint Germain Boulevard. I slipped the driver some euro and then stood in awe of the huge mahogany door in front of me. 

I'm hereeeeeeeeee!! Yippppeeeee! Parissssss!

So the caretaker didn't speak any English and it didn't help that I didn't speak any French.

"Erm, Parlez-vous anglais?" I said once I finally managed to enter the building with all my luggage.

"Non." she replied with a shrug.

Problème numéro un of renting privately instead of staying in a hotel abroad is that it is very likely that no one will understand you.

After a few moments of shared confusion a young boy came out of the caretakers door and stood by her side. He spoke "a little" English and with what he did know he told me that I was the first to arrive for the apartment on the top floor. Great! I though, I get first pick of the bed and some time to settle in before the girls arrive.

He handed me a large brass key and ushered me to another doorway framed by two red columns. I let out a little squeal, a red carpet how fancy! He walked ahead of me not bothering to hold the door open while I dragged my luggage in behind me. Dick.

"Leave your case here, I'll show you first." he said pointing up the stairs.

 I wasn't completely comfortable with leaving all my luggage but since they were so heavy and double locked I figured that no one would bother stealing them.

It didn't dawn on me that there was no elevator option until the 8th flight of stairs. The boy remained quiet and moved at a steady pace as we both continued to climb what seemed like an endless amount of floors. By the time we reached the top I was exhausted like I'd just done an hour long crossfit session (I've never actually done crossfit but I'd imagine this is what it would feel like).

"How many stairs?" I asked trying not to sound completely out of breath and like I was about to keel over at any moment.

"Ah umm." he said searching for the English translation as I tried to search for my legs which had now gone numb.

"142." he stated. I looked down the middle and couldn't even see the red carpet that lined the first five floors. I'd officially pasted chic Parisian and entered the servant's quarters.

After he showed me how to open the door to the apartment he disappeared. I thought the chances of him going back down to collect my very heavy luggage and bring it up to my room was slim to nil. That didn't stop me from praying he would anyway.

This prayer included half a bottle of wine on my new French balcony!  Yep just make like the Europeans and drink all your problems away.

The problem with drinking is that sooner or later you need to use the 'facilities'.

Hmm, strange grinding noise followed by hollow gurgling noise, I may not be French but I do know that this is not the sort of sound that a toilet should make.

But that's not my problem for I am in Paris for 10 blissful days and nothing can rain on my fabulous French parade.

And with that I downed the rest of my glass of wine, rolled up my sleeves and dragged my suitcases up every one of those damn steps.

As you know, cross fit of any kind, is hard work and soon I was ravenous! There was only one thing on my mind after that. Cafe au lait and croissants...

After wandering a block away from the apartment I was tempted by a stunning assortments of cakes and croissants in the window of a popular patisserie, Maison Pradier. The deal was 1 cafe, and 1 croissant ou pain au chocolat for 2,50 so naturally I got two...

And a ham & fromage baguette. 140 steps ok! ok!

At around 4 pm the girls messaged me to say that they were on their way so I began to stroll back to the apartment, passing a cluster of food shops on the way. 

On the boulevard adjacent to where I was staying I found a lovely little supermarket. I took it upon myself to get some wine and nibbles to stock up our pantry. Delicious, smooth French wine only 5.45 Euro! 

As I approached the bottom of the never-ending staircase with my groceries, I decided to look at the positives instead of the negatives.

1. If I will be eating this much bread and cheese it is only fair that I work it off somehow
2. I'm less likely to run down and buy midnight snacks in fear that I won't make it back up again
3. The more steps you have to take to your room the better the view hey?

I wasn't in the apartment long before I heard familiar laughter making its way up the stairs. I grabbed the brass key off the table and walked out to help them. As I went to shut the door behind me I heard a strange noise coming from the 'facilities'.  

4. I'm in Paris, and when you're in Paris all is magical and everything goes as smoothly as can be.

We will just see how long that theory lasts shall we.

TBC...

10 Things I Have Learnt in London...

My time in London concludes at a Starbucks on Brompton Road. I ask for a long black and receive a confused look from the cashier, a cute barista takes over and asks me what it is that I'm after exactly. I explain that its coffee but without the milk, he smiles and presses a paper cup against a machine and then gives me what they refer to as just 'black coffee' for free despite trying to give him a five pound note.

"Same, same but different." he says smiling then resuming his busy barista duties. 

After connecting to the free wifi and scoring a seat overlooking the amazing Harrods building I start to ponder the 10 main things that I have learnt during my time in London. 

10 Things I Have Learnt in London...

1. For those of you who are looking to travel to London or even thinking about moving here London is a very, very expensive place to live. For example, a coffee at popular café chain Costa (similar to Gloria Jeans) costs 2.45 pound, sure $2.45 ain't bad for your morning soy cap but when you're hit with an exchange rate of 1.8 you're actually forking out $4.43 Australian dollars, that's almost double! All I'm saying is that if I'm paying a small fortune for a latte the cute English barista better come with it. 

2. Everything is expensive except for alcohol. Not only is it cheaper than in Australia, it's even more accessible as well. There's no need to waste time hunting down an open bottle shop on a Friday night, just kill two birds with one stone and pick up a few bottles of tequila next time you’re rushing into the supermarket to buy party food. Only have a crumpled twenty in your wallet? no sweat this will get you enough booze to intoxicate an entire university. 

3. Londoners think that all Australians love avocado and poached eggs for breakfast, unlike the 'all Aussies ride kangaroos' myth this generalisation is pretty spot on. Show me the avo!

4.  Shopping in London is a million times better. Last Autumn in Australia I set myself a mission to buy the perfect leather jacket. I was willing to fork out a small fortune to get something that was the perfect fit and a good investment. To my inner fashionistas dismay I spent nearly the entire season looking for something, anything! By the time I found one Winter was almost over. On my first day in London I walked into at least five stores with countless styles of  leathers, the next one more amazing than the last. I know where I’ll be shopping come next pay check…online! All Saints you're my favourite for leather jackets, please come to Australia!

5.   On a Saturday night in Soho you’ll find more men then the entire male population of Sydney. Dear Sydney, please pick up your game ASAP! x

6.  Autumn in London is like Winter in Australia but colder! How is it possible that one day I’ll step out covered in every piece of clothing in my suitcase and the lad sitting next to me on the tube is wearing nothing but a football jersey?

7.   Keep to the right, KEEP TO THE RIGHT. If you're brave enough to catch the Tube (London's main form of transport around the city) there's only one way or the highway. When standing on all escalators you must keep to the right unless you want to be trampled on by commuters. 

8. You okay? You alrigh'? My fellow Australian shopper, the sales person isn't asking you if you are okay because look sick or tired or poor, "You okay?" or "You alrigh'?" are common English greetings, the same as "Hi, how are you today?" Don't worry, their motive as sales people are still the same as ours, they all mean I hope you buy lots of shit so I can smash my budget and go to the pub. 

9. The pub is the best place in the world. See number 3 for one of the many reasons why. Come on who doesn't dream of drinking a beer the size of their face?

10. Although the temperature can drop to below freezing, ever since the first time I visited London there has been something about this city that sets my heart on fire. The buildings, the shopping, the big red buses and the opportunity to do or be anything. There's plenty of reasons why you'll find so many Aussies working hard to live in this unbelievable city. 

Although my time here is up I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll be back someday...maybe even to live, provided I know where I stand with the locals on the elevators. 

Oh I almost forgot, maybe the best thing about London is it's strikingly close proximity to Europe. 

Paris - I'm looking at you!

Tea Time at Harrods

Sometimes it's nice to feel just a little fucking fancy and Harrods in London is the perfect place to get your fancy fix.

With gold and black Egyptian style escalators and 6 levels of designer goodness, no wonder it is the number one shopping destination for cashed up tourists and bored trophy wives.

Escape the hustle and bustle of the first level food court and take the opulent elevator up to the top floor. Beyond the Burberry and other luxury travel accessories lie a classic English Tea Room.

My eyes drift over the exuberant prices on the display menu, ouch! and then I remember it's in pounds and I instantly feel faint and need to sit down.

Pairs of women sit at tables for four. Two seats for them and two seats for the leather French companions.

Despite the fact that the Tea Room's specialty is a blend of green and jasmine, the beverage of choice seams to been sparkling wine and calorie free black coffee.

Since I am minus one Peruvian Prince and plus one pair of stretchy jeans I decide to order 'The Chelsea'. The Chealsea consists of scones, jam and cream, a pot of English breakfast tea and two espesso's please.

The waitress stops to tell me a story of Princess Diana and her lover Dodi Fayed. We all know of the illicit love affair that ended in tragedy, but I wasn't aware that it was Fayed's father who created Harrods. Before their death they were seen drinking champagne in Paris (as you do) The waitress told me that those exact champagne glasses and the secret engagement ring Fayed was meant to give to the princess remained preserved in glass on the very bottom floor of this building. After his son's death the father created this memorial to celebrate the couples eternal love.

I was so consumed in the story that I had failed to notice my sleeve had slipped into my cup of tea, oh dear, how fancy of me!

I couldn't leave Harrods without purchasing something.

Did I purchase a) a rare diamond ring carved by 12 wise monks or b) a Christmas ornament from the least expensive section of the department store?

Ok so it may not be a diamond ring but this key sure will look fancy on my Christmas tree!

Oh how time flies when you're living the charmed life.

"Waiter, check please."

"Can I give you any further direction Madame?" She asked me as she took the rest of my money.

"Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the closest MacDonalds please?"

After this spending spree, fast food will be the only thing I can afford to eat!

Notting Hill

My visit to Notting Hill is best described by the lovely little novel 'Portobello Road' by Julian Mash.

"They spill out of Notting Hill Gate Tube from early on Saturday morning."

"Emerging blinking into the daylight..."

"...whatever corner of the globe they may have come from, one common goal unites them."

"They are here to find the blue door, and the bookshop from Richard Curtis's 1999 film Notting Hill.

If successful, find themselves outside 13-15 Blenheim Crescent where..."

...one dim witted Australian girl asks the age old question: Do you think Huge Grant is in there somewhere?

Unfortunately he was no where to be seen, I thought perhaps he might be at another bookstore, in the classic literature section reading Pride and Prejudice with Mr Darcy.

Your mind can't help but run wild in Notting Hill. It's something about the stunning architecture, the cobblestone streets and the high end boutiques mixed with pricey tourist eateries.

As the wind picked up and swept through the Portobello Markets we all took it as the perfect reason to escape from the cold to the pub where I stayed all afternoon.

How very English of me.

Portobello Road by Julian Mash is available at all good bookstores.
The Notting Hill Bookshop was only inspiration for the 1992 film and not exactly as seen in the movie.
The whereabouts of Huge Grant still remains unknown, if you spot him let me know immediately.

The Soho Breakfast Club, London!

I could have kissed the ground the moment I arrived at Heathrow after 25 hours in transit. Instead I put all the trauma (accidentally walking into the mens toilets in Dubai) and turbulence behind me and hailed a black cab. 

"Soho, Please." I said rustling around in my bag for my mobile phone which lay dormant in a crevice between some nasal spray and a half eaten pack of gum. 

Connecting to international roaming after a day of being offline was pure bliss. Determined not to get distracted by social media, I quickly scrolled through my inbox of unread messages. I felt a small wave of relief when I saw two messages from Hannah, one of my university friends that I would be staying with in London. The truth is that going to Europe for the entirety of my annual leave was a highly impromptu act, yet after all the mayhem with the Dirthouse I felt relived to flee Sydney even just for a little bit. Let's go to Paris for 3 weeks? Why the hell not!

Hannah's first message followed by the second:

Welcome to London lady! Meet me at the Breakfast Club - 33 D’Arblay Street x

Ha! Not a...

There's good coffee and bacon...

That's it i'm in.  

After dropping my bags off at the apartment and changing into something comfortable yet commendable I headed in the direction of D'Arblay Street.

Despite being the centre of London, Soho on a Sunday morning was quiet, lazy and not at all what I remembered from my last trip. I suppose last time I was in the UK I hadn't strayed far off the tourist track which explained the heaving crowds. 

I strolled down several streets, clutching google maps firmly in my hand. Everything appeared closed or abandoned, that was until I spotted the line and the bright yellow sign.

You don't have to be a Londoner to know that the place with the mammoth line is the place you want to go for a great bite to eat. Although a lot of the locals seemed happy biding their time in the queue, I was smart enough to know that the cool Autumn temps were not kind to hungry travellers. 

Lucky for me Hannah had already scored us a table. It was only a matter of moments before she dragged me inside and after plenty of hugging and gushing, handed me a large cup of coffee.

and it's wasn't even bad...

I'm sorry to the lovely Brits who read HOB but I must admit I've heard nasty rumours about your British brand of sustenance.

The good news is that The Breakfast Club, Soho proved myself and all those Aussie naysayers wrong!
In fact, the coffee here is simply heavenly...

With my Surry Hills Breakfast Club reviews I always aim to include variety in the meals we choose, so that you my hungry darling can have a little taste of everything on the menu. Han had already set her sights on the big All American and for home-style fried potatoes, fluffy poached eggs, crispy sausage, buttery pancakes and streaky bacon with maple syrup I had to break the rules and get it too!

Nom, nom, nom...

So it may have not been a traditional English meal but this crispy bacon was exactly what I needed after a day of horrific plane food.

The interior ain't as flash as you may expect but with a mish mash of 80's memorabilia, catchy pop tunes playing on the stereo and friendly waitstaff who despite the hungry hordes outside don't mind stopping and chatting to you about their really cool Australian sister in law, The Breakfast Club makes you feel like you're right at home. The perfect cure for jet lag and hangovers alike (come on what else was I meant to do alone on a long haul flight?)

HOB tip: the wifi password is 'shebangs' 

Like the Ricky Martin song...

You've got it!

Oh London, I think you and I are going to get a long just fine.

x

I'm Not Dead, Yet!

It’s 9 pm on a Tuesday night and I’m sitting alone in my swanky office amidst a sea of lingerie. Corsets, suspenders, knickers, waspies, chemises and dribs and drabs of other pretty, naughty things. It’s not the stunning city skyline keeping me back late, It’s the fact that I have nowhere else to go tonight. 

I’m a homeless bitch in fancy lingerie. 

I wish I was just being dramatic but in true Heaven on Bourke style my life has taken another unexpected turn, in the absolute wrong direction. 

It was 5:30 pm when we found out that someone had tried to pry open the door to the Dirthouse. Did a really fucking good job at getting in, he did. Smashed the whole exterior of the lock and demolished the key hole. 

Four current Queens stood on the street of Surry Hills in front of the DH as the sun sank beneath a blanket of darkness.

“If he actually got in, I’m going to die.” I said thinking of my laptop full of private 20-something year old girls business. 

“I should have gone to yoga.” said Sammie, one of the delightful British expats who moved in to cover Ms L's rent.

“This locksmith is fucking hopeless” Ms P said pacing back and forth on the footpath. 

“If I can’t get in, whoever did this definitely didn’t get in either” the pudgy bald man said flashing his torch in our faces. 

I felt a mammoth wave relief followed by dread in the pit of my stomach. Who would do this and why? Surely a terrace that looks like a crack den isn’t the most desirable target for theft, I mean while it’s all Laura Ashley inside, from the outside it looks nothing short of a homeless shelter. An hour later we were finally in and dread was soon overcome by exhaustion. I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a shallow sleep. 

*

“I though the scream was in my dream.” Ms P shuddered at the end of my bed, two trembling figures came to the entrance of my door. 

“Whats wrong?” I asked trying to comprehend was was happening. It must have been about 2 am.

“A man just smashed through Sam's window and threatened to kill her, he’s looking for a girl who lives here.” Ms P said fearfully. A chill ran up my spine. 

“Did he get inside?” I asked Sammie who had now walked from the door to my bed. 

“I don’t know.” she said. 

I froze and didn’t dare to ask any more. After multiple calls the police arrived 45 minutes later. 

Lesson #1 of being a 20-something in the big city, if there is ever an incident no matter how small you must report it.

Why? It means that if something else happens the police will make you their first priority. 

“Why didn’t you make a report when you first discovered the attempted break and enter?” the police woman asked us like we were four naughty children.

“Because our landlord told us not to worry about it.”

Lesson #2 of being a 20-something in the big city, when in doubt don’t listen to your landlord, listen to your gut.  

Sammie began to recount the series of sinister affairs to the police, I sat in shock. Apparently he was looking for someone by the name of Madonna. Although it was absurd, he was convinced that someone by that name was in here, so much so that he smashed her front window trying to get in. The worst bit was that he threatened to come back until he found her.

I wanted to be sick. No doubt it was the same psycho who had tried to break into the Dirthouse earlier.

“It sounds like mistaken identity,” the woman said finally.

No shit Sherlock, there’s only one Madonna I know of and she definitely doesn’t reside in the Dirthouse. 

"Chances are whoever it was, they won’t be back.” The other policeman concluded closing his little policeman book.

We all looked at each other. I sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out.

                                                                                                

*

And so here I am a week out from my big European holiday, working more than ever and actually contemplating sleeping on a bed of lingerie instead of going back to the place where I have lived for the last 3 years. 

Is this the end of The Dirthouse?

A message flashes up on my screen. 

I’m here

Before you merde your pants the message isn't from the Madge obsessed psycho killer. It's from Mr P.S

Where? I reply. I didn't asked him to come.

Out the front of your office … the three dots danced on my screen as he typed ...

I’ve got booze, I've got Misschu's dumplings and ...

I’ve got you baby.

Thank god for my knight in shining Armani. 

Universe are you sending me a sign?