2013. The year that really, really was.

Well 2013 has definitely been one for the books. As its final moments eek away I’m still grappling with everything that I saw, did, ate, accomplished, learnt, discovered and appreciated. I’m really not ready for 2014 to start and feel like I’m being dragged along, heels firmly entrenched, towards Getting On With Things when I’m still not ready to let go of London. So, really, New Years Eve is the perfect excuse for some indulgent looking back. And there’s a lot to twist the neck for….

The pleasure that is Paris

“I’m not sure I can be bothered with Paris.”

Said my lovely, lovely husband on the eve of another decadent weekend away. I mean, talk about first world problem, talk about fucking sacrilege, more like.

I'm developing an unhealthy obsession with Paris doors

Last weekend we were in Reykjavik with LB’s parents, several weeks before that we were traipsing through France and Italy with my parents and this weekend just gone we’ve been in Paris, with my aunt and uncle on their virgin European adventure. I get the exhaustion – I myself may have also complained about it in recent weeks – but BUCK UP kiddo, it’s PARIS! And I love Paris, even when it’s nine degrees and raining.

Party’s over syndrome

So the party is well and truly over. We got back to London on Monday, Mum and Max left last night and this has been the brutal shift in my reality:

I’m not expecting sympathy. I don’t deserve it (not least because I’m off to Reykjavik in three weeks time…)

But between now and then there’s still in excess of 300 emails to get through, 1000 words to write up on the Biennale for Artlink and my birthday this Sunday to contemplate.

What a killer trip – Paris, Provence and the Luberon, St Remy and Aix, Arles, Nice, northern Italy, Venice...

It’s been amazing, folks. AMAZING. 

Lunch with Leger. Or why Nice is nice.

I’m getting used to this grand tour style of travel – gallivanting from one part of the world to the next in search of enlightenment, that in our case comes dressed as more pink wine, more art, more food, more architectural and geographical appreciation and more pink wine.

Today was our last day in Nice. Already. It’s been a beautiful, relaxing, ideal couple of days, an ideal post-script to a brilliant, curious week spent exploring Provence.

Let's Go to Arles, Darls

Today was incredibly moving. Just on the outskirts of St-Remy, a 20-minute amble from the centre of town, lies the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum where, for 12 months in 1899, a deeply troubled Vincent Van Gogh was a voluntary patient. During his stay here, Van Gogh painted over 150 works, many of them now iconic and decorating the walls of the National Gallery in London, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and countless student flats around the world.

Vincent Van Gogh, Irises, 1899

Food porn et Paul Cezanne

Another cracking couple of days chilling in Provence with LB and Le Parents. We spent the best part of this morning having indecent thoughts about cheese and prosciutto and fresh strawberries and macaroons and more cheese and more olives and warm baguettes at St-Remy’s weekly farmers market. (I just started typing an analogy about food porn and this market taking things to the next level but it started to get a bit unseemly so I deleted it. So I’ll just say this: Oh. My. God. Best farmers market. Ever.)

Provence (and my 200th post)

The surest way to my heart is through a flea market.  So St-Remy and I are sure to become very good friends.

What a seriously beautiful town. Not a lick of lavender to be had anywhere in bloody Provence (seems the shitty spring weather wasn’t just restricted to London…) but there are poppies and wildflowers everywhere and in St-Remy, even without the constant sunshine (see previous point about shitty springs) there’s a lot to love, not least the fact that I see Van Gogh paintings in every field. But I'll get to that…

From Paris to Provence

We arrived in Provence this afternoon, in the lively, lovely town of St-Remy. Max and Lovely Boy survived their Ryanair flight to meet us in Marseilles and the collective mood, given the indecisive sunshine, is still largely positive. So bring on a week in Provence, oui?

If only we'd bought an umbrella. And not shoes...

Mum and I have had a lovely couple of days in Paris. Froze our fucking arses off completely, got rained on, got battered by the wind and ended up sacrificing a pair of sodden shoes to the Parisian rain gods but still, a lovely time.

We both had a sartorial agenda for our 48 hours in this lovely city – mine involved sorbet coloured ballet shoes, Mum’s a visit to a small boutique she’d read about on the Left Bank near the Musee d’Orsay. We'd both agreed on a visit to Printemps. The rest of our time was spent drinking wine and shivering.

It feels like Christmas Eve

I’m not quite on holidays but I may as well be: the parents arrive tomorrow. Work’s been typically chaotic but with only two days left now until two weeks off I figure the stress is a small, preliminary price to pay.

I’ve been stalking them all day. It absolutely blows my mind that this blinking dot moving across my screen is in fact a Qantas A380 jet carrying 450-odd people, two of which are my Mum and step-dad, wedged up the back in rows 86 and just-call-this-hell.

They’re due to arrive at some ridiculous hour so Lovely Boy and I are going to meet them for breakfast and then tomorrow evening I’m bringing them to work, for dinner at the café and then a performance by the Irish artist Orla Barry. I’m a little worried how this will go down to be honest. Contemporary live art is one thing (LB is going to LOATHE it…) but contemporary live art after two glasses of wine and 24 hours of jetlag? Well, it’s going to be interesting.

A pint of Pimms and a bout of Bondi longing

So I am officially wilting. As temperatures "soar" towards 30 (in honour of moi no doubt) I am flagging/melting/sweating/sooking - take your pick.

It is nearly 7pm, the sun is still hot and high in the sky and I have just reached the bottom of what will speculatively be the first of at least three pints of Pimms - strawberry heavy and oh so delicious.

I shouldn't complain but when the weather is this beautiful - and beautiful it is - all I ache for is the cold embracing slap of a Bondi wave. If I close my eyes I can feel it now. Tepid showers just aren't the same somehow, even with my swimmers on.

Thump.

So it is back to reality with an ungracious landing, a strange combination of worry and excitement about my dissertation and a fabulous haircut to ease the pain of life sans parents and continental adventures.


Mum left on Friday morning and I was remarkably composed and only cried a little bit seeing her off at Paddington. Previous experience would have suggested epic streams of tears and a right public spectacle but I managed to keep it together with but a few snotty sobs. Yay for maturity.

The last three weeks have just been a tonic, and while not so much gin, there has been plenty of wine, some solid encounters with cheese and generally lots of great eating, exploring and pontificating. Berlin was true to form - good weather, cool bars, interesting art and a plethora of old school locals in socks and Jesus sandals. I love it when cliches come to life, just not so much when they then step on your toes.

Parentals had left me in charge of organising Berlin and to their credit overcame their horror at my having booked us all into a youth hostel. To their immense relief - and with only a minor withering look from me - they checked into the top floor apartment of the hostel, cosseted from the rank smell of mixed sex group dorms by two security doors, and took in what even I knew to be a pretty awesome Berlin view, as far as Berlin skylines go:


I think one of the highlights for me this time around, Berlin tragic that I am, was visiting the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining intact part of the Berlin wall, which was given over to muralists in 1989 to create images of peace and reconciliation. Over the last 20 years the wall has fallen victim both to pollution and morons from all over the world, scrawling all over it with poetic treatises that read, "Jennaya waz here". This year though, to mark the 20th anniversary since the wall came down, all the artists have been invited back to re-paint their work and this mammoth undertaking is there for all to witness and some of the most iconic images have already been brought back to life. It was pretty special to see.


Returning to London for a night and sending Maxy home after a tres posh, tres delicious, (tres) boozy dinner at Terence Conran's new venture, Boundary, in Shoreditch, Mum and I took to Paris, with a vocabulary consisting solely of tres, bon, merci and si vous plait. Thank god for maps and pointing fingers.

The last time I was in Paris was 10 years ago (what's French for "God I feel old?") and I was travelling with my cousin. All I remember from that trip was queuing to get into the Louvre, queuing to get into the Musee D'Orsay, queuing to get into Versaille and John telling me that I had no appreciation for anything pre-Monet.


This time it was totally different. I did all sorts of appreciating - of the sales, the sidewalk cafes, the boulevards, the quality mother-daughter time and the solid hour we spent in Sephora trying on lipsticks in lieu of a visit to any of the major art institutions we might have otherwise patronised in this beautiful, beautiful city. But I figure a colour palette is a colour palette and there is nothing wrong with appreciating the textures, tones and shades of the Chanel cosmetics counter and not the Fauvist wing of the Musee D'Orsay.

Quite by accident we did stumble across a little bit of culture and history - unbeknownst to us we happened to be in Paris on Bastille Day. Thankfully we realised this the day before because had we not the sound of low-flying fighter jets might have troubled us somewhat. We managed to glimpse but the end of the parade - beautiful horses carrying smartly dressed French soldiers (soldiers?), closely followed by the city pooper scoopers. If only they swept up the dog shit too Paris would be even prettier.


Not quite shopped out but with other places to visit, Mum and I then travelled north to Normandy to spend a couple of nights with friends of hers from home. Such a pretty part of the world and the most ridiculously charming house:


We had two nights and a day in Normandy and in the morning we drove to the coast, to Omaha Beach and the American War Memorial. It was a blustery day but the sun was out and the whole experience was incredibly moving and sad and thought-provoking. It's really so hard to imagine that such a beautiful stretch of coastline bears the unseen scars of some of the most horrific violence in modern history.


Nevermind the thousands of graves bearing young boys and men. It was a pretty sobering experience.


Back to the house, we then took off for this quaint little village called Honfleur. Very charming, very floral - and a sale on cashmere sweaters. You couldn't have had two starker experiences.


Eurostarring it back to London (tres civilised) LB and I took Mum to Notting Hill for a final dinner before her flight the next morning. Welcoming us back to London was torrential rain, some old fashioned lightning and thunder and a severe delay on the Central line. Ahh to be back in London.

Next major adventure: Dissertation. But before then, two days next week in Barcelona for a meal at El Bulli with dear friends from home. Sometimes my life is gloriously ridiculous.