Chronicles of Gay Paris I: Désaccord de Culture

So I'm in Paris then. For those of you who don’t know, Paris is split into twenty districts called arrondissements. These arrondissements spiral out from the centre of the centre like a snail’s shell (how apt).

My home for the next month is to be the sixth arrondissement, apparently famous for it's links to the existentialist movement, which is still apparent to this day; I've already seen loads of ponces drinking coffee and talking bollocks.

The area is home to the Jardin du Luxembourg, an extremely beautiful palace and gardens, as well as a view of the Montparnasse Tour, the largest and possibly ugliest of France's skyscrapers. It is such an eyesore that only two years after it was built the French decided to ban any more being constructed, so it's presence is only magnified as it stands alone, looming over the city like a massive black erection (which is what it is, just not in the giant African cock sense).

I’ve been to Paris before this actually, when I was about nineteen. I had recently fallen in love with Rome, and I wasn’t comparably impressed with the French capital. The Italians are somehow able to succesfully combine the city's modern chic with it's rich historical surroundings. You've only got to look at the ridiculous glass pyramid whacked in front of The Louvre to see how the French just don't get it. Perhaps this is why they've seen fit to preserve their archaic electrical and sewage systems? I suppose I didn’t expect the most romantic city in the world to smell so strongly of shit.