Vinka finds her feet

Day Two dawned in glorious technicolour. For the bargain price of both kidneys, I had invested in a European internet booster, so my phone was telling me it was 20 degrees outside and sunny.

Hooray, what does one do in Paris by oneself on a midweek morning in March? Yep, they grab their camera and head out to find some interesting-looking buildings. Instead, I found some interesting-looking Algerians. They appeared friendly, although my guard remained up in case their motive was murder, rape, or worse - theft of camera! After spending some time in their company, and receiving a fascinating guide to the red light district in a combination of English, French and Dutch, we approached Le Basilica de Sacre Coeur.

Those of you with a passing interest in French cinema will be aware of Sacre Coeur from its prominence in Amelie (which was filmed entirely in Montmartre) "Oh great, more fucking stairs" I lamented - which seemed to be the theme of my entire stay. These are not just stairs, these are M&BloodyS stairs. I`m sure there were at least a million before you got halfway but, once at the top, the reward was breathtaking (both literally and figuratively) Those who smoke, are infirm or who live in England, and are therefore of a lazy disposition, should not attempt this challenge unless they are in possession of an oxygen mask, crampons and a Sherpa guide.

Result! A call from Pierre, to say he was coming to meet me for the afternoon. So, I gladly allowed him to take me on a tour of the local cemetary, which is spectacular - if you`re into that kind of thing, which I am - and left the Algerians arguing over who was going to ask me on a date.

Paris 2012

Not many people find themselves in a mental hospital on their first visit to Paris but, obviously, this was my first point of call on my debut in France`s capital. Unfortunately, this hospital was not of my preferred derelict, Victorian architecture, variety but, rather, a slightly dull, 1960s concrete construct in a run-down suburb of Northern Paris.

Upon arrival in Paris Nord, it occurred to me that I would have to negotiate the Metro - in French, at night, by myself and lugging, quite possibly, the largest size of suitcase acceptable for intercontinental travel. Having purchased the correct tickets on the 7th attempt, thank you for having no English instructions whatsoever, and sheer guesswork at the required line, my initial concerns were realised when I discovered the sheer number of stairs on the Metro. A) Whose bright idea was that? and B) No wonder French women stay slim! After changing lines and experiencing my own personal game of Snakes and Ladders - mostly ladders - complete with 100kg of extra weight, I arrived at the hospital to collect the keys for the apartment. There, I encountered my next obstacle...

Ahhhhhhh, the "Je ne parle pas Anglais" security guard. Luckily, I sprang into action with my top notch Franglais, which resulted in a bemused smirk from him and increasingly suicidal tendencies from me. I thought "je visite mon ami pour retrouver les cles pour làppartement, je ne sais pas ou est làppartement"* made perfect sense! A quick emergency phonecall and I was finally allowed up to the ward. Considering the state of me upon arrival, it is no mean feat that I was allowed to leave! The nurses were intrigued by the sweating, sobbing mess, resplendent in strawberry hat and Moomin hoodie. Under French mental health regulations, I probably qualified for a bed, nay, an entire wing to myself. Mad, noooooo, I`m British!!!

Onwards to Montmartre. Now, I have since experienced the fantastic qualities of the area but, as I exited the Metro at Blanches, my first sight was the famous Moulin Rouge. "Great, another fucking hill" was all I could muster. I finally reached Rue des Abbesses, my home for the next 5 days. The apartment block was like stepping back through a Parisian timewarp, all wonky stairs and creaky doors. After 10 minutes of wrestling with the 18th century door, and disturbing the lovely lady opposite (Françoise, whose English was as proficient as my French) I was in! You would think this would be the end of my ordeal, but no, due to the fantastically odd wiring - probably designed by an opium addicted, cad in 1870 - there were no lights. There were switches but no light fittings; Oh what fresh hell was this? Eventually, by the light of my HTC, I sent an SOS to a trusted friend "Save Me. I am in a fucked up, horror version of Amelie"

And day one came to a dramatic climax.

*Roughly translated, in crap Franglais, this means "I am visiting my friend to get the keys for the apartment, I don`t know where the apartment is" Obviously, my verbs were not correct and this was spoken in mouse-like tones through a small hatch.