Houston, il y a une probleme.

54 years ago today the Russians sent a dog called Licker into space, partly just for the fun of it and also because their Sat Nav had broken so they were trying to get to the moon by smell (which is something Gagarin complained of while in orbit so clearly Licker was a pooper as well). That said, this was no mean feat by a country on it’s knees. I mention this to give you some comparison of the difficulties I came across today. I was not trying to get into space, merely a few kilometres up the road and yet I, like Licker, found it all dreadfully confusing and almost slumped, similarly drooling, against the window of the metro as the hours past.

There are a number of issues with the Parisian underground system. The first is that it smells like Licker has marked his territory all over it, making sure no other dogs try to explore it. The second is that the stations are all devilishly unpronounceable and even when they look reasonable they come out of the tannoy mangled like Licker on re-entry into an indistinguishable tangle of spit and gristle.

Then, continuing our Russian theme, we come to Stalingrad! This stop in the north east has probably caused the death of much more than a paltry 2 million soldiers and civilians. It is a warren easily comparable to the smoking rubble that clung to the Volga and trying to make your way between the lines requires stealth, resilience, peak physical health and a casual disregard for human life. Much like the Germans, I naively put my faith in ‘the power of the will’ and my sanity was the inevitable casualty. I ended up in a taxi, leaving the one HiWi who’d tried to give me directions to fend for herself.

The whole reason for my invasion of the Parisian heartland was to sample some of its much lauded culture. I finally tracked down the venue I was after by waving a flier at the taxi driver who gesticulated in Gallic insubordination before consenting to empty my wallet for a 30 second rampage around 2 corners. Didn’t have enough spirit to complain. I  dashed into the venue and thrust some randomly denominated notes at a girl at the desk and was ushered to a cheap plastic seat behind 3 giants and a pillar; silence descended.

A mannish looking Japanese woman appeared and proceeded to spend 30 minutes crawling around an origami duck. If this was interpretive dance, I think someone had mistranslated somewhere between hiking her children’s pyjamas high enough to dissect her and recording a one armed stroke victim playing a xylophone as backing music. The second half was a big improvement as I managed to find a cushion. A feminine chap from Laos took to the stage and there was no misunderstanding the message here, as he curled neatly into the foetal position, washed by delicate piano. So, as instructed, I went to sleep.