A Christmas Fairytale - the final blog from The Cookbook Tour Europe 2008 is now online at:

www.flipgrater.wammo.co.nz/cookbook

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Paris Je t'aime!<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />....

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Yes, I love Paris. I knew I would. I'd seen enough films. ....

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And what's more, I think it loves me too.. if strange men constantly telling me I'm 'magnific!' counts as proof. ....

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We were so relieved to leave Euro Disney and travel into Paris proper on Friday! As a fitting tribute to our romantic ideal formed mostly from movies and books, we arrived into Paris just on dusk. We crossed the street from the train station to sit on red wicker chairs at an outdoor bistro and enjoy coffee, french fries and my first real sight of the most beautiful city I have EVER seen. The gothic stone buildings all in perfect proportions were glowing in the sunset. We acknowledged what a perfect moment it was and lingered to savour it. A taxi took us to the location of our borrowed apartment where we collapsed for 10 minutes and, too excited to stay indoors, headed out into the Paris night. We took the Metro to Montmartre and walked up the steps to gaze in awe at Sacre Ceur - a stunning church on the top of the hill at Montmartre, adorned with iron statures that melt green, staining the pristine white stone. ....

The steps in front of the church were a hotbed for nocturnal tourists and drunk teenage Parisiens. We wandered down the other side of the hill and found ourselves in what has become my favourite area. Here we discovered a late night jazz bar with a fantastic rag-tag band playing old swing tunes with a piano, double bass, mounted wash-board and a clarinet - all squeezed into a tiny corner.  ....

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The rest of the weekend was spent in similar fashion, wandering through narrow cobblestone streets, shopping and eating, gaping and snapping. ....

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Sunday night was my first gig in Paris. It was at a place called Le Motel - a hidden bar that is dirty-cool like Lyttelton's Wunderbar. ....

The people were lovely and although I had lost my voice a few days earlier and sounded like a very bad Tom Waits impersonator, the crowd was incredibly kind and generous. After my gig, Haydn handed me some sort of cocktail named after some famous French actor or something.. it was tres bon and so we had to have many. ....

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Having not had dinner before the early gig, Haydn and I (Stas, being pregnant and therefore not drinking, was our kind and bemused babysitter) stumbled from Le Motel in search of food a few hours later. Luckily, a chinese restaurant appeared around the corner and was still serving food. ....

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- I have to say, I've never been much for shoes. I only ever wear heels for gigs and even then, they're barely heels. But Paris has made me want pretty shoes. The shoes here are amazing! The strange paradox however, is that it's also the most inappropriate city for heels, with streets and footpaths wonkier than Willy and cracks you could fall into up to your thigh. ....

This became very apparent this night. Heels + strange French cocktails + Paris streets = bad idea. -....

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On Monday morning, my friends left back to London. I had planned to do all sorts of solo sightseeing but my cold had been aggravated by a lack of rest so it was time for a day off. ....

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My next Paris gig was Tuesday night. It was at a tres, tres trendy club called Le Baron.  This is the the kind of place where you need to be on a guest list to get in. Its so cool it doesn't even have signage of any kind so I walked straight past it when arriving for soundcheck and walked an extra 6 blocks with my guitar feeling heavier and heavier and a blister forming on my hand from carrying it. Once I checked the address and found what should have been an entrance, I was contacted by the promoter who apologised that through a mis-communication, I was 2 hours early!....

Exhausted and annoyed, I wandered back towards the tube station hoping to find something edible and affordable in this expensive area. I read a few menus and started to feel completely despondent. I turned around to try a new direction and looked up to see, towering before me - The.. Eiffel.. frickin....Tower! ....

To be honest, I had almost been avoiding this postcard fodder monument, but now that I had literally stumbled into it, I was dumbstruck with delight. It was just so... magnificent. Completely lit up in blue light and just a few blocks away. The Eiffel Tower! I didn't care that I looked like a maniac, floating on the spot and grinning for the longest time, sucking in the sweet sureality of the moment.....

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I made it back to the bar at the correct time. I was pleased to see that the interior was quite fantastic with red couches and fabric walls. When I asked about the guest list I had been asked to provide for my free gig,  the bartender explained to me that even if a man rolls up in a ferrari with 2 beautiful women, he doesn't neccesarily get in - if the doorman doesn't know him.....

I was set up in the middle of what I later realised was a dance floor. My voice was back to 80% and the gig went well apart from a few small sound issues that were quickly sorted out by the scrawny sound guy - Arno, who I teased several times from the stage for drinking a strawberry champagne cocktail. He didn't seem to get what was funny. Neither did the crowd.....

About three minutes after I finished my intimate set, dance music was pumping out of the speakers and the room became a dance club. The transformation was astounding. And scary. I only stayed for one more drink before finding a taxi. ....

It turned out my taxi karma was is excellent shape - the driver on my way home insisted on taking me around all the of the most beautiful places in Paris for free because he was bored. He then proceeded to explain the history of each famous view in lengthy French even though it was obvious I couldn't understand a word!....

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Where do I start?? I thought I had experienced suffering before in my life but nothing comes close to living in Disney village!

Perhaps I should back up a few days. London. My second London gig was a far cry from the first. Armed with my guitar and a few CDs, I hopped onto the tube, made a change at a crammed station at peak hour and found myself on the wrong tube. Having figured this out, gotten off and changed to the correct train without too much time lost, I declared myself a tube expert.

I was pleasantly surprised to walk into the venue- The Metropolitan and find an intimate upstairs area full of tables and large, deep couches with a tiny stage nestled into one end of the room. The gig was being organised by the lovely and talented Rodney Fisher (Goodshirt).

Rodney’s honest lyrics and soothing delivery captivated the small but appreciative crowd. So much so that by the time it was my turn, I felt quite intimidated and took the stage quite reluctantly. But with the help of a decent pour of Scotch by the kind barman, I played an intimate, gentle gig - the type where you sit down facing a front row that you could touch if you reached out beyond the mic.

The next day I repacked my oversized suitcase and Haydn, Stas and I headed for the Eurostar train station. After a few difficulties proving my identity without my stolen credit card, we piled onto a big train that was to take us under the Channel to the city of Paris.

After arriving happily into Paris Nord, what followed was a long and confusing ramble through Parisian tube stations. We happened to be travelling at peak hour once again and the chaos was increased by language barriers. The final train to Euro Disney was a double-decker train and we stood in the tiny entrance with our piles of luggage, receiving French glares and curses for 40 minutes. The entrance to Euro Disney Village loomed before us, cruelly placed between us and our hotel. On aching feet, we hobbled onward and suddenly found ourselves in a strange world of giant mushrooms, families of painted skeletons and bounding cartoon characters. It was Halloween of course. Not only were we confronted by the sickening neon reality of Disney Land, but hundreds of ghosts, gouls, witches and zombies of all sizes and shapes also filled the cartoon streets. Most units of scary creatures came in the form of two small running ghosts, warily followed by two taller monsters – a Frankenstein’s monster with a zombie bride pushing a pram containing a tiny ghost baby. Scattered throughout the Halloween revellers were bemused Buddhist nuns and monks on route to the same Dharma festival as us, walking slowly amongst madness in robes, blending into public more than they were used to.

The madness didn’t stop when we arrived at the hotel we were to be sleeping at during our week-long Buddhist festival. When we finally got to the oasis of our room, we had to sit down and seriously contemplate whether or not we had in fact just seen Mickey Mouse dancing with a pumpkin-headed man, to the tune of ‘We Will Rock You’ in our hotel foyer!

The Cookbook Tour Europe.

Part One - 'London Cooling'

Well, I've been in London for 3 days now and so far I've been robbed, sworn at, bruised by hail, frozen by snow and soaked by puddles. I love this city.

5 days ago I boarded a plane in Christchurch airport and spent the next 32 hours in a timeless, cultureless, germ-filled vacuum. Then I woke up in London.

I have never been to London before but it turns out I know a LOT about it. Every 5 minutes I find myself excitedly crying out, 'Oh I know that place – it's on the Monopoly board!' Monday was my tourist day. I awoke to watch small grey squirrels fighting over courtyard fodder outside my accommodation. I got off the tube at Buckingham Palace and walked amongst the throngs of fellow camera-happys past the giant gates and erect soldiers, under famous monuments covered in pigeons and through St James Park and big-beaked pelicans to arrive in Trafalgar Square. From there, a wander down The Strand found me finally away from the tourists and in tightly packed crowds of locals on work day pedestrian commute. Covent Garden was the eventual destination, where I was overly-pleased to see the familiar face of Kiwi comedian busker, Sam Wills performing in the square.

After lunch in Chinatown I wandered around Soho, pleasantly lost. By late afternoon, I had well and truly hit the jet lag wall and desperately fell into the closest cafe I could find to sit and re-hydrate. In my exhausted state, I left my bag unattended for about 1 minute beside my seat. In that minute, I felt the presence of someone sitting in the seat behind me which then quickly disappeared again. My spidey senses alerted, I checked my bag and found my wallet missing.

I am staying with my good friends Haydn and Stasa in Herne Hill. Haydn, like a good Virgo, had spent his Monday at work researching to find the best Indian Restaurant in Brick Lane. It turned out that the best of the best wasn't actually on Brick Lane but a few blocks away and was a Pakistan restaurant so famously good that they do not accept bookings and have lines out the door every night of the week! We wandered out of the East London tube station and quickly found ourselves in the heart of what is now a predominantly Muslim area. In front of a giant Mosque, teems of white-robed men were herded inside through gender-separated entrances for an evening service. Behind the mosque was a narrow street with multi-language street signs and newer apartment buildings than I had seen in London – Stasa explained this was due to the area having to be re-built after war time bombing. We walked quickly to escape the growing cold and hunger. Tayyabs appeared like a warm haven inviting us in with amazing smells and an excited queue of punters wafting out the door. Somehow, we managed to get seated reasonably promptly. As we took our seats, the intoxicating smoke of cooking spices violently smacked us in the face making our eyes water. Sizzling hot plates of various chilli-filled dishes walked past us in the hands of the many wait staff, causing us all to burst into chilli smoke coughing fits. We took this as a good sign.

After a quick look at the menu, I discovered no alcohol on offer. When this was mentioned to the group, it caused alarm and the hail of the closest waiter revealed that the no wine list existed due the location within a Muslim community. However they were happy for us to buy some beer from a local store to drink with our meals so this was quickly arranged. Within a very short space of time, we were happily drinking Indian beer with our incredible selection of dishes including Daal Baingun (eggplant and lentil), Karahi Bhindi (okra curry) and Saag Aloo (spinach and potato). Upon taking a bite of her Paneer Tikka, Stasa claimed it was the 'best thing she had EVER eaten.' This was the kind of enthusiasm for this fantastic and authentic cuisine that had attracted the obscenely long line of people who were now waiting for the luxury of sitting. This rowdy crowd forced to eventually resign our table, which had new tenants within seconds. With mouths burning, we decided to take an after dinner stroll down Brick Lane where we were accosted every few metres by dinner salesmen trying to lure us into their establishments by offering more and more absurd discounts on drinks and meals. We had the easy reply of, 'thanks but we have already eaten,' all ready to go but a few rallyers wouldn't be beaten and insisted that if we wanted to eat again, we could have all the free drinks we wanted. Eventually we found ourselves at Rough Trade records where we discovered a fantastic album of Vietnamese inspired downbeat hip hop by a French artist named Onra. My new favourite record –Chinoiseries by Onra.

Tuesday was my first gig of the tour. I felt like I was back from Jet Lag City by now but thought a day at home might do me some good so I spent the day fulfilling writing fantasies by sitting at a laptop in a London apartment typing while watching the rain outside, oat biscuits and milky tea in hand.

My gig was at a place near Kings Cross called The Big Chill House. I was fairly sure that my folk songs wouldn't be a good fit as soon as I walked in the door of the huge but comfortable cocktail bar/ club for sound check. I was playing at an established songwriter night – Hooked On Music, organised by the very tall and English-style-handsome, Tom. As I've learned to expect on tour, the sound person wasn't ready for me, despite my having arrived half an hour late. Phil, the sound guy introduced himself to me and then went on to complain about how many people are making boring folk music these days and then quickly developed the annoying habit of putting his hand on the small of my back every time he spoke to me. Thankfully, Stasa turned up not long after sound check and we took the opportunity of a 2 hour gap to venture towards a highly rated Japanese restaurant some blocks away. A few metres down the road, the temperature dropped severely and hailstones suddenly burst from the sky in attack of the Earth.

I was one of four artists on the bill. By the time I started at 8.30pm, the bar was packed and noisy but had split into 2 people-created spaces which meant that the stage end of the room was now a cosy space enclosed by a semi-circle of bodies. I performed a half-hour set, receiving sympathetic mummers when I told the audience of my stolen wallet and generous whoops and applause after each song. After the show, I was approached by a group of smiling Londoners of middle age exclaiming that they had enjoyed the gig and that they were in fact from my hometown of Christchurch! They had all lived in London for 10 years or more and supplied a fantastic after-show yarn – complete with my first recipe submissions of the tour.

During my conversation with the ex-pats, we heard a fuss and looked to see that fat flakes of snow had begun to fall and were quickly coating the ground outside the bar. My excited squeal destroyed any amount of cool points I may have accumulated up until that point, but I it was completely necessary. Leaving the venue, Haydn, Stasa and I gingerly crept across the highest points of the footpath and leapt, giggling, over large puddles of slush that had formed. London has wonderfully wonky footpaths and cobblestone roads with deep gutters that form great puddles. Unfortunately, we discovered this when a double-decker bus raced past us and sent an ocean of water flying in our direction, soaking poor Haydn who had done the gentlemanly thing of walking roadside of us and who then had to withstand Stasa and I buckled over in laughter for the next five minutes as he stood dripping and cold!