So far...

I´m sat by Christopher in Camp Gibbo. A good friend left us today and we pitched our tents in his honour. Heads heavy from tequila and wine we´re packed up from Pamplona and are sat 5km west, in a long-since ploughed field.

The Forlorn

 So Anthony and I had our first couch surfing experince two nights ago. We decided to carry our bags from North Paris, into Central, hitting some uber touristy destinations on the way, to save money on bag storage and transport. 

 After a wicked day (not without constant, random aches and pains from carrying our bags some 10 miles through Paris) we arrvied in our couch surfing host's neighbourhood in East Paris, near Nation. The neighbourhood had an inviting feel to it, like we were in the heart of the art/political quarter of Paris, yet avoiding the trendy and pretentious areas we had already passed through. Paris is strange like that. You can be walking down a street where the men are wearing rouge pantelons and cravates carrying small white dogs that polity poo into satin poo bags, and then around the courner you feel like you are in a scene from Blade Runner where you live under railway tracks warming your hands over burning barrels roasting small white dogs for dinner (although I am not impying the French eat small white dogs)!