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Who’d have thought that a graveyard could be so much fun. But one of the best free shows in Paris is to be had at the Père Lachaise cemetery. All the stars are here in this A-list of the deceased: from painters to poets, from Yves Montand to Marcel Marceau (who was interred here in 2007). It is yet to be seen whether admirers of the late mime artist will establish a tradition of holding a ‘two minutes noise’ at his graveside by way of tribute but a number of the cemetery’s more distinguished denizens already attract appropriate acts of homage from their disciples. Whether it be romantics of the Left placing their red roses on the grim Mur des Fédédés, where the heroic resistance of the Paris Commune came to its final bloody end; or the scarlet lipstick kisses, lovingly planted by gay pilgrims, that smother Epstein’s monument to Oscar Wilde. Whether it be the grungy little knots of Scandinavian teenagers, self-consciously puffing at their spliffs around the tomb of rock legend Jim Morrison; or the fans, of all ages, who make for the mighty marble slab that marks the last resting place of Edith Piaf – the Little Sparrow. I once threatened the French All-Comers record for the high jump when, standing at this spot in quiet contemplation, I was startled by a young woman behind me bursting into a full-throated rendition of ‘Je ne regrette rien’. At Marcel Proust’s grave it is customary to leave an apt votive offering: having no madeleine to hand I left a Jaffa Cake.
But a personal favourite is a memorial to a now, largely forgotten figure. Félix Faure was President of the Republic in the 1890s. Of course politicians back then suffered much less scrutiny of their private lives and Faure was very much a man of his time. Indeed he could be seen as an embodiment of fin de siècle hedonism making the most of what Paris had to offer the wealthy and the powerful (think can-can, think Toulouse-Lautrec).
But a dark shadow was cast over the latter days of his presidency by the bitterly divisive Dreyfus Affair. In an effort, perhaps, to take his mind off matters of state at this tense time Faure was wont to ‘entertain’ young women in the presidential chambers. Tragedy struck when, in the midst of one of these amorous encounters, the statesman’s heart, weakened by years of self-indulgence, gave way. Officials were alerted by the horrified screams of his companion and rushed in to find the stricken President stark naked on the carpet, the suddenness of his demise reflected in the rictus grin that illuminated his features and in – well – certain other physiological phenomena.
It was, so they say, three weeks before they could nail the coffin lid down.
The re-invention of England's great Victorian cities as laid-back, 'continental' style urban spaces has been a bit of a hit and miss affair: a couple of trams and a branch of Pret A Manger do not a cafe culture make. But there have been some notable successes in the re-branding of these former industrial titans that has been gathering pace from the 1980s and 90s onward. And nowhere is this exemplified better than in Birmingham's superb Symphony Hall.
It is unprepossessing from the outside (the bog standard 'post-modern' architecture, all atriums and shopping-mall sheen, betraying the fact that it shares its premises with the 'International Convention Centre') but the perception is transformed on entering the auditorium itself: a vast, arresting horse-shoe of red, silver and gold.
The acoustic in the hall is truly astonishing and is probably best experienced at an orchestral concert by the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra (CBSO) who, post-Simon Rattle, are continuing to make great music under the less frizzy-haired but still highly dynamic directorship of Sakari Oramo.
The orchestra has adopted the highly civilised practice of giving midweek matinee repeats of their evening concerts. These are ideal for layabouts (like me), anyone at a loose end in Birmingham (difficult concept to grasp, I know); and, especially and splendidly, pensioners.
From my balcony seat eyrie the rows of white perms in the stalls below looked like the little knots on a candlewick dressing gown; and a slight but clearly discernible aroma of Murray Mints hung limpidly in the air.
A slight gripe is that, for these matinees, the blokes in the orchestra dress in ordinary business suits - as if they had just strolled in from the Heating and Ventilating Contractors (Midlands Branch) Annual Conference across the way. Obviously the full penguin suit is not really on for an afternoon gig so I'm not quite sure what the answer to this sartorial conundrum is. Something like a Seinfeldian 'puffy shirt' would get my vote.
Blue is the colour. But, relax, this is nothing to do with unlovable football millionaires, Chelsea. Although, it would not be a surprise to see Roman Abramovich’s yacht bobbing around smugly in nearby Monte Carlo marina.
No, blue is the colour of the sea at Nice. The Côte d’Azur could not be more fittingly named. Park yourself on one of the many benches along the Promenade des Anglais and just gaze out at the ocean. It is seriously blue and in a stunning variety of shades: azure, lapis lazuli, turquoise, indigo…(pause while writer surreptitiously consults Dulux colour chart)…Deep Ultramarine, Paradise Blue, Sea Blue [Sea Blue? Nah!].
Anyway – you get the picture. As, indeed, did Matisse. It is little wonder that the great painter – born in damp, grey, Picardy in the north – responded to his move to the Riviera by unleashing on the world his wild, splashy yellows, reds, lavenders and, yes, above all, blues. (Visit the Matisse Museum which stands in the Cimiez park a little way out of the city centre).
And, surveying the vista from your woody vantage point, you may be moved to something in the poetic line yourself. “It’s bluer than Paul Newman’s eyes!”, the star-struck may sigh. “It’s bluer than a Bernard Manning gag”, the vulgar may retort. “It’s bluer than Billie Holliday singing a, um, sad song about something, er, sad”, the game but analogically-challenged might utter.
A possible drawback of the Promenade des Anglais for some may be the number of roller-skaters/bladers. In scenes oddly reminiscent of an English suburban street on Christmas morning an (un)steady stream of knee- and elbow-padded kids trundle by – often accompanied, wobbling alarmingly, by those old enough to know better.
But, if you can bear your bench’s status as a miniature traffic island, there is the potential pleasure of seeing some middle-aged bloke, all wealth and wraparound shades, tan and teeth, come a Bambi-esque cropper.
What’s the French for schadenfreude?
The island of Torcello lies across the lagoon from Venice about 10km north as the crow flies (or halibut swims). There is a regular vaparetto (water bus) leaving from the Paglia Bridge near St Mark’s Square, which makes stately progress by way of Murano and Burano. This is not, although it sounds a bit like it, some kind of skittish homage to a well-known catchphrase of Mr Vic Reeves. It is, in fact, another pair of islets in the lagoon. Murano is famous for its glassware and tourists can readily purchase various knick-knacks and baubles. However these trinkets are - almost without exception - of hideous aspect and exorbitant cost and can safely be left to the Americans.
A convivial night culminating in us making short work of a large bottle of brandy meant that we missed the hourly Sunday morning vaparetto we were aiming for so, with a lunchtime table booked at the splendid Cipriani’s restaurant on Torcello, we hopped on to a water taxi. These little speedboats are, inevitably, a lot more pricey that the water bus but, on a crisp, clear autumn morning, as we bounced across the silver-blue waters of the lagoon, the exhilaration of the ride more than made up for the expense. And certainly did a lot to assuage any cognac-induced greenness around the gills.
Such was our air of wellbeing that we did not mind at all when the water taxi-driver insouciantly handed over control of the speeding craft to his 10-year-old son. The look of benign, paternal content on the father’s face as his nipper hurtled us across the deep brought to mind the dog in the Tom and Jerry cartoons (‘Spike’ was it?) with his indulgent chuckle of “That’s my boy!” as his yapping offspring chased Tom up a tree.
Fancy giving the Hapsburgs a bit of lip? Then, if your nerves are up to it, go to the creepiest crypt in Europe.
The Kapuzinergruft (Capuchins' Crypt) lies is in the depths of the Capuchins’ Church (also known as the Church of St Mary of the Angels) and contains the bodies of over 100 members of Austria’s former imperial family – the famously lippy and chinny Hapsburgs.
The administration of the building remains in the hands of the monks, so your visit gets off to a suitably spooky start as a heavily becowled figure emerges silently from behind a curtain to collect your entrance fee and, crooking a bony finger, leads you down to the stygian gloom of the crypt itself (OK – I might have seen too much Scooby Doo in my youth).
And there the whole gang are. Not buried, you understand, but just lying about in their coffins. Sarcophagi are arranged in neat rows as if the Hapsburgs are saying “we may be dead and our empire may have crumbled to nothingness – but we’re not about to let our standards slip”.
The most elaborate tomb belongs to Emperor Franz Josef (the one with the unfeasibly large whiskers who reigned for ages and died in the middle of the first world war). He is flanked by his wife, the Empress ‘Sissi’ and his son Rudolf – tragic principal in the notorious Mayerling affair. Round the corner is Empress Maria Theresa to whom Haydn dedicated a symphony and her son Emperor Josef II – the so-called ‘enlightened despot’ – whose own contribution to Vienna’s musical life was to lambast Mozart for producing “too many notes”. “What a despot!” Mozart was heard to remark (or something very like that).
It is more than a little macabre but visit the Hapsburg stiffs in the Capuchins’ Crypt – where history comes, um, alive.
Neue Markt Square
Breathtakingly gorgeous art nouveau cafe/bar just five or so minutes from the Grand Place. Hearty nosh: moules and frites (of course), tasty Zeebrugge shrimp omelette, rugged carbonnades flamandes stew. There’s also loads of choccy puddings, plus Leffe and plenty of other beers on draught.
The English language menu on their website is worth a look for shameless, cheap-laugh lovers (like your correspondent). How about Salade Landaise “with gizzards and poultry lievers parfumed with orange room”. Or the somewhat Julian Clary-sounding “Warm Entries”.
Henri Mausstraat/Rue Henri Maus, 1000 Brussels;
Nearest Metro: Bourse; www.resto.be/falstaff
The island of Torcello, about 10km across the lagoon from Venice, is dominated by the stunning Romanesque cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta. The sombre beauty of its exterior contrasts sharply with the startling blaze of colour that hits you as you enter. Its walls and floor are covered with a riot of breathtaking mosaic work: the elegantly curved apse at the eastern end depicts a serene Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus whilst the 12 apostles mooch around, a tad self-consciously, beneath. Things are a lot less tranquil at the opposite, western end which portrays a disconcertingly vivid last judgement scene. Contemplating this you can at least console yourself that, even if you do not deserve to sit with the righteous, your sufferings are as nothing compared to the torments of the damned. With glum resignation these unfortunates endure their kebabing in the inferno: sitting rueful amidst the flames while an avenging angel pokes them with a stick.
Although, of course, it could have been a whole lot worse: at least it’s not Jamie Oliver.
Get away from the morose little groups of Stag Weekenders trudging, heartily sick of the sight of one other, up and down the seedy Ramblas and head for the Gracia district. Although swallowed up by Barcelona’s nineteenth century expansion – the Eixample – Gracia maintains a certain ‘village’ feel. In London terms think, perhaps, Islington or Hoxton, but without the advertising ‘creatives’ with irritatingly trendy facial hair, obviously. And, with its woody interior and gingham tablecloths, the taverna El Glop embodies this air of semi-rusticity.
The name of the restaurant itself – meaning ‘The Gulp’, ‘The Glug’ or ‘The Guzzle’ – says ‘earthiness’ and this is reflected in the hearty, traditional Catalan fare on offer. A whopping great menu includes plump meaty sausages and lavish mixed grills featuring veal and lamb or duck and quail (or ‘lawyer’ as Dick Cheney might call it). Pisc-o-philes are sumptuously catered for too. Try hake (merluza) – a fish whose existence is barely acknowledged in the UK – and you’ll find that it is the cod’s more talented (and more tasty) younger brother.
Add on plenty of glasses of light and spicy Catalan red - poured into carafes directly from casks in the restaurant and you still won’t be paying more than 20-odd euros a head.
Oh, and when I was last there everyone got a parting gift encapsulating the homely, bucolic nature of the experience: an El Glop, er, mouse-mat.
Sant Lluis 24 (corner of Sant Lluis and Montmany), 08012 Barcelona;
nearest Metro: Passeig de Gracia; www.tavernaelglop.com
Send your feedback or queries to been.there@guardian.co.uk
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