Absolutely sick of the sight of each other, we woke each other up at about eleven o’clock through trading expletive-laden insults.

Thank God this trip is over.

With each of us taking an absurdly long time to shower, we left the flat in search of some breakfast.  Sadly, as it was the beginning of the month, nowhere was open, so naturally we thought we’d do a bit of sightseeing before eating.  On the way, we saw an apartment block, just around the corner from ours, surrounded by sapeurs-pompiers and the remnants of smoke.

Nothing to worry about.  Ticking off Hôtel des Invalides, where Napoleon is buried, it was time to find an adequate eatery.

Off we went to that lovely (albeit pricey) café near Tuileries, again.

Surrounded by only Francophones, we spent a nice mid-morning (which turned into early afternoon) having brunch.

Eking out our final hours in continental Europe, we wandered back to the flat where we packed our bags.  It suddenly dawned on us that this was the end of 2009’s trip.  Apocalyptic weeping ensued.

NM dropped off our key to his covert operative while I waited in the downstairs entrance to the apartment building.  I fretted that the Russians had enacted their revenge on the metro and I’d be having an awkward conversation with Mr & Mrs Manners as to why their son was the victim of a Soviet skinning…

But it was alright; NM returned, just in time for a final photo-call before our taxis arrived.  NM was due to be jetting off from Paris-Orly for a familial rendez-vous in the South of France, whereas I was due to  be getting a flight from Paris-Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle (CdG) back to the UK.  We parted, saving any public displays of emotion.  We’re men, remember?

I arrived at CdG twenty minutes after my comrade had initiated contact to notify me of his arrival at Orly, and I began my wait for 1730hrs, before I could check in for my 2015 flight.  It’s really not a great airport.  I picked my seat and checked myself in on that funky British Airways machine and was licking my lips in anticipation of the paid-for meal I might receive later.  It would be a far cry from easyJet.  Through the degrading ritual known as the security check and I was airside.  A chocolate bar here, a chocolate bar there and parental presents were sorted.  Now for the inevitable wait at the gate.  It’s really not a great airport.

Sooner or later (well, it was quite a bit later, actually, as I watched the ground baggage handling staff make an absolute mess of putting the cargo containers onto the plane…), I boarded my flight.  Behind a French lady, her husband and two daughters, who appeared to be gripped with something worse than Swine Flu:  Swine Flu Paranoid Hysteria.  Yep, that’s right, this French famille were kitted out in face masks.  Needless to say, I started sniffing and coughing and spluttering as much as I could behind them.

Picking up all of the free newspapers on my way to the plane, except the Mail, I was left with Le Figaro, Liberation and The Times.  The cabin crew, believing my journalistic choices were indicative of citizenship, directed me to my seat in French and that was pretty much the most exciting thing that happened to me on that little hour-long journey.  I sat next to two miserable Australian adolescents; I was given a coffee and a chicken wrap; I landed at the bleak, overcast London Heathrow Terminal 5.

My bags, miraculously, weren’t lost, and neither were my parents, who were waiting for me at Costa.  One more stop on my journey – Burger King – and I was back in the confines of South West Surrey.  At the end of my travels, I blithered about continental Europe while uploading more photos.

interthink 2009 was definitely a brilliant one.  And now, what next?  We’ve been to practically everywhere in Europe, save for Scandinavia and a select Eastern bloc.  There’s plenty more miles to be had, I can guarantee, and plenty more border-transcending travelling to be done.  After all, there’s only so many things I can take photos of in Guildford, and our ‘cabaret double-act’ show (thanks Tamara!) simply must go on…

Oh, no.  This trip is over.

Today didn’t properly start until quite late by our standards. We weren’t out of the flat until at least midday so we decided to grab the metro to Place de la Concorde and sit down at a pricey but delicious café that I had been taken to before. NS was pleased, I had done well.

After a lovely French brunch, we walked down through the Jardin des Tuileries and through the centre of the Louvre.

This was followed by a walk west by the Seine through the not-so-aptly named Paris Plage (they tried, bless them, there was a small amount of sand…) and across the river to Ile de la Cité. This is the isle in the middle of the Seine with Notre Dame on it. We didn’t stop, but passed through and admired the building. Speedy sightseeing.

We crossed over to the other side of the Seine and NS was in his element as we passed several second hand and vintage book stalls. Since the start of this trip, NS has been on the lookout for a gem, a book or object that he will appear with on Celebrity Bargain Hunt in 30 years and be told he could sell it for a 60,000% markup. Thus far in the trip, he has been unsuccessful…and today was no exception.

All this book hunting obviously took its toll on the poor young Cypriot, as he promptly refuelled his tanks on a Nutella crêpe before continuing any further. Further, in this case, was the Jardin de Luxembourg; another set of palace gardens that provided a lovely backdrop for the pleasantly warm Parisian summer afternoon.

On they way back to the flat, we passed by the Montparnasse Cemetery and NS recognised several of the famous people buried there; including that carmaker Mr Citroen, l’écrivain Samuel Beckett and a certain Jean-Paul Sartre.

We found Sartre’s grave, which was bizarrely enough covered in used metro tickets among the poetry and drawings in various languages. Upon further inspection however, the tickets had various messages on them to the deceased playwright, philosopher and thinker.

We failed to find any other of the graves we intended to as it is a very large cemetery, but we did have a shock on the way to the exit. We passed a family grave that had four members deceased in 1942 and the French inscription read, “À ma famille Dikerman, exterminée à Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

This was shocking, to say the least, such a poignant reminder that something we had seen weeks ago, a thousand or so miles away had had such a profound effect here. Again, the enormity of the horrific actions perpetrated during the second world war hit home. “Shocking” is the only word I can think of.

We came back to the flat for a shower and a small amount of blog maintenance and then it was off to the duck restaurant that I had been so eager to visit again since my stay here during Christmas.

The duck restaurant was actually called Sud-Ouest & Cie and it was fantastic. Over a bottle of very nice Bergerac we enjoyed foie gras, slices of duck in honey/fruits of the forest and profiteroles. Having such wonderful food while a Paris summer sunset during is one of the finer experiences in life and is recommended to all.

The day didn’t finish quite there though, as we still had some drama left in us.  On the metro home, one stop before our destination, a man, who appeared to be homeless and drug-addled, dived out of the train just before the doors shut.  His bag, however, was left on the seat opposite.

Being British and self-important, we didn’t make the natural assumption that the man had been too high on god-knows-what to notice he’d forgotten his luggage, so we therefore landed at the logical conclusion that we were about to be blown to bits.

The concerned citizens of a fellow EU member state, we marched up to the ticket office upon disembarking the train.  NS then expertly co-ordinated his French language skills to detail what had happened.  His A-level French was definitely worth the money.  Nevertheless, I provided essential help to confirm the station at which the incident happened – Pasteur.  The man at the ticket office promptly phoned the appropriate people.

I guess our medals must be in the post…

Up early for the final time on our journey, we packed our bags over croissants served by the lovely Janet. Then, graciously accepting more sandwiches, we left Brussels.

Now, we’ve been on some average buses, and some nice trains.  We’ve been on some average trains and some nice buses.

However, once at Bruxelles-Midi, we boarded a Thalys train.  For those in the know, this was a rebranded SNCF TGV.  For the uninitiated, this was one step below the luxury of the Eurostar, but travels at the same speed.  That’s right, to get to our final stop, we were travelling on the Concorde of trains.

Casually dozing at 300km/h, we woke up at Paris Gare du Nord.

Once we’d arrived en France, NM took me for a top-secret rendezvous at the entrance of an unnamed metro station to pick up our safehouse key from a clandestine interthink sympathiser.  Then, it was off to a lovely flat in the 15ème arrondissement.

Not wanting to over-cliché the most beautiful city in Europe (damn.) on our first day, we decided to take a late-afternoon stroll up to Sacre Coeur, after checking out the Moulin Rouge.  Moral vs. less-than-moral.  We’re all about balance.

Featuring a terribly tourist-laden wade through Montmartre, autrefois Amelie, now host to a deluge of portrait “artists”, we settled on a café with a prixe-fixe dinner menu.  Paying 24 Euros for a sub-average meal (although I did have a nice half-lobster starter) was not a high point.

A placating walk home accompanied by a short metro ride and we decided to pop in one of our host’s grand selection of DVDs.  Being rather up on the historical events in question and having visited certain places of note, we decided to watch Schindler’s List.  Three hours and seven minutes of breathtaking, moving cinema later, and we were long overdue for some rest.