Europe (Part VII): Paris

09 August 2014

L’amour est l’emblème de l’éternité, il confond toute la notion de temps, efface toute la mémoire d’un commencement, toute la crainte d’une extrémité. That being said, wouldn’t the city of love be the timeless? Well, I am about to find out. The cab driver from campus to Heathrow Airport was rather lively for 0530, and talkative, too. He told me about his five children, his thirty years in England, and the troubles he faced in India when he was caught living on the borders of irritated Pakistan. He has been a cabdriver since his move, but loves London. He says it is really nice having dual citizenship because he has all English benefits but can visit his extended family in India without a problem. He was a very kind man, too. I assumed I could pay by card, but unfortunately this was not possible. He patiently parked his cab and walked with me into the airport to the cash machine without a complaint. He even apologized a few times for his inability to do card. Altogether, the ride costed me £35,00. I got to the airport with just over two hours to check a bag and get to my terminal. No problems did I face in LHR; I boarded the plane and took off five minutes early: 0815. Only a forty-five minute flight, we landed at Aéroport Charles de Gaulle - Terminal 2E by 0900.

The train ride from the aéroport to Gare du Nord was like any other, all except for one little thing: the man who sang “Ai Se Eu Te Pego” with music playing from a speaker the entire time, asking for money in French. He did not get much. The RER B train took about thirty minutes and dwindled me down €9,75. The ride from Gare du Nord to Strasbourg-S Denis was only €1,70. Unlike my first moments in London, getting around Paris was as easy as un deux trois. I do think that London has a better travel system; but being my first time alone in a foreign country came with more pressure and fear than I had originally imagined. Getting around the world was second nature for me now.

The walk from Strasbourg to my hotel room was probably 200 metres. I walked into Hôtel Moris and checked in, using English and understanding the thick French-English (Franglish) of my concierge. After dropping off my bags, using the sale de bain, and checking out my vue parfait de Sacré-Cœur, I hit the streets of Paris. First stop: Les Deux Magots. If you do not know what Les Duex Magots is, read a book! Just kidding; writers and artists met here in the time of Hemingway and Picasso. They would sit down for brunch with Gertrude Stein, take in the surroundings and discuss brilliant ideas. I sat there for brunch, took in the surroundings, and thought of myself doing like that of Hemingway, another Englishman in the ville de l’amour, the ville de lumiére, Paris. My ham and cheese baguette was a sharp €10,00 and my pot of tea was a steep €6,00. The experience, in my opinion, was worth far more.

Following brunch came more walking. I headed in the direction of Shakespeare and Co., a famous English bookstore below Notre Dame. I stumbled upon it rather guessedly, but fortunately. I spent some time rubbing the ivories in the upstairs library and walked through the narrow hallways cluttered with old books. The gods of deals must have been on my side this day, for if I had not stumbled upon a discarded pile of old French books that were free for the taking, I would have spent a pretty penny on books in this amazing store and safe haven for English speakers.

What could follow my breathtaking and memorable experience thus far in Paris? I think Notre Dame will do. The entrance fee into the cathédrale was a whopping €0,00. The interior of Notre Dame is rich with color and gothic detail. The stained glass is bleu foncé et rouge vif et vert tender et jaune vif. What stands out more than the interior is the glorious front façade of the cathedral, facing west; that and the full-length flying buttresses make Notre Dame an architect's or neoclassical student's dream and/or nightmare. For those who are learned in Belmontian professorship, from the moment I laid eyes on Notre Dame, I couldn't get Byrne out of my head.

From Notre Dame, I wandered down past the Conciergerie, across the bridge to the southern shore of the River Seine, west along the boardwalk, stopping frequently at little green huts that sold anything from Eiffel Towers to antiquarian books to Edith Piaf records, over le pont des écluses, where many leave their hearts in Paris, and to the expansive halls of the Louvre. I took many pictures of the pyramid, but saved the inside for tomorrow. I didn't want to fly through the museum with just over two hours before close. So at this point I took the northern boardwalk of the Seine back up towards Hôtel Moris where I dropped off those French books and a few other things before going back onto the Metro and to École Militaire. I walked the Parc Du Champ De Mars up to the great Tour Eiffel, walking slowly as the giant of a monument loomed over me. I studied the curvature of the arcs and the greatness the tower had over the rest of the city. When I finally lowered my head from the heights above to the people I kept bumping into, all doing the same thing, I noticed an ice cream truck parked in the area directly below the tower.

The pistache was better than the chocolat, in my honest opinion. Although, both were better than any ice cream I had ever had—even better than Jeni's in Nashville or Coldstone in Chicago. After dessert, I decided to get some dinner. What better place to have dinner than in the shadow of La Tour Eiffel. I would like to note that I began getting glimpses of the tower early in the game, even way back when I was crossing the Seine by Notre Dame, so the shadow is probably cast for a very far distance. The thing is monumental. But that does not change the sentimentality of having vin rouge, fromage, et le canard right across the way from the structure. I took quite some time finishing my very pricey meal. But hey, if I was going to splurge on a meal somewhere, this was the premier place to do so.

At this point in the amazing Parisian day that has gifted me with a new lens in which to view the world, the sun was beginning to set. I had enough time to walk up to the Arc de Triomphe, where Napoleon would march his returning troops from the battlefield and into the city; it was a sign of Roman glory to have the city gather for your arrival. Maybe to compensate for other things, Bonaparte's monument was astoundingly triumphal. I walked around the arc and watched the final tongues of the sun lick the horizon. Just as he said bonsoir and retired for the night until dawn, the sun's light was replaced with that of Paris'. The arc lit up in deep orange and the streets were littered with bleu foncé et rouge vif et vert tender et jaune vif. I reentered Paris in the fashion of Napoleon and continued my march back towards La Tour Eiffel.

I climbed up the incline to the gates of the Palais de Chaillot, where fountains covered me with mist. The gentle and cool touch of water was refreshing following all the kilometres I had ventured today. As soon as I found a good spot to sit down, the fountains ceased and the area quickly grew silent. Sh... Then, as the clock struck on the hour, the tower glistened with glittering lights for five minutes. How romantic! The people cheered once the tower began to twinkle. I slowly wandered back down the Parc Du Champ De Mars and sat down in the grass, gazing up at the glowing point that pierced the night sky.

My only complaint: I felt like I was touring a museum of kissing. Sure, if I was there with a lovely woman, I might have kissed her once. But these romantics had not the slightest care that other people were around. I would not be surprised to find out that shortly after my leaving, people began partaking in the romantic act of public whoopie, or as the French like to say, “Un grand passé-temps de notre people.”

The metro dropped me back at Strasbourg, where I walked the narrow and quiet side streets of Paris late into the night, hoping that I would stumble upon Owen Wilson or the old car that took him back in time to join Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Dali, Stein, and Cole Porter. Although I walked far past midnight, the car never came. I must spend this night alone, broodingly lingering over my current works in progress and waiting to continue my affair with Hemingway’s and Picasso’s Adriana.

10 August 2014

I rolled out of bed and took a lazy stroll down to the Seine, which I walked along westwardly. Along the banks of the river, I sat down in Le Relais du Louvre, a small corner café near the great museum. I had a nutella crêpe and a cafe noisette. After finishing my le petit déjeuner rather quickly, I jumped into queue at the pyramid of the Louvre. I ended up in front of a family from Washington D.C., and we got to talking about the son, who was in his last year of college and studying politic science for a term in Paris. We exchanged thoughts on studying in a foreign country while the queue putted along. Finally within the Louvre, the adventure began.

The Mona Lisa, the rooms of Napoleon, the Code of Hammurabi, ancient Egyptian and Greco-Roman artifacts, Michelangelos and Da Vincis, Monets and Picassos; the Louvre had a little bit (if not a lot) of everything. I mostly appreciated the sword of Charlemagne, the sarcophagus of Cleopatra, and the tea set of Marie Antoinette. I walked up and down the three great halls of the Louvre for many hours, until my feet gave up from all the walking and my brain turned to mush from the vast collection. Although this museum lived up to the fame of its name, the experience of the Louvre was dulled by the overload of museums and famous sights that I have witnessed to upon my journey thus far. Some things stood out, but the majority of the museum left me with an oh-another-ancient-artifact feeling.

After I had walked most of the halls, I ventured back to the pyramid. I had gotten so deep within the crypts of the museum that it took me quite some time to make it out again. But the first thing on my mind when I left was détente et manger. I found myself at Café les Richard, which sits in a small back road in between Strasbourg and the Seine. I had myself some lunch before heading back to the room to rest my feet a bit more. I had been constantly on them all day!

After about an hour or so of rest, I decided to take a book with me to read at a café or the like. At first, I sat down by a beautiful fountain, complete with naked baby statues that urinated the water that fell into the pools below. I was getting lost in The Two Towers when a woman approached me, asking for coinage for a five euro note. I politely held out a €2 coin, two €1 coins, and two 50c. coins and reached for the note. To my luck, the woman grabbed my money and ran off with my coins and her note! I was swindled out of my change! For a moment, I considered pursuing and consequently tackling the woman to the ground until I was reimbursed. However, wouldn't that just lower me to her level? Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d’un cochon d’inde! Okay, there; I feel better now. And now I can rest knowing that I have had the full European experience, thievery and all!

While wandering the streets just south of Notre Dame, I came to a small street vendor selling French hotdogs. The French take their dogs with ketchup, mustard, and mayo on a baguette. It was rather délicieux and somewhat épicé. I ate it while I walked. I went with the street vendor because food at a restaurant will cost well over my price range. By the time I finished the French street food, I was at the door to Le Depart, a nice corner café on the Seine and right below Notre Dame and the Conciergerie. I had a pot of tea while I read The Two Towers and laughed at a street performer clown. When I sat down here, the sun was slowly drifting south, away from Paris; and as I finished reading and savoured the last drop of Earl Grey, the moon had greeted me high in the sky and as a reflection off the river. It was time to wander yet again. I found myself lured by the glow of the cathedral over the river. Naturally, I found a seat under her great façade and continued to read by the light of a streetlamp. I alternated between getting lost in the fields of Rohan, watching the Seine ripple in the moon light, counting the faces in the tympanum on the cathedral, and tapping my foot to the beat of the Michael Jackson dancer's music in the square.

After I felt that I had taken in enough, I walked back over the river to Shakespeare and Co. for some better lighting. The store is open late, and I found contentment in reading in the upstairs library as an old man played Chopin preludes on the piano in the corner. Although I would have liked to be the one playing the piano, I could not complain, for the feeling of being in Paris had finally been realized. Life was good and lovely and there was nothing to complain about and the wind was soft and the moon was beautiful and the people were laughing and the streets were peaceful and life was full.

11 August 2014 (Part I)

It is my final day in Paris, and I am having mixed feelings. Yes, this city is one of beauty, love, and mystery; but Italia has been whispering inviting tidings since I was just a wee lad. I have always wanted to visit Italia, for my family is from Calabria. Although I do have some other, lesser bloods in my heritage, I am proudest of my vineyard-residing familia.

So for my final day in Paris, I have decided to take it easily and strollingly. I checked out of my room, leaving my bags in a storage closet, and found myself with my book in the back streets of 10 arr., the district north of Notre Dame. I have spent most of my time in this area because my hotel sits perfectly, just north of all of the excitement of 10 arr.. I found a food vendor along the streets and had myself yet another nutella crêpe and a café; I sat there, wandering the Emyn Muil of Middle Earth, getting lost in literature in a city that has carried literature through the ages. I could have sat there all day, but I feel wrong taking up someone's table for hours on end if my food and drink have been downed. So, after about an hour or so, I decided to café-hop to the next place to have outdoor seating.

Les Depart—which I am now assuming would equate with a Panera in the United States—provided the next setting for my reading and coffee. Café au lait was next on my list. The drinks in Europe are much different than in America. They are much smaller but much richer. Comparing a shot of espresso to a cup of coffee will precisely illuminate the difference: when you order a cup o joe, you get a mug's worth of liquid; it is good, but can sometimes lack depth and character; the American: big, good, and lacking depth and character. When you order an espresso, you get a tiny sip of a drink; it is rich with personality, but lacks in size; the European: tiny, intelligent, and lacking the oomph of the American super size. Cars follow suit.

After my café au lait was quickly consumed and my time at Les Depart had expired, I wandered the shops of Paris, not looking to get anything, but to fill my time with something besides cafés and coffee. My final stop in Paris, quite sentimental to my time in London, was Maison Richard, where I had Thé (tea) on the Seine one last time. (I guess tea is a bit different than coffee…) I really got to thinking about the loveliness of this city. Je serai poéte et toi poésie.

The pot of Thé was quite good: Earl Grey with milk and sugar. Forever I wish to continue the life of tea like an honest Englishman should. Quite contradictory to the first paragraph of this day's entry, I am also proud of my English heritage. My great great (and so forth) grandmother was the seamstress for Queen Elizabeth I. We were once English "royalty" as we called Buckingham Palace (or the likes of the time) our home, neighbors with the royal family. And for that, I shall honour my family with English practices and pride in the wee bit of English blood that flows through my veins.

I returned to the hotel to retrieve my luggage, took the metro to Gare du Nord, jumped on the RER B (accidentally did not purchase a €9,75 ticket and managed to sneak into the airport), and checked my suitcase for a flight to Firenze. I had plenty of time in Charles de Gualle, so I read some more of Lord of the Rings.