Ahh, Paris

It's hard to know how to really write about a trip to Paris without lapsing into cliches. I suppose people end up saying the same things about the city because they tend to be true: it is beautiful, it is enchanting, it is full of interesting history and people and food. I can start with overall impressions:
Paris is a city of BIG, BIG things -- I was amazed by the sheer size of the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Musee d'Orsay.
Paris is also a city of small things -- the tables in the restaurants, the shops, the side streets, the people, the cups of coffee.
Paris is a city of monuments -- Napoleon is everywhere, in monuments he erected to himself and others erected to him, and the pride of the French people is everywhere in monuments, too.
Paris is a city of cigarette smoke -- I was especially aware of this, suffering from a bad upper respiratory virus.

So, first impression? A lot of small, smoking people, walking in stylish boots around a giant city.

I'll try to tell a little bit more of our story as the pictures glide by, and I'll leave the last of the blog to Dennis, whose reflections are far more coherent than my own.

I was really impressed with our hotel room at the Hotel Elysa-Luxembourg on the Rue Gay-Lussac, about one block from the Jardins du Luxembourg (above and right).

It was so stereotypically "Parisienne" -- the big windows, the wrought iron balcony railings.

It made me feel so continental:

Here's the view we had, and you can see that we were exceptionally lucky in the weather for our visit (umm, thanks, global warming).











We started just by wandering -- up the Boulevard St. Michel to the Boulevard St. Germain-des-Pres (trying to avoid the aggressive waiters in the doorways of the cafes on the side streets), stopping to eat at a brasserie under Eglise St. Severin ("moules frites" and "omelette mixte" with "un pichet de vin rouge"). Gawking and coughing (remember: upper respiratory virus + French smokers + heavy diesel-fueled traffic = embarrassing public coughing fits), we strolled back toward our hotel, passing Le Sorbonne and Le Pantheon (not knowing we were passing them until we scrutinized our map back in the room, trying to figure out what those big-ass buildings were).

Next day (Sunday), we decided to orient ourselves to the city by walking west along the Seine, toward the Musee d'Orsay. We started by walking up to Place St. Michel (on the left).

Here's Dennis looking serious and cool in front of the Pont Neuf:


It was hard to keep from just snapping random pictures of the river, the surrounding buildings, the people (I had to stop Dennis twice from taking pictures of beautiful young people kissing). We do have quite a collection of "scenic" shots, but I tried to only upload a few:

For my chocolate and pastry loving friends, here's a shot I call "pain OOOHHHH chocolat."

We strolled and snapped (and coughed and gawked) our way to the Musee d'Orsay, where we joined a long, long line of people who'd had the same thought we had ("gonna be rainy and cool today -- let's go to the museum"). In line I made two discoveries: that all those stereotypes about Japanese tourists are based on personal experience, not just random prejudice, and that the best street food in Paris is not the crepe but the "gaufre," a sweet, warm, crispy waffle slathered in Nutella. Oh, baby! I'd stand in line all day if I could have another one of those!

The museum was amazing -- the building impressed me almost as much as the collection, and we continually marvelled over the fact that they nearly tore the whole thing down in the 1970's.

Here's one of the clocks on the outside of the building; down further, you can see the same clock from the inside, from the cafe on the fifth floor of the museum. The middle shot is just a nice view of the interior.






























After a few hours of Renoir, Rodin, Burne-Jones, Van Gogh, Seurat, and Monet, we decided to get out into the city and walk a bit, in the general direction of the Champs de Mar and the Eiffel Tower. We got a little lost and ended up behind some very large official buildings surrounded by "gendarmes," but we eventually found our way to the Hotel des Invalides, where we saw games of soccer and petanque being played (the potentially rainy Sunday had turned into a beautiful day).

From here, we just kept our eyes on the tower, rising above the buildings, and meandered through some very interesting side streets until we found the entrance to the park, where we laid out our raincoats and reclined in the shadow of the tower (well, it was dusk, so there wasn't really a shadow, but you know what I'm trying to evoke).

We ended our day by wandering back to our "neighborhood" for Japanese food, then we collapsed in front of the TV for the French version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" (which we could actually follow because the questions and possible answers were written out on the screen).

Next day, we decided to go the other direction and see the Latin Quarter. After a quick croissant and "boisson chaud," we walked up the Rue Soufflot and around the Pantheon, along a back road to the Rue Descartes, eventually finding Rue Mouffetard and Rue Monge -- what a great discovery! We walked all the way down to the Mosque de Paris and tried to get tea in the courtyard (they were too busy and/or we were too impatient). We decided to leave it at having seen this beautiful building and left to walk back up toward the Louvre. Along the way, we found the Arene Lutece, an old Roman gladiatorial arena, tucked behind an inconspicuous doorway on the Rue Monge.

Guided by our stomachs, we walked down St. Germain-des-Pres seeking cheap baguette sandwiches (found some good ones, too, with roasted eggplant and feta) and ate a quick picnic in the Couer Carre of the Louvre. Fortified, we joined our fellow tourists in line for more gawking (and coughing).







We "did" the two most famous pieces first: the Mona Lisa and the Venus di Milo (which are actually named "La Jocande" and "Aphrodite," respectively), then just chose a section to explore.

I think one of the most impressive installations is the series of rooms that were the apartments of Napoleon III:


















When we left, around 6:30, it was dark and the moon was nearly full, so we had to take this somewhat spooky shot. Say what you will about the Pei pyramid, I found the contrast of architectural styles very interesting and beautiful.















Next day, we walked up to Notre Dame and walked around both the outside and the inside (and all this stuff is FREE -- amazing!). What a really beautiful building!

After the cathedral, we walked north into the Marais, on what we were calling the "Don walk" -- past the National Archives, through the Jewish Quarter, weaving through old and charming streets to the Place de Vosges (below).















On Nov. 1, most of Europe is on holiday for All-Saints Day, and I was worn out from the previous days' adventures, so we simply strolled around Luxembourg Gardens. We sat in two chairs in the sun and just baked for an hour or so -- lovely!





























We decided to see if we could make it to Le Bon Marche before I succumbed to consumption; we made it around Le Grand Epicerie and bought some wonderful ingredients for a hotel-room picnic:



As our time in Paris came to a close, I realized that I really needed to see the Arc de Triomphe and, a la Joni Mitchell, "wander down the Champs Elysee," so we took the metro up to it and walked back.
I don't know if it was the virus (by now, affecting Dennis, too) or what, but I wasn't that impressed by the Champs Elysee (and I didn't feel "unfettered and alive" -- in fact, I felt crowded and irritable). We were glad to get to Place de la Concorde and away from the shopping frenzy. We were properly impressed by standing where Louis and Marie got guillotined, and then we walked through the Jardins du Tuileries, eating overpriced roasted chestnuts from a shopping cart-cum-brazier.



All in all, looking back after having survived that cold, I loved Paris. I want to return when I can taste and smell more clearly and walk more than half a mile without gasping for breath. I end with this photo -- crepes and wine!
















Now, I'm the narrator of travel, and reading over this, it seems so naive and Midwestern. But the truth is, I was just impressed with what I saw (and coughed on). Dennis seemed to have more grand thoughts about the experience (although he's bristling at my description of them as "grand"):

It’s oddly human to go to places simply because they are there. Kind of like climbing a hill to see what’s on the other side. Is it the climb or is it the possibility of new climbs? I think it was Erasmus who is claimed to be the first person to climb a mountain just for the view – an act that ushered in Renaissance thought and the fact that “the view” is fundamental to human growth and development. I can imagine our wonderfully American friend Homer Simpson victoriously reaching a summit and letting out a reverberating “D’oh!” when he realizes that conquering one mountain simply allows us to see the shadows of all the other mountains that will now haunt us with what-ifs until we actually get up the energy to repeat the process. But I’m the one guy in my humanities seminar that always thought Sisyphus was having a great time rockin’ and rollin’ his way through an otherwise meaningless existence.

Which brings me to Paris. I wonder what David Sedaris would think of the place if he didn’t smoke. I wonder what drew (and still draws) the best minds of western culture to this funky plains town on a wide spot in the river. I wonder what it is that makes this place special enough to house and, in many cases, generate, the monumental historical and cultural art works that define the intellectual lives of so many people around the world. A lot of things had to happen in exactly the right palce at exactly the right time to make this little river town into the cultural showplace it truly is.

The wondering part is fun, but the wandering is even better. This is a walker’s city. Paris requires a sensual approach. Touch it. Smell it. Feel it. The best thing to do while wandering is to chew on a croissant and wash it down with a double espresso. There is no such thing as a cup of coffee in the shops here. “Un boisson chaud” is an espresso or an extravagantly over-priced cup of tea. Stick with the coffee. A short visit here will also answer the question about the origins of the outdoor cafés. Simply put, they are the refuge of those seeking relief from the intense cigarette smoke inside the shoulder-to-shoulder tiny-tabled environs of the city’s ubiquitous tabac brasseries. So, you have a choice: diesel, exhaust fumes, and militant pigeons outside, or sure death by suffocation inside. You can, of course, go inside and request a non-smoking table which is required by law. After his sneer has somewhat faded, Monsieur Waiter will seat you at a table alongside a huge group of small, darkly-clad smokers who are obviously vying with others of their ilk for a place in the Guinness Book of World Records for number of ciggies alight at a single table. Having done his legal duty, your waiter will assure you that no one will be allowed to smoke at your table. Then he will retire to the bar and watch you for the next forty-five minutes, making book on whether or not you’ll survive long enough to order.

Ah, but when things work out, the food and drink are tres magnifique. Moules et frites, omlettes, des pains, un pichets de vin in a fairly smoke-free environment can take up most of the day. And then there is dinner. We found some great vegetarian places that made the grade. Because, like London, present day Paris is a place of immigrants and new cuisines, the traditional French cuisine in no longer king. And, like Virginia says, “who wants to eats innards and duck fat anyway?” It seems the whole colonization thing has turned on the colonizers and now the folks that France hoped to control from afar are coming to the political homeland in search of jobs and a generally peaceful co-existence. Sort of like the Indian food syndrome in London, a lot of new immigrants will bring their own cuisines with them. We were lucky to find a really great North African restaurant near the University of Paris and just about exploded on huge servings of cous cous and tagine and a killer house beaujolais. Like I always say: Find campus town and you’ll find honest food.

That evening we walked home in the rain through streets crowded with tiny French trick or treaters and stopped in at a brasserie for one last pichet. The rain slowed down enough to let us get back to the hotel where we finished off the night sipping econo-wine and watching French reality TV shows.

French TV, radio, and “le homme sur la rue” (sorry, Don) are really great ways to discover how little French one actually knows. On the rail trip to France, I picked up the latest copy of Paris Match which is, essentially, People magazine in French so I could “practice up.” I had fond memories of college French class and my ability to read the celeb baloney in two languages – plodding through Paris Match and then reading the exact same story in People and checking for errors. Of course, I’d walk away feeling like Roland Barthes, able to tackle any philosophical question apt to arise in the Latin Quarter. But reading the language and hearing it are two different things and I was soon awakened to the reality of the situation when I realized that I couldn’t even understand the utterances of words I could interpret had they been on paper. I might as well have been in Budapest (oh no!!). We actually pondered the possibility of carrying around a pen and pad, masquerading as deaf mutes with a sign hanging from our forlorn necks: “Pouvez vous l’ecritez, s’il vous plait?” But a series of first year vocab and meaningful grunts usually got us our daily ration of bread, caffeine, and wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of the various shopkeepers we dealt with knew the King’s prattle perfectly well but just liked to watch us sweat (and cough).

Yet there are so many things in Paris that transcend language that the problem often faded in knowing glances and smiles from across the way. I’ll never forget the glans of the Eiffel Tower spewing into the night sky and the knowing glance in my direction from a fellow male who was being chastised by his girl friend for seeing the exact same thing. Ah, the universal language always speaks loudest.

This whole universal language thing is probably what helped to make Paris into what it is – a monument to its own uncanny ability to survive the foibles of the power-mad moguls who fought over it over the centuries. Every monument in the city is purposefully set to represent the power of the person who had it built. Some of us have large lawns or big cars, or a great wardrobe – these guys had a matching set of castles or a couple of designer countries. It’s interesting to see how classical design and Greco-roman aesthetics have been co-opted into ideographic symbols of aggression and personal grandeur. And it’s even more interesting to see how the human element slowly creeps back into the sphere when the offending element has left. Like grass growing up through the cracks in unused pavement, the arts and humanities return to reclaim the monuments. The Louvre has never been put to better use than when it became an artists’ community after Louis left for his little place in the country. The formal courtyards and military practice fields, once home to the courtier and the soldier, are now home to old men in natty suits playing petanque and small dogs leading their masters from one languishing statue to another. Man, I can hear the button accordions and fat guitars in the breeze . . .

As I mentioned earlier, it is odd to go to a place simply because it is there. But that is, I suppose, the very thing that separates us from the rest of the oxygen breathers in the world. We need to know what’s around each corner. Paris seems to be the perfect destination re this uniquely human need. It is here simply because it is – just like us And it beckons to the world like a funhouse mirror to come and take a big long look at itself and to (pun intended) reflect. I sent my friend Peter a postcard from Notre Dame – the one of the Gargoyle pensively watching over the Parisian landscape (Le Penseur). The photo is so popular it has become a cliché, but the scenario speaks volumes every time I see it. Timelessness pondering history. The past trying to make sense out of the present it has created. It’s just a damn meaningful picture. And I like it. I guess it’s like Paris itself: A damn, meaningful place. And we like it.