There have been writers throughout the ages who can describe Paris a lot better than I can. Indeed, many of those who I'm thinking of loved the city so much that they were buried there, such is the allure of the place. There's a magic kind of energy in the air that immediately brings to mind the elegance, the grandeur and the creative vibes that have made the city a hot-spot for the great and the stylish since God was a boy. These great and stylish legends whose names will always be linked with the City of Lights could give the city its due much more articulately than I will be able to, but here it goes anyway.
We, meaning Christine, Casey, Michelle and I, went to Paris for the weekend. We needed a break from Rome (shock!) and the schoolwork that being here implies right now, and where better place to take a break than the city that invented joie de vivre? We could think of nowhere.
Christine and I left from Ciampino very early Thursday morning, and man oh man, what a way to start the trip. I was packed and ready the night before, with my clothes laid out fireman-style on the off chance that my traveling neurosis would fall through and I would actually get a wink of sleep. Well... you shouldn't tempt fate. I awoke to my phone ringing at 4.15 am... I was supposed to wake up at 4. Now, 15 minutes might not seem like a big deal, but when you're me, and you have my luck with travel, every second is crucial. So I saw the time on my phone after I accidentally hung up on Christine the first time and shot out of bed with an adrenaline rush that pretty much lasted the rest of the weekend. When she called back I yelled into the phone in a shaky, panicky voice that my alarm hadn't gone off while at the same time trying to hook my bra and pull on my leggings... humans need more hands.
So I probably looked like a crazy person as I flew out of the apartment building, with my coat half on, socks hanging out of the pockets, hair like Albert Einstein on his worst day, my leggings basically around my knees and my eyes still bleary from sleep. I sprinted the two blocks to the bus stop (it was important that I get THE NEXT BUS because they only come about every half an hour until 5.30) waving my arms and screaming as I watched it leaving the stop. And then I did something very stupid. I ran out in front of the bus and stood there to make it stop. This could have ended very badly, as I'm sure you can imagine, in a city renowned for its favorite pass-time of pedestrian bowling. But the driver stopped, opened the door, and thoroughly cussed me out for about half the ride to Termini. I deserved it, but I also didn't care too much. About 15 minutes after I was awakened, therefore, I was at the train station. This has to be some kind of record. Could someone research that? Thanks.
And then, as I sprinted once again off the bus to get the OTHER bus to Ciampino (the last one until after our plane took off), I realized that I had neglected to find Christine. Well, we tried the phone thing, but apparently I don't even speak English that early in the morning, because she didn't seem to be understanding my directions. We ended up playing a rousing game of parking-lot Marco Polo, during which I spent about two minutes screaming CHRISTINE! CHRISTINE! at a very confused woman who was, in fact, not Christine, but just hoping to get her commute over with... but we eventually found each other, and did some more dramatic running to catch the bus. We caught it. We got the plane. All was right with the world. On to Paris!
Beauvais airport is around 70 km from Paris. This is not ideal. But I'll be damned if Ryanair isn't still the best thing in the world, so I was willing to make some sacrifices. We got another shuttle bus and spent the lovely hour and a half ride to Porte Maillot looking out the windows of the bus and discussing the differences we saw. Difference number one: no palm trees. Now, I know this might seem shocking to you North Americans, but palm trees don't only grow in Hawaii. They are a common (though transplanted) part of Italian scenery. Not so northern France. However... I don't think I like anything more than I like the fun balls of mistletoe hanging in the oak trees. So, you trade one novelty for another. Difference number two: not really a difference so much as a Maggie-Freaks-Out moment. We saw a Buffalo Grill on our way into Paris. This doesn't mean a damn thing to most of you, but that was the first meal I ever had in France. It's this horribly kitchy cowboy place where they serve you hamburgers sans buns and really awful fake ketchup while you're sitting on a wooden bench staring at a Charlie Russell print on the wall. Yup. A little taste of what the rest of the world thinks Montana is like. Oh what fun.
But we got to Port Maillot and walked basically the length of Paris, from behind the Arc de Triomphe (by La Defense) to our hostel, which was in the East Latin Quarter (past Ile de la Cite) in Rue Mouffetard. This, my friends, is a trek. And this assessment is coming from me, the girl who doesn't really use public transportation at all, preferring to rely on her feet. But we got to the hostel in the end, but not before I had to ask several people where we were going. You know what rocks? Being able to ask people where you're going. I had forgotten just how amazing it is to communicate in a language you both speak and understand. Thanks, Mom! I basically spent the weekend starting conversations with random, very confused strangers for the simple pleasure of speaking to them. So, the French think I'm insane now. Check.
(Also, since I was speaking with such confidence and more ability than I think they're used to expecting, they couldn't seem to figure me out. I think the French really like to pigeon-hole foreigners, and they just couldn't get me. I think Italy must have changed me more perceptibly than I realize, because they didn't once guess American. I guess I dress and carry myself more like a European now. I said 'ciao' to one guy, and he gave me a funny look and asked me in French where in Italy I was from. I said Rome. He seemed satisfied. Most of the others (and there were quite a few) who asked me where I was from guessed Ireland before I could answer. That was fun. I would like to think that my ethnic heritage is that evident. The Irish people I know are awesome. It was also nice that they couldn't peg me as being from the States right away. I'm proud to be an American, but there's something to be said for being a citizen of the world.)
The hostel was called (please try not to vomit...) Young & Happy. Yeah. Ick. But it looked nice enough for how cheap it was, and Rue Mouffetard is perhaps one of the coolest little streets I've ever seen. THAT is what the Latin Quarter is supposed to look like. Christine and I spent the rest of the day wandering around (Michelle and Casey weren't supposed to be in until late that night) from the Jardins des Plantes to Notre Dame to Place de la Concorde to the Eiffel Tower to watch the light show. Yeah. The Eiffel Tower has developed this charming little habit of turning into the Vegas strip every hour on the hour. It's not classy, but most of the tourists (excluding yours truly) seem to eat it up. By the end of this day we were both about ready to die from the sheer amount of walking I had put us through, and Christine was sort of walking like an old woman due to her hip joints randomly popping in and out. So we took the Metro back to the hostel.
I love the Metro. It's so easy to navigate and it always feels like such an accomplishment when you can successfully figure out a route from where you are to where you want to be... I really enjoy the problem-solvingness of the whole thing. Also, musicians ride up and down the lines with everything from the old standby, the accordion, to the more innovative traveling jazz band, complete with their own amp, which is transported by dolly. And not the kind that little girls are given as a tool of gender conditioning. Although that would probably be more interesting to move an amp with. I digress.
The hostel, despite its initial appearances, was actually kinda sketch. But hell, it was a hostel, not the Ritz Carlton. But there were some particuarly special little quirks that made the three nights we spent there a heck of a time.
1) Never underestimate the awesomeness of clean bathrooms. It's very hard to effectively execute "the hover" while at the same time trying not to touch anything that is not necessary, and never with your bare hands, and trying not to let any of your stuff touch anything lest you contract some strange strain of alcohol-resistant-obnoxiously-loud-venereal disease. I think this is actually a real thing. I can't fathom how else many North American hostel-using kids exist. They must have contracted this. Tell your friends. Spread the awareness. Knowledge is power.
2) Structural integrity makes the world go round. Our bunk beds in the dorm would not have made the cut in a more seismically active area. In fact, if you had particularly bad allergies, one good sneeze would probably have brought the whole thing down on top of you. This was problematic for me, since I tend to roll around alot in my sleep. I think Christine feared for her life down on the bottom bunk. So I spent the three nights lying stiffly on my back, trying not to twitch so as not to cause a gravity tragedy, letting my body touch only my sheet sleeping-bag and the coat I was using for a pillow. The best nights of sleep I've ever had? No. The worst? Probably not that either, but hey, I was in Paris. It couldn't ever be super SUPER horrible.
3) Roomies. Two of the three nights, our fifth room mate was a large, silent, hairy naked guy. He was in bed when we got there each night, shirtless and apparently preparing for a long winter of hibernation, judging from the amount of hair on his chest. We didn't exchange pleasantries either night. Here's the kicker: it was a DIFFERENT large, silent, hairy naked guy each night! It blew my mind! How many of these creatures can their be in Europe? I haven't seen any... but then again, the places I've been have mostly been in Italy and France, where the men come in the more svelt, stylish, possibly gay varietals. It was very jarring to see not one giant hairy dude, but two. The third night, it was a mysterious suitcase whose owner never showed up while we were there. But whoever she was (I say she, since the suitcase was bright pink... gender conditioning again!), she was apparently very concerned about waking up at 5.13 am, since that's when her alarm was set for. And it reminded her to get up every four minutes from then on. So, Michelle finally got up and turned the thing off. I was a proponent of spiking it on the floor and leaving it as a surprise for her when she showed up, but I was overruled.
Enough about the hostel, as lovely as it wasn't. We only slept there, so blah. The city was the real destination. Since this blog is getting obscenely long (no great surprise) I'll just go through and list. Maybe. You know me. It probably won't end up being that. But I'll go in chronological order starting on Friday morning and ending Sunday afternoon. Here it is:
1) Pere Lachaise: Bury me here. For real. I love cemeteries... I'm very creepy that way. We spent literally like, four hours here. I couldn't have been happier. Plus, I got to kiss Oscar Wilde. Life: complete. Request: Come on, baby, light my fire.
2) Sacre Coeur/Montmartre: It was really amazing to come back to this church that I remember as being so very unique, and having the tools to recognize why that is. Very, very gratifying. Also, can you get better than that view? Methinks not. Also, Nutella crepes. They're the thing that proves the existence of a higher power. Yummers.
3) The Louvre: Okay, so really, being me, this deserves it's own post. So this'll be longer. Sorry. Casey had the wonderful idea of going to the Louvre on a Friday night, when it's open from 6-10 and it's a reduced rate. Turns out, that reduced rate is FREE! Can you imagine how cool this was? I'm stingy, but I would pay any amount of money to hang out in the Louvre, and it turns out that I didn't have to pay ANY amount of money! Yay! Anyway, we decided to split up, since we all had different priorities. For me, this visit was a very strong full-circle experience. The Louvre is the reason I'll be living in a box for the rest of my life. So I was wandering around, looking at all the things that once struck me as miraculous and foreign and incomprehensible and greeting them as old friends with familiar stories and completely relateable personalities. What a difference four years can make. If there was ever any experience that made me think that my life and work for the last four years have been worth it, this visit was it. It's fun to know things. It's fun to realize why I love what I love. That's why I can never leave Europe, I guess. Oh well. :) But as wonderful as it was to walk around the incredibly un-crowded museum (example: I stood face to face to the Mona Lisa, making unobstructed eye contact for a full fifteen minutes before leaving of my own volition, instead of being pushed out of the way. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, at best.) there was something better. The Louvre does this program where, three of four Friday evenings, college kids studying in Paris come to the Louvre and present very basic information and research on a work of art. Best volunteer job ever? Yes. But the fun part was that I could have discussions with the presenters. Some of them were American kids, so I talked to them in English and bonded over being abroad and what that means, but most were French, and I could talk to them, too, and discuss what I thought of the art they were presenting. SO COOL! I loved being able to actually say things other than "I would like some pizza with mushrooms, please" and "My name is Maggie. I'm American. Can I please have some gelatto?". The best part was finding other people my age who think that art and the meaning it brings to humanity's history are as important as I do. The Louvre is still a magical, life-changing place. (It was also fun to meet up again with Michelle and Casey, who were both Louvre virgins. I remember that feeling really vividly.)
4) Dinner: I forgot about prix-fixe menus. We basically shut down the Louvre at ten and then returned to Rue Mouffetard, where we found this little restaurant with no discernable name and a menu for 15 euro. Two new culinary adventures and two nostalgic standbys: escargot and duck confit, and creme brulee and cidre. YUM! I heart French food. Like, legit. It's awesome. We shut them down, too, around 12.30, and went to bed with full tummies.
5) The d'Orsay: I love this museum. Always have, always will. I found some new favorites, too. "Eve After the Fall" by Eugene Delaplanche, "The Young St. John the Baptist" by Paul Dubois, and "The Disciples Peter and John Rushing to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection" (a mouthful, it's true) by Eugene Bernand. Look 'em up if you're curious.
6) The Eiffel Tower: We had to take Casey and Michelle. Funniest moment: watching the stampede of vendors running for the grass like so many crazed bison at the sight of a cop.
7) The Christmas Market on the Champs-Elysees: The City of Lights certainly does cash in on the fetishization of Christmas in Paris. Also, Nutella crepes again. Win.
8) L'Opera Garnier: Holy tacky gold embellishment, Batman! It's a beautiful Opera house... I just wouldn't recommend going inside if you're prone to seizures. The tour guide, Martine, tried to tell us that the Phantom is a myth. Ha! That's just what he wants you to think.
We did a ton of other stuff there, too, but these were some of the highlights. I forgot how much I loved Paris the first time I went, but I don't think I'll be likely to forget again. It has such a unique vibe, and I think, since I'm more acclimated to Rome now, and all the quirks of this city, I'm more in tune with those of other places. Cities are so, so individual. It's easy to forget that sometimes. I was happy to get to go back. It was an incredibly fun, but also very legitimizing experience. I can't wait to go back again! Hopefully there won't be such a long gap between this visit and the next one!
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