Monday, September 27, 2010

Monday, September 27, 2010

4:05 PM

Paris, France

Sitting along the Seine, facing the south face of the Notre Dame cathedral

At the base of the Sacre Coeur I was first introduced to Parisian marketing. An African man (Nigerian, I believe) walked up to my side and slipped a piece of string around my finger before I knew what was happening. I looked at him, bewildered, as he began to twist the string. I shook my head and gave my most convincing “Non!” He replied energetically in French. I shrugged and shook my head as he tried again. When it was clear to him that I was not a French-speaker he looked very surprised. “Italiano?” I shake again, trying to walk away faster. “Español!” I shook my head again, making this man clearly very confused. “British,” he asked, finally, seeming very unconvinced that I might be from some English speaking country (this pattern repeats throughout my entire trip—Italian, Spanish, British—suggesting that I do not give off the much dreaded American vibe). He grabbed my elbow and slipped the string back on my finger, saying, “Is for the church!” I took it off again, a little more forcefully now that I had the time to get my wits about me, and said the always useful line, “I’m from New York.” The man backed away immediately. At least one place in this world harbors a reputation for non-gullible tourists.

I quickly made my way up the stairs—at least two hundred if not many more—and feasted my eyes on the stunning church, egg-shell white with half-egg shaped spires. As I turned around I saw all of Paris, and much of France, laid out before me in the morning haze. Already I have the feeling that I may never live in the States again if I can help it.

I entered the church and was nearly breathless as my eyes absorbed the beauty of this mammoth construction. The walls are painted, the columns and ceiling carved, giant angles watch over the service, four of them hanging from the corners of the congregational seating area. It is almost enough to turn an atheist devout.

I left and descended once more into the streets of Paris, the tiny worn-stone streets where pedestrians mingle with cars and three card monte is played with abandon on the road as the scent of bread and roasted chicken and fish and chocolate and gasoline and urine mix with the sounds of hawkers shouting and knives cutting and bags crinkling and French being mumbled between couples. The curbs are lined, thick, with cigarette butts. There are a surprising number of Chinese and Japanese restaurants. There are no mimes.

I was already hungry and kept my eyes peeled for a small, local-looking patisserie to enjoy my breakfast from. I found one on a side street and entered, crucial phrases in French locked in my mind. I felt butterflies as if I were to go on stage before an audience of thousands. “Bonjour! Je voudrais un quiche.” She asked something that I think had the word “Jambon” in it, so I just nodded vigorously and waited to see what the register said. Euros dropped in the kind shopkeeper’s hand I bid her, “Au revoir!” and set off in search of the Parisian landmarks, my spirits lifted considerably by the successful exchange.

After a bit more walking (nervous crossing the streets as I had become accustomed to British traffic patterns) I found myself unexpectedly before the Louvre. I whipped out my camera and walked through one of the arched entrances, spying just a bit of the glass pyramid at the end of the walkway. Camera ready, poised for an excellently executed photograph of the Louvre’s trademark structure, I pressed the button as the battery died.

Groaning, I fiddled with it for a minute, trying to suck a bit more energy out, enough to take the picture, but to no avail. Perhaps this was a good thing. It would allow me to do what I had always intended to do: focus on enjoying the world around me with my own eyes, and not through a lens.

I had arrived late in the day and so decided to put the Louvre off for another time. I continued my walk south, crossing a bridge to the south bank (I think I got that right) in search of Notre Dame, whose bell towers I could glimpse just a piece of from where I was. Halfway across the bridge my eyes fell on the top half of the Eiffel Tower, rising up out of Paris, over the building tops, proud. I stopped, dead in my tracks, and I swear a flood of emotion swept over me. I truly am in Europe I realized. This truly is Paris. This is the grand tradition I have always dreamed of. My chest tightened as my attention focused—the sound of the Seine beneath my feet, the pedestrians around me, the Tower in the distance. It was so incredibly real, and yet almost painfully surreal.

I gathered my wits and finished crossing the bridge, sure to see the Tower in all its glory before the day was done.

I stumbled upon the Shakespeare and Co bookshop my bus-buddy had informed me of, and I spent a good while browsing and reading in the store, finishing by asking the owner, Sylvia, about the opportunities for young writers to stay there in exchange for two hours of work. She said it was true but that they were full up and to try back next week.

I crossed to Notre Dame and experienced its gargantuan magnificence. I think the real charm of Notre Dame lies in the incredible intricate detail that is carved into almost every stone it seems. The outside is marvelously sculpted, as anyone can see from photographs, and as I can see now, as it towers above me across the river. And the interior does not disappoint.

After the cathedral I went back to the Latin Quarter and wandered through the streets, trying to make my way to the Eiffel Tower. Along my way I passed so many booksellers it was near unbelievable. All along the river as small stands of books (and I mean all along the river). On every street there are one or two or three booksellers. Old books, new books, chain stores, secondhand, music books, esoteric, art, history, English, philosophy, you name it. Heaven. Truly heaven.

Eventually, as the sun began its downward path in the sky I came upon a garden. I thought it was one garden, near the Tower, and, excited, I quickly walked along the edge to find my way to the Seine to follow that a five minute walk to my target. When I got out by the Seine I realized that something was wrong. I checked a map and realized that I had been turned completely around by the streets of Paris and had walked about two hours in the wrong direction. Well, I gave up on the Tower for that day and walked all the way back to Monmarte.

In the next days I saw many other things.

**Entry was interrupted here. See next entry for details*