Saturday, September 25, 2010

Saturday, September 25, 2010

9:06 PM

Paris, France

St. Christopher’s Inn, on the Rue Crimée

My God, I can’t seem to begin to express my utter delight in this city. It is everything, and more, that people have told me it would be. Aye, the one city in the world I was most skeptical about, most sure that I would, you know, just go see the museums, the big sights and then move on, has become the source of endless fascination—the soreness of my feet attest to it (and, beyond that, the utter agony in my feet, such excruciating pain that I limp until my foot goes numb, but I can’t help but to press on, deeper into the city, through all its intricate pathways).

France is what it is supposed to be. It is, indeed, very French. The Seine passes through the heart of the city, coursing past the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, around the Notre Dame cathedral. Along the shores, and permeating the heart of Paris are buildings that seem passionately wrought—shutters open into the cool Parisian Autumn, flowers sit in pots against dark iron mini-terraces from the window. The cobblestoned streets wind about, grant passages into thousands of barely-regarded alleyways, lay home to hundreds of brasseries, pattiseries, choclatiers, cafes, libraries (oh, the libraries!), and further fresh-food shops. It is a city of love—the Parisians amorously embraces at all turns, kissing with passionate abandon, and no one cares. For the Parisians, passion is a good thing. And they are friendly, for the most part. My American-ness has not been as much of an impediment as I presumed it would be. In fact, it has not been one at all. Most Parisians smile with amusement and humor me as I stumble about in their language, and bid me adieu with pleasure. A few have been less thrilled about my French illiteracy, but the worst I have suffered is a grimace and a few heavy sighs.

My tired feet have learned their way around cobblestones. When I first arrived, my cowboy-booted feet would slip and slide through the unfamiliar spaces, but now I stride across without effort, the rounded pavement massaging my worn soles. This is an authentic city, at ease with its past and its future. Americans seem uneasy about their future, the British about their past (or is it vice versa?). The French are okay with both and as such present a city that sits both in and out of time it seems.

That said, I am much repulsed by the modernity I see creeping into the city. See, I arrived in a section of the city called Monmarte, just a block away from the steps of the Sacre Coure. As you walk from Monmarte to the Louvre and through to the southern part of the bank, you are surrounded by the Paris of yesteryear, perfectly preserved. But if you pass outside of certain bounds you quickly become aware of a metamorphoses. Suddenly, the charming edifices give way to glass-and-steel constructions. As in London, cranes rise ominously in the distance.

When I first visited the Eiffel Tower (when I first glimpsed it was a different story—and day), it was wonderful. I walked quickly towards it, under it, and beyond it, across the river to the opposite bank, and peered across only to see that directly behind the Tower, and perhaps a kilometer away, was a monolithic office building—black, gleaming, towering—alone in its space and seeming to challenge the great symbol of Paris. I cringed with something like fury, then abruptly turned from it and went on my way. I could not stand to look at it any longer, but the thought of its unnatural presence stuck in my mind, and suddenly I became terribly aware of all the modern buildings around me, sneaking in between the ancient ones.

But perhaps it would be easier to tell of my experience here in Paris if I began from the beginning.

When I finally got off the bus I was something closely akin to terrified. I bid farewell to my travel-buddy and set off in search of an internet connection—I needed to find out where I would be staying that night. The first sign I see is one I would see again and again throughout my journey: “SORTIE.” It means “exit.” I trusted my gut (and the red color of the sign) and followed it out of the bus terminal. I made my way through long tunnels until I found a McDonalds, which I know have free internet. So I got the address and directions to my host for the evening and decided, since I was already there, to get my French McDonalds experience out of the way. I ordered a Royal with cheese and bacon and was instantly disappointed by how utterly disgusting it was (overcooked, and just like home).

Then to the metro to face my first struggle with French. All the strange words, with accent marks, dashes, and those c’s with the funny squiggle at the bottom nearly sent me into a panic. Nothing looked familiar a first. For a language that supposedly donated enough words to English to comprise about two-thirds of my mother tongue, I was having a hard time finding my linguistic relatives. The entire time I was on the metro I was anxious, more than I’ve ever been on public transportation (except maybe the 6 at three in the morning).

But, as was to be expected, I made it to my stop at Pigalle with no trouble at all, and followed the directions to the address with no trouble at all (walking the whole way trying to control my sheer giddiness and considerable anxiety). I found the apartment building—stunning, classic building that it was— and entered the code to pass through a door into the central courtyard. Oh, what a place it was! I looked up and saw that the courtyard was surrounded on all sides by the whole of the apartment building, with shutters and iron railings and everything! Just like something out of a movie! I called up to my host, Laure-Anne, and was promptly invited up.

Inside the adorable little apartment I met Laure-Anne, Camille, and their friend Justine. I forced myself to appear as comfortable as I could manage, and sat in a chair and began to talk to them. Camille had to leave, and Laure-Anne suggested we go for a walk. Outside, Justine parted ways and I was left with my lovely host. She took me through the streets, helping me with my French along the way. We gathered dinner the real French way. First, the pattiserie for bread and dessert, then next door for some chicken, and after that to get some cheese. There would be wine at home. At a café we waited for Camille to join us and ordered wine.

I pause my entry here as I need to make my way to meet my next host. Hopefully all will go well and I will return later this evening to complete this entry (though there is so much more to tell of!).