A Traveling Crescendo

I will candidly admit that I have never been in love before. Not really anyway.

However, what I felt and still feel for Paris is the closest thing I think I’ve ever experienced to true love.

Even before I arrived in London, I knew I would kick myself if I didn’t visit the city of light and love. So Evie and I planned this weekend trip which turned out to be one of the most magical weekends I have ever experienced.

Four o’clock AM on Saturday morning. Yes 4:00. Usually I would be slightly be-groggled and grumpy. However, now I had Paris ahead of me. So I slipped on my leather jacket and scarf, flashed myself an excited smile in the mirror and headed out the door to meet Evie at the train station.

We went through an uneventful check-in (the French are rather lax on who they let into the country and my customs officer barely even glanced at my passport). This was only a small precursor to the refreshingly carefree and easygoing nature of the Parisians I was soon to experience.

In any case, we went under the ocean and into La France. As we stepped out of the train, we were blasted by the exciting and nerve-wracking symphony of French speaking people. I tried to cling onto conversations nearby in attempt to remember the bit of French I’d learned in high school and freshman year of college. 

However, after a bout of post-country-transfer-disorientation, Ev and I managed to climb aboard the metro and head to our hostel—both a bit nervous and terribly excited by our foreign surroundings. 

Now a word on the Metro: This is quite possibly the only complaint about my French experience (and a miniscule one at that). Perhaps it’s because I’m used to the enclosed and practically antiseptic tube stations that are completely sans graffiti but hopping boarding the metro was a bit alarming. First off, the trains are MASSIVE. Sometimes I worry for the safety/comfort of tall people in London. The tube isn’t very friendly to those with a few extra inches. Secondly, there is a bit of a stink. I’ve heard that the Metro runs quite close to several sewer lines and that was quite apparent in my experience. Third, Parisians have apparently taken their artistic talents to the metro windows as there are all sorts of interesting images and words scratched into them…

In any case, I knew that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Gone were the sickly pale beings who barely saw the sun and here were the beautiful dark and olive skinned residents of a mysterious and beautiful country. For the first time since I’ve been in Europe, I definitely felt physically out of place. 

Alors (French saying sort of akin to “and so”…you’ll have to forgive the French interspersed in this blog and I can’t seem to get it out of my head yet), after possibly heading the wrong way and getting lost for a while once we ascended the metro, we finally found our Hostel: Le D’Artangan (as in the Muskateer). This is how we felt:

We dropped off our belongings. And then…well what’s the first thing you do when you go to Paris?

Go see dead people of course!

Off we went to one of the most famous cemeteries in the world—Pere Lachaise. Some of its residents include: Rossini, Bizet, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Chopin, and Jim Morrison—just to name a few…So we wandered for a bit—taking pictures, marveling at the sheer size of the place, and feeling relieved after a harried metro exchange/nearly getting lost.

The Entrance.

“Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again” scene, much?

It fits him well, I think.

An admirer.

Some of these sculptures were exquisitely somber.

We chose a good season to go to Paris.

I prayed that one day he would turn me into a beautiful and dark seductive mezzo so that I could play Carmen…

This was one of my favorites…that moss!

Any guesses?

A much loved Mr. Wilde, that’s who./Anybody who has seen Paris Je t’aime, you might understand why I was really excited.

When we were here, somebody was playing a recording of her singing La Vie En Rose. It was a really beautiful moment…

After walking around for a good hour or so, both of us were starving and were ready to grab food wherever we could find any. So we hopped across the street to a small, VERY French cafe. Knowing that I would be in charge of us getting the right food and ordering correctly with my far from perfect French, I was a bit nervous. However, when the waiter arrived—a bustling middle aged gentleman with an excellent sense of humor—I was able to tell him that we were both vegetarians and wished to get the omelette without meat and a bottle of non-sparking water. Phew! He then asked jokingly if we wanted the water to be vegetarian as well. Surprised and pleased that I got his joke, I believe we established a good waiter-customer relationship which is what I was worried the most about on this trip. So we ate our simple but delicious meal…

French food pictures: always necessary…

And so, first French conversational and food encounter, a success! 

Next on the Parisian adventures list: Monmartre and La Sacre Coeur. 

So we hopped in the metro and headed across town, got off and saw this:

Tres belle, non? 

But first we had to get through this:

Being the street savvy travelers that we were, we made our way through the souvenir crowds, holding tight to our purses (this was pick-pocket heaven I’m sure). Finally we reached the start of the 300 some stairs we would have to climb to get to la Sacre Coeur.

Just what I had always imagined to be in Monmartre—a live statue that changes positions when you pay him. Such a quintessential thing.

Another quintessentially Monmatre-esque aspect though not quite as cool were the people who went around tying strings around people’s hands and wouldn’t release their them until their victims paid them. I remembered hearing this a long time ago from a friend and thus Ev and I were able to avoid all hand tying thievery. Tip for those of you whoever go to Paris if there is one thing to know how to say, it’s: “No, merci” as street vendors and all sorts of people will approach you ceaselessly asking to buy their products.

But we were there, it was beautiful and we were quite happy about it.

Always street performers in front of the Sacre Coeur. Always…

Almost there…

Now dearest readers, I am terribly sorry to disappoint but I have no pictures of the interior as photography is strictly forbidden.

I am glad of this.

Walking into la Sacre Coeur was the most profoundly religious experience I’ve ever had. Actually, as I’m not particularly religious, I’d have to say perhaps, the most profound spiritual experience. It wasn’t cold and imposing like most places of worship I’ve been, rather it was warm and comforting, exquisite and nearly unearthly. It’s name is quite appropriate I think—“the sacred heart.” There is a soft pulse within the building that gives reverence to life and love. It was almost enough convert me into a Catholic. Then I think that there are so many religious places of worship around the world that must have the same feeling, mosques, temples, hashrams. I walked around soaking up the flickering silence, tears rolling down my cheeks. A place has never effected me so. 

I wish all holy places did not allow photography.

The spell was broken as we slipped outside once more into the storm of music and street vendors. The culture of Monmartre and La Sacre Coeur are in such opposition to one another, it makes me wonder how they survive so closely to one another. Yet, I suppose it is beautiful that each celebrates life in their own way…

We descended the steps and perhaps partook in some essential souvenir shopping—berets and scarves included, (me making my entire purchase in French and feeling quite proud of myself) bought a baguette to be consumed for dinner that night and felt very french indeed…

Then we headed towards another part of Monmartre where, another French value is highly celebrated…

Yes. That says what you think it says. Also, we found it vaguely disturbing that all of the signs on the particularly sleezy looking stores were in English…hmm.

In any case, we soon found what we were looking for.

Just kidding, and I wish. 

Nope, we found the famous dance hall itself, sadlysans Ewan McGreggor singing us sweet love songs…

Then saw that the price of seeing a show there was something like 100 Euro. No thank you…

Nonetheless, we were happy to be there…

Then thinking that it was sunny out and what a better place to walk around in than Monmatre, we explored a bit and I began to fall in love with the cobblestoned, window paned, quaintness of the area. I could only imagine Degas, Renoir and the crew hanging out and drinking coffee at small cafes like this one:

A rather obvious choice, but you never know…

So. Beautiful.

Evanie’s idea. The artistic credit goes to her…

These were some WONDERFUL street musicians playing what else but the American invention that the French are obsessed with—jazz. As they were playing an old couple began dancing with one another and a mother and her baby were equally involved with the music. After living in cold, stoic, London, this sweetness of music and love made my heart leap with delight. Paris really is the city of love. Love of many kinds.

I spotted a rather small shoe shop situated behind the musicians in this picture named Souliers Sylvia. We headed across the street and into the shop its self and I kid you not, these shoes were the shoes I have dreamed about all my life, oxfords in every color, lace-up heeled boots and my favorite: the oxford, Victoraian boot, in multi color. Sadly the least expensive pair was 60 Euros so no shoe purchases but I am determined that when if I ever become well to do, I will go back to Paris and visit Le Souliers Sylvia and make a wee purchase. Sadly no pictures were taken with my camera as I was too enamored to pay attention to silly photography, Ev however did capture my reaction and probably will post it soon on her blog or facebook…

Well I’m sure you’re done with hearing about my shoe lust so I will continue on…

Having picked up some Brie from a local Fromagerie, we headed back to the Hostel, feet aching and positively deflated from walking around all day. No wonder these bloody French look as skinny as they do and still manage to eat whatever they like. It’s as though I could feel the weight slipping off me when I was there…

We made it to the Hostel which inside resembled something of a neon lit nightclub with odd lighting and brightly painted walls. This was the hall to our room:

Unfortunately our Baguette broke itself in half after surviving the long trip home under my arm. However, this proved to be strangely fortuitous as it was a perfect half, one for each of us. This was just one of the many small fortunate happenings that occurred this trip…more to come on that.

Having only my Swiss army knife to assist in Brie/bread consumption, our dinner proved to be quite interesting. However, there is something strangely satisfying about ripping bread and squishing some cheese on it when you are hungry. Thus we ripped, spread and ate almost noiselessly. Wearily climbed into our PJs and fell into a long and satisfying slumber. The hour? 10:00 PM. (By now the most of the country was about half way through their dinner meal…)

Dearest readers, Regrettably, I do have a ten page paper due tomorrow that I must write and so I will have to hold off on this blog until most likely Thursday or Friday but I can guarantee you that the best is yet to come. Keep an eye out…