A Traveling Crescendo

Bonjour mes amis!

I do apologize for the long delay in the second episode of my Parisian adventures. However, I have successfully written a ten page paper concerning Shakespeare’s brilliance (not that needed to be proved…)

In any case, on to day two of Paris—the love of my life.

Daylight savings time is pretty great…if it’s Fall and you get an extra hour of sleep and life. However, I must say, Spring forward is a rather cruel invention—especially when you have recently landed in a foreign country that is already an hour ahead of the one you came from.

Such was it last Sunday when we planned to get up early to catch a service at Notre Dame. In order to shower and catch breakfast, we had to wake up at 6:30. Now this wouldn’t have been quite so painful if it weren’t actually 4:30 in our minds…

However, we remained strong, resolute, determined and shot out of bed (well that’s a lie, but a good image nonetheless) and prepared ourselves for our second and final day in this beautiful city.

We arrived at Notre Dame and I was though it was drizzling and burbling rain clouds hovered threateningly over our heads, seeing the building after years of longing to visit the place (partially due to a previous disney Hunchback of Notre Dame obsession) I was overwhelmed with awe.

You see it on postcards, hear it referenced in famous novels but nothing compares to actually standing in front of its massive entrance.

I took a few pictures but I fear I cannot hope to do it justice. Still, for your viewing pleasure:

As we stood rather breathlessly outside, we saw a small crowd of people gathered towards the entrance picking-up olive branches and entering the cathedral.

We had indeed arrived early enough to catch part of the service. Eagerly, we hustled our way into what was to be the second most spiritually enriching experience of my life in two days.

Unfortunately, flash photography was not explicitly outlawed and thus, moments of calm and tranquility heightened by the chill-raising archbishop and choir’s chants and hymns and the sheer grandness of it all, were somewhat diminished.

However, perhaps it was due to me always secretly wanting to be Esmerelda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and make great prayers in the cathedral itself. I decided to light a candle.

I desperately hope that God won’t smite me for not being catholic and participating in some catholic ritual. But it was too beautiful, even if only symbolically, to pass up.

I lit a candle, placed it with the hundreds already lit and let my soul pour forth into prayer. It really is a beautiful notion, prayer, when you think about it. And in this place of fantastical reverence, it only felt right.

As we strolled silently around the interior, I refused to take any flash photography but I managed to take a few shots (sans flash), if only to remember what little I could of this incredible experience.

Light.

The back of the alter

Saint toes. :)

Knowing, we had to move on with the day, we spent a few more crystalline moments standing, and soaking before heading out into the real world once more. 

Once we saw the queue starting to form outside the entrance, we were quite glad we had suffered an early morning to witness what we did and not have to wait in line.

However, we would soon have to experience a line wait but for something well worth it.

We headed to the side of the cathedral to experience a view from the bell-tower—once the highest point in Paris. We did end up waiting for about an hour and worried about the 10 euro admission. However at the ticket booth, I pulled out the very best French I could and let him know we were students. He asked where we were students and knowing London was not part of the EU I felt sure he wasn’t going to let us in for free. However, I told him where we were studying and voila! Gratuit! Free admission! I’m glad my French skills were getting us somewhere.

After climbing a ridiculous and I mean RIDICULOUS amount of steps we reached the top. Oh mon dieu, what a view! And gargoyles too!

After burning 5 million calories on some serious stair endeavors (Quasimodo must have had buns of steel), we descended once more in favor of finding some food.

However we passed this sign which still perplexes us. Anyone got any ideas?:

One side was this:

The other side:

Our Hypothesis:

1. You are not allowed to hold hands past this point

2. If you have a child either you or your child can go past this point, not the both of you.

3. Or no pedestrians past this point (when a pedestrian sidewalk was clearly indicated so it seems unlikely…)

In any case, we restrained ourselves from holding hands or acting like children just in case…

On to lunch. 

Finding lunch was a bit of an adventure. Originally we were planning on going to a creperie where Evie’s parents had gone a few years prior and had become good friends with the owner. So we took the metro across town to get there. Alas, it had been taken over by another restaurant. A bit crestfallen, we took the metro once again to Les Halles or the area just north of Notre Dame to seek out food. But not before stumbling upon this:

La Place de Bastille is a monument marking the place where the famed storming of a prison took place a few centuries ago, sparking on the French revolution. All I could think of was Les Miserables playing on repeat in my head…”One day more…”

Finally we came across a cheap sandwich, falafal place with a particularly flirtatious and fun Parisian who insisted on calling us “Les belle filles” (beautiful girls). Now mind you, if this were London I wouldn’t have even considered staying in a sandwich shop with some creeper bothering me. In France however, they are much more open about everything—an aspect of life which I found overwhelmingly refreshing after dealing with the sexually suppressed English. So feeling excited by the prospect of actually attempting French conversation and with a cute French guy, we managed to talk a bit throughout our meal.

Alright here it is, a note on the French: whoever proclaimed that the French were a rude lot must have been insane because during this entire trip we experience nothing but genuine, and I mean genuine warmth and kindness. Every time we’ve been lost or confused, we didn’t even have to ask anybody for help. They came to us and helped us. It was incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever met such hospitable people before. I think perhaps those who have judged the French as rude fail to recognize a pinnacle value of their culture: straightforwardness. If something is good, they’ll let you know, if they think you are beautiful, they’ll let you know, if they have an opinion on religion, they’ll let you know, if they’re coffee is not strong enough, they will let you know. It’s really not that bad of a trait when you think about it. Perhaps it could get tiring after a while, but at least you aren’t constantly having to live in the world of subtext and underlying meaning like the English and sometimes Americans do. Sometimes it’s nice to have it all out on the plate and to know exactly what you are dealing with.

Another Note: I think perhaps one of the reasons they were so friendly to us was the fact that I spoke to them (or at least attempted to) in their native language. The French are very proud of their mother tongue and rightly so. It is a fantastically delicate language that slips off the tongue so gracefully. I read an article in the Evening Standard a few days ago saying that the French government is attempting to put a stop to English slang infiltrating their language by creating competitions amongst young people to come up with French slang equivalents. While this may seem rather extreme to us Americans who have an entirely different relationship with our government, I can understand why they are doing this. There is something completely magical and enchanting about Paris, Parisians, France and the French language that I’ve not found anywhere else I’ve ever been before. Despite a huge flux of immigrants in the past few years they have managed to hold on to their charmant (charming) culture. All the more power to them. They have something worth preserving in my opinion…

Well, enough of that and back to our story.

We finished up a deeply satisfying lunch said “Au revoir” to our friendly French friend That’s another thing. Store/cafe workers always greet you when you enter and say goodbye when you leave. This never happens in England.

With bellies full, we set off to explore the area a bit, with no particular plan in mind (which is sometimes the best way to travel in my opinion.) Took some pictures for you:

We quite often don’t exactly know what we are taking pictures of, but it’s pretty…so why not?

Doors here.Are.Amazing.

I’ve realize that if I could have my dream life, it would involve a dashing French boyfriend (who doesn’t smoke…a tall order indeed), who owns a vespa and would take me everywhere, then back to our apartment in Monmartre…

Basically I just want to be Amelie.

So many things in Paris are just so…French!

I could live here. No seriously. One day I will. 

The Hotel de Ville and not as in Cruela. However, I’d imagine you’d probably have to be as rich as her to stay here.

After walking around for a fair amount, I spotted a sign saying “Centre de Pompidou.” Now having been through many French classes in which this iconic Parisian location is pictured in texbooks, I felt I might as well go check it out. So we did.

It was in fact, just as bizarre and fantastic as I’d imagined it to be:

The basic architectural idea is to have a building inside out…

Nearby and with its juxtaposing backdrop of an old church, lies the famous fountain itself. 

By this time, our feet were complaining a bit and our appetite had once more appeared. We decided it was about time to find a place for some refreshments. So we headed across the river…

…saw some pretty flowers…

…and a boat.

We then participated in what I think was one of the best moments of our trip. 

Jumping into the nearest cafe across the river, we knew we were in need of some caffeine. We entered and awkwardly stood as we weren’t sure what was the custom, to seat ourselves or to have someone seat us…

Then as fortune would have it, a French lady approached us and pointed a cozy spot in the corner with this as it’s view:

The Parisian god of fate never seemed to fail us. Parfait, non?

And so, we sat ourselves down. Ordered some good strong coffee and did the best thing you can do in a French cafe as a foreigner: wrote postcards.

My drink: Cafe Noisette. Basically like an uber strong hazelnut latte that’s about 70 times as delicious.

Ev had asked me a few questions about French spelling and I wrote them on our receipt that I didn’t realize was our receipt. Thus our waiter ended up with the message “Quasimodo, I love you.” :)

Feeling quite a rejuvenated, we headed out to explore the Latin quarter and came across a lovely little park.

No self-walking dogs allowed!

We then found one of the most famous bookstores in the world, the local haunt of Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway: Shakespeare and Company.

So as some of you know, both Ev and I are ardent book lovers and so this adventure would prove to be most dangerous. We could’ve easily spent the rest of our trip just walking around looking at books…

Portraying some of its most famous frequenters and ex-patriots.

One of the best words in the English language.

Also, just for your information, Shakespeare and Company has both a piano that customers may play at will (a bit out of tune but wonderful nonetheless) and a typewriter in which you may leave messages, prose or poems for future visitors. Loved. This. Place.

Well then, after tearing ourselves away from book heaven, we decided it was about time we have a real Parisian crepe experience. Only a few blocks away was a creperie and so two scrumptiously spongey dribbling with nutella crepes were made and gratefully consumed by us as we began to make our way through the Latin Quarter (or the student area of Paris). We stumbled upon a street in which several moderately priced restaurants were located and marked this for later.

We wandered for a good while and saw:

La Sorbonne is pretty much THE university to go to for the French speaking world. A bit like Oxford or Cambridge, really.

Oh hey! Look familiar? Well it would because this is the Pantheon, or the place where Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Descartes, and Marie Curie are buried AND what our US capital was modeled after. Yes, we are more attached to the French than you think.

We looked at our clocks and by this time we thought it appropriate to head over to something that simply can’t be missed when you’re in Paris:

Yes, indeed. Despite the cloudy day, we wanted to see if we could catch it during sunset and after when it lit up and sparkled hourly.

In the meantime we took a few pictures, like you do.

Wanting to kill some time and not kill our feet, we sat down for a bit and ate the leftover brie and grapes from the night before, reflecting on our trip so far. We concluded the following:

1. We had covered a shockingly HUGE amount of Paris for being there only two days.

2. We didn’t feel like we were rushed.

3. We were glad about getting up early that morning.

4. The only money we spent was on food and souvenirs and we only stood in line once

5. We planned both touristy and nontouristy things perfectly.

6. We love traveling with one another. I play the uber control freak, have things organized, do my research role and Ev plays the relaxed, chill out, have fun role. We keep each other in check

7. We love Paris. I love Paris. I mean in a deep sort of longing way that I can’t describe. I am seriously considering living here one day.

8. We love Parisians and their way of life, the carefree, happy, food consuming, step climbing, openly flirting people that they were.

9. The jazz clarinettist who had spontaneously serenaded us on the metro would not ever do that in London, New York, or Chicago. That Paris was beautiful, and he was simply a representation of it.

10. That this had literally been one of the best weekends of both our lives.

Having had a lovely talk and a bit of cheese, we ambled on. Taking more photos of course:

And then just like that, it lit up!

We waited for a while for it to start sparkling, but to no avail. It was getting late and we knew we needed to get back to the Latin Quarter to eat dinner before the metro stopped running.

So we hurried back to the metro station and in our rush took the wrong train. “Oh no!” you say. Yes indeed, we panicked for a second but managed to get off at the next stop to correct our mistake. Then in another moment of absolute fortune, we turned around to see a view of the Eifel tower itself sparkling and glimmering like it does every hour.

If we hadn’t gone the wrong way by mistake, we wouldn’t have gotten to witness it. Sometimes I can’t help but believe in some benevolent Parisian deity. :)

In any case, we made it to the restaurant: Les Chats de Tango (Tangoing Cats) and ordered a grand three course meal and wine for only 24 euros. Well, it was supposed to be 24 euros. However, after having a rather event filled day, my French was a bit off and there was a small miscommunication between the (adorable and Paul Giamatti resembling) waiter and myself. However, we did manage to order wine and a three course meal.

I ordered the following: Reisling from Alsace:**** (4 out of 5 star rating, definitely one of the better wines I’ve tasted in my life) Saunte!

Escargot…hold up. What? You say. Katrina, you ate WHAT? Yes. I did. I did it. I ate snails. And here’s the proof:

Rather unsure…

Oh no. Am I really going to do this?

The deed is done.

They actually weren’t half bad. Very garlic and buttery. Although there was a bit of an unnerving earthy after-taste. In any case. I ended up eating the entire portion (12 in all). Aren’t you all proud? I gave myself a bit of a pat on the back.

Then for the next course, I had Raclette. Now I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the small frying surface and oven that had been placed on the table and the cheeze, pickles and potatoes next to it. So I hesitantly placed on of the potatoes on the hot surface and the dear, dear waiter came around and saw what I was doing.

“Non, non…” He exclaimed politely and proceeded to show me how to make raclette. Eating French food is quite complicated, you see (it took me a good 15 minutes to figure out how exactly to get the snail out of the escargot shell.) Apparently you place a strip of long delicious raclette cheese on the hot surface, wait till it bubbles, then scrape it off onto your potatoes and eat. The result? Absolute cheesy potato perfection! In any case, it was really sweet for the waiter to show us. He was quite possibly one of the sweetest people we’d encountered yet. He didn’t speak a word of English, yet tried every bit to give us the best service possible.

Dessert was the next course. I couldn’t help but order Creme brulee. And oh how magnifique! Perfectly burnt on top and deliciously light yet substantial custard below. Yum. 

Unfortunately, we had to rather rush dessert since we had to catch the metro before it stopped running and by this time it was about 11:00 PM (an entirely appropriate time to be finishing off dinner in Paris). 

However, by this time, the rather strong French wine had had it’s effects on us and we were quite a bit goofier than normal. 

Apparently, there was a bit of a miscommunication concerning the wine we bought as it was not included in the package total like I thought it was. However, at this point, we were both to happy and tipsy to care. So we ended up paying a few extra euro, but happily flounced out of the restaurant, stomachs full and brains whirling.

We walked down the damp Parisian streets, arm in arm, giggling and stumbling a bit. Caught one of the last metros and made it home safely.

It was perfect. Absolument parfait.

I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better trip. 

However, my relationship with Paris is not over—that I can guarantee. I have fallen too in love to never go back. In fact, I know for sure that I could live there happily for a good while.

I will be back—soon I hope.

Gertrude Stein once said: “America is my country and Paris is my hometown.”

I couldn’t agree with her more.