Paris - Arrivé, Marché, Fatigué

Ugh... my train (Eurostar) was to leave London at 06:45 on Friday 19 December. Luckily, a bunch of late revelers at the King's X Holiday Inn were ready willing and able to help me out. They rolled in at 3:30 into the room next to mine (742) and started singing (with HORRIBLE English accents) 'New York, New York'. What a party. The two girls were tremendously awful, and the one fella (who had a bit of a brogue) was LOUD. They kicked him out around 4:00, and I heard him clambering down the hall and banging through his door. The girls screeched at each other for another 10 minutes or so, and then ostensibly passed out (or strangled each other, it doesn't matter which, for their part in this story ends here). I soaked myself in 40 (104 F) degree water, brushed my hair, weakly scrubbed my teeth, and took off on foot for St. Pancras, hitting the streets right at the projected 05:00. Now, maps lie. Badly. I thought it was a 1 km walk to St. Pancras from the hotel. I thought I had measured it out the previous day. Well, I measured from the Kings X - Thameslink portal. St. Pancras was about another 3/4 km overground. Luckily, it had warmed up quite a bit, and I arrived around 05:35 or so, luggage en-lugg.

There were two trains departing right around the same time, a Belgium at 05:45, and a France at 06:00 (or the other way 'round). I allowed myself to be herded into line, and allowed cutsies for the people on the earlier trains. What the hell, why not? I was done with London for the time being. I could afford to be magnanimous. Once I was about 2/3 of the way to the booth, however, I realized that everyone else had their boarding passes and I did not. Sh*t! Sh*tsh*t! A quick glance around showed me that the e-booking machines were close to the queue lobby, just on the other side from the actual entrance. (Yeah, why be *efficient*?). I left the line and procured my boarding passes. No more cutsies, it was getting close to time. I passed the rapid line wait chatting with a likely Alsacian girl, with a lovely knit red winter beret (I want to remember Giselle, but that may be mismemory). She was flushed and rosy, blonde, petite, and pleasant. We spoke French and English and had a few laughs at the families' and kids' travails at the gate. I followed her through the turnstile and security, we split at passport control (English and then French, EU people have an easier time), and off she went to Brussels lobby area, and off I went to the Paris lobby area.

As of 12/19/2008, there is free (yes, something GRATIS!) wifi in St. Pancras in the international lobby. Awesome! I thought about calling people with my Skype number, but it was somewhere between 21:15 and 01:15 in the US, depending on time zone. I settled for messenger. Wahoo! A few contacts on line! "Hey, guess where I am? Oh, ... you guessed. Yeah, I didn't realize I had hammered EVERYONE I knew... Sorry, I'll let you get to sleep. Yeah, good night." Rats! I studied the usual suspects in the 'premium' cafe/bar, swilling pints and liquor. A little too early for me, thanks. The coffee smelled good, so I went to the Costa (eyeroll) and had a coffee and bought a coke-zero for later. Generally, later comes pretty quickly.

I had polished off the soda well before boarding. Boarding the Eurostar is easy, quick, and actually kind of fun. There's a high-speed angled escalator that WHOOSHed us up to the platform. I had chosen a window seat toward the rear (or front) of coach 4, because I had already figured out how these things work: the luggage racks are in the ends of the coach, so if you have stuff and want to be near it, that's where to sit! And window seats are the way to do it. I also got lucky choosing a seat in coaches 1-6. NB to potential Eurostarers: There are two boarding escalators, a "Coaches 1 to 6" and a "Coaches 7 to 100,212". You get the point. I took my seat, after loading my luggage into the racks. A pleasant, highly perfumed, and somewhat odoriforous (under the perfume - sorry, but it's true) French girl, probably 25 or so, sat next to me. After greeting me and determining my threat level, making it plain that she had a boyfriend, and telling me just what she thought about the US, she started messaging and jabbering on her phone in French/English and something that sounded like Swahili! Awesome! This was the first French person I had the opportunity to observe and listen to, ever (at least beyond a 'hi' in a bar or on the phone or in a formulaic environment like a classroom). Relaxed, funny, animated, passionate - well, on the phone with her friends - anyway, 'pointed' with me. Cool!

Once the train zoomed through the Chunnel, we proceeded to whiz on through the French countryside. The embankments on either side of the tracks prevented a lot of the view, and it was almost winter, so what I did see looked like... well... countryside. Oh well, we were moving so fast, everything was blurry, and that was definitely different. I went to the diner car and got a coffee and some biscuits, sitting, slurping, and munching my way along at 185 mph. In no time (actually about 2 and a half hrs from London), we arrived in Paris, at Gare du Nord. The North Station was vaguely reminiscent of Paddington in London. It had that whole Victorian airplane hangar look to it. I exited the train with my stuff, didn't have to worry about border control (taken care of in London, I have the "Londres" stamp on my passport to prove it!), and walked off into Paris. People munching on baguettes, yelling in French (yes, and English and German), milling about, smacking their children, and browsing through cafe and souvenir stands. I left the station and walked across a convenient road, remembering to look LEFT, then RIGHT in this city. I embanked on the other side of the street in front of a Brasserie (Brasserie du Terminus Nord, actually). I heard some guy asking in Frenglish about Gare de l'Est of a passerby. Naturally, I eavesdropped. That was my destination too! I winced as he said "Gaire duh luh-est" to the diminutive beatnik Frenchman. The small dude smiled and told him "Yais, dee Gare de l'Est ees jus dowun pass dee Hotel Albair, see? Eef yu goh dairr yu see dee signs." I stepped up and introduced myself to the American and the Frenchman. As the big guy and I walked south toward L'Hotel Albert, I informed him that he was kind of lucky that there is no "West Station" in Paris ('l'Ouest' means west, 'l'Est' means east).

I split from my walk buddy at the East Station, and saw my hotel across the street - Holiday Inn Gare de l'Est. Dashing across the street, (LEFT, THEN RIGHT) I noticed that there were a couple of Brasserie/Bar/Restaurants here. Pleasant surprises! The desk clerk in the hotel was sunny and smiley, he greeted me in French, then switched immediately to a bright and happy English (like a light laughing accent, very rolly and bouncy). I confirmed my 2:00 reservation and, since it was 11:00, I asked if there were storage facilities for my bags (Pardon, monsieur, mais est-ce qu'il y a du stockage pour mes valises?) until I returned later to check in. He looked at me, blinked twice, and said, "But Monsieur, of course you may check in now! Maintenant! If I have the room, I give it, and I have!" And he smiled when he spoke. Wow! I thanked the man (I wish I had gotten his name, that was the only day I saw him) and checked in, went up to the room, got the computer unpacked, bags set down, Internet paid, potty, change. Whew!

I had decided that my first stop would be Sacre-Coeur in the nearby Montmarte district. Montmarte is a hill to the North of Paris which gives a commanding view of the city. It also has good shopping and food, by all accounts. Just in from England, I winced at the idea of 'shopping', as I warmed at the idea of 'food', but since shopping seems such a touristy thing to do, and since I am a tourist, I resigned myself to it. I whipped out (ok, opened on the computer) my trusty Metro map. I was NOT going to make the same mistake I did in London (pt 1) and walk all over the place today. The plan was to Metro as much as possible, and walk down the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. I was going to circle through La Place de la Concorde, over the Le Palais Royal and the Louvre, then Metro it back to the hotel, rest, and continue with the evening plans. The Metro map showed that the trains running from Gare de l'Est did not go directly to Montmarte - I would have to change at Gare du Nord, a short 15 minute walk away. And the one I had just completed in reverse. The unwritten rule in Paris, which I'd read, is that if something is 1 Metro stop away, you walk. 2 stops is a maybe-walk. Similar to the London rule, I suppose, or the New York one. All right, I was walking back to the North Station. I'd try to take a slightly different route, down the Boulevard de Magenta. While I was at it, I looked up BNP Paribas ATMs close to Gare de l'Est. I knew that Paribas cooperated with my bank and I would not pay the ridiculous surcharges ($5 + 3%) using their ATM. Armed with these locations, I checked the Chucks, descenseur'd the elevator, and exited the hotel while au-revoir'ing my Chevalieresque clerk.

Now, while I was walking, I felt a rumbly in my tumbly, to quote a real author and another like me, Thing of Very Little Brain. I had resolved NOT to eat any meals that came from a chain restaurant. I had told myself I would allow myself Starbucks coffee (not food), primarily because I can't kick the habit of having what-is-to-Europeans-a gargantuan cup of coffee. Hey! It was like 2-5 degrees outside (34-41 F), and a cup of coffee keeps the hands warm too! But, for this, my first meal in Paris, I was going to find a boulangerie/cafe and have un cafe et une baguette avec du beurre et du jambon (or seulement beurre) 'alfresco'. However, first things first, to the ATM! I found the Paribas machine right where the map had indicated, on a corner directly on my route to Gare du Nord. I selected 'English' as my language - I didn't want to miss anything for this one! Very straightforward, same PIN as at home, and ploop! Out came 100 euros. The bills (5's, 10's and 20's) are all different sizes and have a weird plastic stripe woven into the paper. I didn't want to be *that* touristy, so I resolved to look at the money a little later, if I had any left. So... great! Food time. I looked for candidate places on my way. I finally came across the street from Gare du Nord (yes, at Brasserie Terminus Nord again), having not found the 'perfect' place. Wait a minute! "Boulangerie Artisan"! I bet their bread is TREMENDOUS! So I walked past... They had sandwiches in the window, jambon, fromage, beurre, boeuf,... on this marvelous crusty pitted, crunchy-looking bread, and the inside looked chewy but fluffy and light, like it would turn to yeasty foamy goodness in your mouth after just the right amount of resistance to your teeth. Holy crap! I wanted a baguette!

I pushed the door open and was confronted with the scents of yeast and cornmeal and stone ovens and roasting flour. I also could detect undertones of olives and peppers. I was confronted with basket after basket of fluted loaves of breads. Demis, baguettes, rounds, flats, fats, braided, twisted, rolls, ... It was impossible! OK, stick to the plan. Pick a baguette. I saw a tall basket over by the register of whole-grain-looking baguettes (2.50 euro). They had tomatoes embedded, or olive, or raisin (currant maybe), and on and on! I thought Panera at home had too many choices! This was crazy! 8 different type of baguette, and that was just one row, and one type of loaf! I swallowed back the saliva which had filled my mouth and was threatening to spill over. I walked up to the counter and vaguely pointed at the basket and asked the boulangeuse for 's'il vous plait, cette baguette ca'. She grabbed a knobbly loaf from the pile, one with knobs of pruny olives and pimienta seeds visible. 'Oui! Bien sur, monsieur!' She made to ring it up! I stopped her with a chopping motion of my hands... Oh no! 'Attendez, wait, please, s'il vous plait!' She waited expectantly. I went on - I would like ham and butter and cheese on it! A baguette-sandwich, please! She sadly put the loaf down and motioned me to the far window, the one I'd passed. 'Seulement celles sont ...' (something I didn't make out, but I knew what she meant). Only the ones premade were for sale as sandwiches? Was there some kind of crazy French sandwich union out there, one guy cutting, another buttering, a third hamming, and a fourth cheesing? Was there a mayonnaise cartel too? Oi veh! I said 'Alors, merci, madame, au revoir.' I left rather quickly, a little embarrassed at my unexpected faux-pas. I had expected to be misunderstood or misheard or to mishear others, but getting bread at a boulangerie and having a sandwich?

I told myself this had to be a function of the 'Artisan'ness of the shop. I had seen far too many Parisians already walking around with baguette sandwiches that anyone could *possibly* have premade them. So I walked around the corner. I saw a patisserie across the way and decided to go in to check out the sweets. Maybe I could get a danish or something for lunch instead! I mean, I try to watch what I eat, but - this was Paris! I slid in the door, gasped, and walked-almost-ran out. Yeah, 12 euros for a napoleon? Maybe it was the whole tray, but I don't think so. 3 euros apiece for some marzipan candies? I'll stick with the bakeries. I like bread better than pastry as a rule, anyway. I crossed back, walking in front of alfresco seating for the brasseries serving the train station - they were starting to fill up - and turned another corner. A sky-blue sign seemed to rise up out of the sidewalk, adverising 'Petit-Dejeuner Croissant Expresso 1.99' Voila! Another boulangerie!

A pleasant three-ding bell greeted me when I pushed the blue door open. A rather scruffy-looking guy in a baker's apron sat slouched in a small table to my left, idly twirling a pack of Galoises in his left hand, and tapping an intermittent stacatto on the 50s-diner chrome tabletop lining with his right. The boulangerie had 4 of these old-style tables, and two sky-blue painted aluminum tube chairs flanked each of the seatings. The floor was a sort of terrazzo and tile mishmash, crusted between the grout with years of foot traffic's crud. The bakery case was to my right, on either side of the register setup. Honest-looking white breads filled the case, the odd sweet poking its head out here or there. Whatever system or organization there was, I couldn't tell. Rolls shared space with what looked like empty cream-puff shells, and demis were lined up with epis and twist breads, all in a jumble. The wall behind the case held long baguettes in a few wicker baskets, the strands heavily discolored with resin (probably from decades of cigarette smoke) standing in stark contrast to the robins-egg wall surface. Several small framed pictures hung here and there - I noticed a picture of Maurice, and what looked like Bill Clinton, and an Eiffel Tower shot. All amateurish but artsy. "Boh-joo[ch]r" he said, after giving me a good period of time to look around. I beamed and replied in my mediocre french, hello, I would like a baguette with butter and a coffee, the breakfast special. The ostensible baker rose up and shuffled behind the counter, all while maintaining his slouch and continuing to play with his cigarette pack. He managed a smile and asked me if I were French, knowing the answer, of course. I played along and hemmed and hawed, finally admitting to my americanness. After he'd finished the coffee and sandwich assembly (did he put the cigarettes down to do it?), I got another broader grin in return, a good comment on Obama, a bad comment on Bush. After wholeheartedly agreeing, bolting my espresso shot, commiserating about the smoking rules recently adopted in France, and getting a hot tip on how much to expect to pay for smokes, I was released back to the street with a wave, a Galois, and an 'au-revoir'. I was pleased with my procurement. The baguette was crunchy and almost-creamy inside and slightly warm, and the butter, which I'd expected to be cheesy, was more rich than tangy. Almost like a white-chocolate without the sweet. Yum.

10 feet later, my food was gone. What can I say?

Back to la Gare. I followed the signs to the Metro hub. I stepped up to the automated dispenser, selected 'French', slid some money in the slot when it lit up, and the machine happily gurgled for a few seconds, then spit out a 24-hour Metro pass (5.60 euros or so - get CASH for these, they don't take magnetic cards!), along with my change. I passed through the turnstiles and descended to the Metro platform areas, following the signs to the proper (purple "4, toward Cligancourt") line. Busy, busy. The white-tile walls were vaguely reminiscent of the Underground I had just left in London, except that the undercurrent of soap had been replaced with urine and human musk. A note on the Metro, and the Underground for that matter, and the subway in New York, and most bus systems,... you need 3 key pieces of information for each Metro segment, the line number, the direction, and the last train/bus time. That's it - that's your shorthand navigation system. So when you see that octopus of a map or the gargantuan time table, don't sweat it. Find your stop, figure out which lines and which directions (indicated by the last stop of the line), and go. Oh, and remember the last-train-times for the way home. Ha. You don't really have to memorize the reverse directions, though. For instance, if I were going to take the 4 line back to Gare du Nord, I'd just have to remember NOT "Cligancourt" direction. Easy, you get the hang of it after about 2 multistop trips. So I hopped off at Barbes-Rochecouart, and transferred to the 2 line, in the "Dauphine" direction. I do realize that both of these were one-stops, and this violates the rule I mentioned above - but, that's a deceptively LONG run (a kilometer on the surface), and I had already walked my first hop from East to North. And, nyah, I'm a tourist.

Anvers sits perched at the heart of the Montmarte district. I should have expected classy when I came out, but, I am easily surprised. I ascended to the street level, and delighted that the entryway was made up in Gothic and Victorian styles, almost parklike, formal but still humorous and relaxed. Across the main drag (to the North), I saw a couple of waffle/crepe stands, a cafe, and the beginning of a narrow street which seemed to be lined with tourist shops and climbed a hill. That's my direction! The crowd and I jaywalked the street ("Lights? Pedestrian walk signals? We don't need those!") and I made the quick right, then left to my target alley. Sure enough, shops spilled out into the street, proferring silks, berets, waffles, and other gear. Rising above me to the north, I saw the basilica of Sacre-Coeur. It was majestic from here, peeping through the buildings, but I could also tell that this street would open to a plaza. I dodged my way through the stands and up the hill. Sure enough, one more jaywalk and I was in the park at the foot of the hill. A charmingly tarnished antique carousel decorated the small park, but it was made a distraction by the pristine white jewel of a chapel hovering over it, with its skirt of green grasses and gleaming paths. I was somewhat disoriented, with it being full daylight, and clear, and the with the barrage of new sights, sounds, and scents, so I barely noticed when some African guy came up to me and started pattering in French, heavily accented. I carried along a passable conversation, something about being a tourist and a free friendship thing, blah, blah. Like I said, I allowed myself to get distracted. He GRABBED MY WRIST and twined a floss bracelet on it, yeah, the kind my kids made thousands of in two hours in Y camp. I hung my head and passed over a euro. He won, after all. Dammit, got to keep my guard up. I think he was sympathetic, but ... it's a living. The worst part of that 'scam' was that it took my mind off the track for Sacre-Coeur. Crap! I climbed up the hill to the chapel and gazed down at the neighborhood. Awesome, fantastique! I noticed the gang of 'students' working the crowd below too. Growing a little philosophical, I started shrugging off the experience, and resolved to remember "Ne me touchez pas!" Or "Je vais appeler les gendarmes!" who were indeed en force just a few yards further down the road, vigilant, but not intrusive on the tourists. The chapel entry was closed, so I figured I would get a chance later during the weekend to go to the top, or not, depending on how things worked out. For now, I wanted to get to my next stop, the Champs-Elysees and Arc. I strolled back down the walkway, watching the Parisians who were watching me walk while they ate their lunches on the hillside. What a relaxing, brilliant way to dine, even in December! Crisp (10 C/ 49 F) clear day, unbeatable views... Sigh. Back down tourist alley, picked up a couple of things for the kids, through the Anvers arch to the bowels of the Anvers station, and... on the '2' toward Dauphine again. Next stop: Place Charles de Gaulle.

The Place Charles de Gaule (Etoile) is the busiest Metro station I experienced in Paris. All tourist and business traffic seems to come through it. This may be in part because it is very compact. It sits under 2 of the corners of the Place itself. I randomly chose an exit tunnel, and when I ascended the stairs on the northeast side, there was no question of being lost. Something extraordinarily recognizable was staring me in the face: the Arc de Triomphe. I don't know why seeing that hit me so hard, like a quick rabbit-punch to the diaphragm. I leaned against the pedestrian railing/blockade on the street corner for support. Could it be the 10 years of French in school, where the stupid thing was featured in a photo for every 'culture shot' section? Could it be my overactive romantic tendencies and expectations of Paris itself? Could it be the sense of accomplishment at finally being in a truly 'foreign' place? With only my meager wits and experiences to draw on, completely alone? I don't know. Stonehenge was awesome, but it didn't bring me to my knees. Big Ben and Westminster were as familiar, but... not as inspiring. The Arc is set back in the center of the Plaza. There is *nothing* to compete with it when you look from any angle. There is enough room to march an army (ha!) through it. Regardless, I circled it, walked through (sort of - fences and all) and around it, marveled at its grandeur and scope, and all the while the butterflies in my stomach were singing 'Paris!'. Somehow, despite my daze, I stopped my circuit at the proper corner, where the Avenue des Champs-Elysees meets the Place (the corner I had emerged from). I walked backwards for about a half-block down the Avenue, still lost in wonder, surely drawing muttered comments from the Parisians trying to get somewhere and the other tourists trying to get a 'good view'. A perfect day, a perfect sight. Incroyable. I was there.

I eventually turned to face forward and focused on the task at hand, navigating the Champs-Elysees. The most exciting part of the walk was listening to the French being tossed around between passers-by. The stores themselves? Gap, Benetton, McDonalds (wow, classy, though), the usual suspects. Tourists filed along the street, pausing at the gesture of their guide, obediently snapping pictures where she pointed, down the street, up the street, across the street. I craned my neck to follow their cameras. I didn't see anything! Maybe they were getting a history lesson about the commercial history of Paris, or how the French army marches through here every year. Or maybe how the Germans tore up the road with their tanks in the 40s and demolished some of the old edifices to set up barracks. It all looked like a quaint mall to me, with plain department stores, interesting brasseries, and lots and lots of shoppers. But the liquid-yet-staccatto French tones pervaded. It was mesmerizing, to feel a New Yorky rhythm with a French sway. Nice walk, invigorating. I considered stopping into one of the landmark brasseries or even the McDo to get something, just to say I had, on the Champs-Elysees, but I wasn't hungry, nor thirsty, and I was ready ready to move. Lots to see this afternoon, and I had a date with a museum, The Museum, tonight.

Towards the end of the strip of buildings, straddling the Avenue, west of the Place de la Concorde, and east of Place de Roosevelt (yes, Frankie D.), a little park sits, les Jardins des Champs-Elysees. The gardens house the American Embassy, Petit and Grand-Palais museums, and a statue of Clemenceau. All of which are pretty and noteworthy, but not really 'highlights' of Paris, except perhaps for history buffs. As I left the huge mega-commercial district and entered this small green space, I was treated to an International Christmas Fair of sorts. Small kiosks had been set up, lining the north and south sides of the Avenue. The flags of all nations flew from the kiosks, but I couldn't correlate the flags with the goods or foods provided. A small shack with a Scot flag was selling dolls and paris scarves. Another with the Austrian flag draped was selling crepes. I shrugged. Hey, here was some festive spirit, at least! I selected the nutella crepe and a small bag of pralined pecans (!) to munch on while I investigated the rest of this small tourist strip. The north and south sides seemed pretty similar, popcorn, waffles, crepes, souvenir goods, crafted goods, silks, scarves. Mostly mediocre stuff, but a very charming setup, with the Park in the background, and next to the Place de la Concorde, with the everpresent Arc looming in the West. I had heard about nutella crepes, mainly from friends who had been to Europe and were gaga over it. I wasn't super-impressed. It was ok, a blob of semiwarm hazelnut chocolate inside a hot, thin, quadfolded pancake. Not overpriced (2 euro), and edible, european enough to galvanize my stride further eastward, toward the next icon. So, after walking the north side, back the south side, and eastward again on the North, smiling and nodding at the various tourists milling around, and checking and rechecking my camera and money and wallet and passport - a good practice in congested touristy areas, I had read - I came to the end of the fair.

The Avenue des Champs-Elysees terminates at an obelisk (from Luxor temple in Egypt) in the center of an enormous roundabout called the Place de la Concorde. Concorde is ringed with phenomenal landmarks and references, but its central monument is fascinating in and of itself! It's got text about how it was moved from Egypt in 1836 to its current home in Concorde, and as well a set of Egyptian hieroglyphs (highlighted in goldish leaf) about its construction. Really well planned, the monument occupies the site of the guillotine which got Louis 16 and Marie during the Revolution. Definitely an attention-getter, and simple to understand and appreciate. This plaza had been the commercial and ministerial center of Paris (and therefore France) since at least the 1700s, and it showed. A relatively new (I'm guessing) addition to Concorde is a giant Ferris wheel situated on the East side, which should have given a really nice view of most of the city. Not quite as ludicrously huge as the London Eye, but big enough. The atmosphere of Concorde is pretty businesslike, wide thoroughfare, clean and neat, lots of traffic, serious government and trade buildings. But... what did I see peeking out to the southwest? The cap of the true icon of Paris, the Eiffel Tower. I had wanted to be patient and save the Tower for day 2, day 1 was the walk and the Louvre, but I couldn't help my excitement, even at this provocative partial unveiling. I did a circuit of the plaza and looked at the buildings and architecture, waved wistfully goodbye at the Arc at the opposite end of the Avenue, still dominant to the west, and was suitably impressed. I was ready to move on, to the Jardin des Tulieres.

Even in the winter, the Jardin had its share of people milling about the statutary, and promenading back and forth up the charming walks and paths. People eating, feeding each other cheese, fruit, and bread, laughing, in some cases playing guitars, holding hands, whispering, chatting. Not too many kids, but the ones that were there seemed happy but not manic, giggly but not hyperstimulated. After I crossed a bare brown lined pavilion (if there are flowers there in spring it will be breathtaking!), a lady in a headscarf approached me. She was carrying a 5x8 index card wrapped in plastic-wrap, with written [in English]: "Bosnian Refugee, Please HELP." I guess her gypsylike costume was supposed to look authentic. I put a sneer on and attempted to pass. She was undeterred and started talking to me in French, then English, then Italian, asking for money for food and help for her children. I'm sure my eyes flashed in sympathy, but I kept moving, around her, and up to the raised walkway alongside the south end of the Gardens. She remained in the Plaza, probably to harass the next single guy or young couple which came through. Along the street (Pompidou), across the Seine... I could view crowds of Parisians filing into the Metro tunnel or hurrying east and west between the various offices and ... Le Musee d'Orsay! Hee hee. Snuck up on me! This month, apparently, there were to be exhibits featuring Picasso and Manet! Cool! Well, if I had time this weekend, after my walking tours, and the Louvre of course,... maybe. As the Gardens came to an end, the buildings to the east became more pronounced, a small palace-like structure, and, after I went around it, expecting the Louvre, I was treated to another Arc! I had all but forgotten about Carousel plaza! The mini-Arc was cute and interesting and very accessible, unlike its enormous cousin which was surrounded by a 4-lane superhighway. Horses coursed from the crown, heading off toward the Louvre, which had suddenly risen up.

My plan, such as it was, in Paris, was to be completely fresh. I didn't look up photos for any of the buildings I wanted to see, nor print out a map, nor even (except Louvre) check out admission times or prices. I had 6 or 7 pushpins on a google map and figured I'd figure things out as I went along. Now, there were many many downsides to this approach. It was inefficient, left a lot of room to get lost, and engendered anxiety at all fronts and on all levels. However, there was a great positive aspect, a feeling of "WOW!" as each landmark presented itself. Like the Louvre. Completely unexpected, situated *behind* its glass pyramid, sprawled out all around a massive courtyard, it wasn't plain where the museum began and where it ended, which buildings were part of the vast collection, and which served other functions. I could not have picked a more dramatic approach. The thoroughfare that split the Arc from the Louvre was busy but not nightmarish, so I crossed east to the Louvre side and approached the pyramid. I became pleasantly bemused and disoriented as I turned around in the courtyard, and fixed the relative geography of the Louvre on my internal map of Paris. I knew I'd be returning in the evening, so I wanted to determine the entrances and potential queue-spots now so I wasn't fumbling and flitting in the dark. A sense of impending doom began to set in - if the museum were *this* enormous, how could I hope to even get a good sample of it in a mere three hours or so? I wasn't so much dejected (like at the Tower of London) by the prospect, but excited. I'd have to get a floor plan and prioritize. Maybe see which exhibits were in residence via the Internet from the hotel. After pre-orienting, and chatting with a couple of the artsy students on their benches about what a wonderful day it was and oh my gosh isn't it unseasonable weather and the museum is much bigger than I thought, I turned northward and walked under the welcome pedestrian arch along Rue Richelieu, toward the Royal Palace.

I didn't know what to expect here, either, but anything would have been more exciting. After a lovely pre-walk into the palace grounds through charming alleys and shops, with 1800's storefronts and plastered facades, the entire courtyard was suddenly walled off with plywood and "Mise en garde" signs, warning pedestrians that construction on the Palais Royal would continue through March of 2009. I wasn't sure if there was an entrance or not, I was guessing not, due to the complete absence of tourists, except a few shoppers in the lovely tea and textile venues along the west side of the grounds. The long northern jardin which my Paris online recollections indicated turned out to be a brown mess, with withered trees dotting cobbled path outlines. Ah well. It was groomed nicely, and would certainly be pretty in bloom and without construction plywood mucking it up. Maybe I'd return in the spring. Back down to Rivoli and the front of the Royal Palace, across from the massive Louvre entry chambers... it was about 2:45. I know! That one set of Metro hops saved me so much time! From here, I could take a Metro back to the hotel or see a few more landmarks before going back to refresh and prepare for the evening jaunt. The Eiffel Tower was calling me, you see. I had seen it at Concorde, and it had winked in and out of sight along the Seine during my journey to the Louvre. I resolutely reminded myself that I would do the 'proper' stuff before the tourist stuff. So, to Notre-Dame it was. I remembered that Ile de la Cite started a couple of bridges east of the Louvre, and it was not a far walk. Since the day was turning out so beautiful, I decided to get down to one of the Quais (Quai du Louvre as it turned out), find a likely bridge and cross over to Ile. From that point, it was 'go east' until I found Notre-Dame. Ile isn't that big, and based on what I had seen, there would certainly be signs to help me out.

So I marched and marveled along the Seine, at the old and the new, gloriously juxtaposed. The river washed along under the bridges, banks channeling it in its path. The parallel wash of pedestrians along the Quai wasn't quite so orderly. People were dodging across, fighting the current (most of us were traveling eastward), and stopping to take pictures of the waterfront. Shortly, the western point of Ile de la Cite appeared in front of me, and I turned onto the first bridge I saw connecting to it. Surprise, surprise, surprise! I had just crossed the threshold to Pont Neuf! I laughed out loud, startling a couple of pigeons and forcing some tourists to divert their path away from the Crazy Yank. "New" Bridge? Yeah - 1578. I disembarked from the bridge at Ile and made my left, noting the expected view of Sainte-Chapelle to the south, and orienting toward the grand Cathedral I knew was off to the east, at the heart of this island. Ile de la Cite has been populated since at least (J) Caesar's time by a tribe called the Parisii. When the Gauls and/or Romans conquered the area and founded Paris, they used that name. It's the oldest constantly-habitated area of the city. I know that I must be running out of superlatives at this point, but walking through Ile de la Cite's streets gave me little rushes at each corner. I saw the government buildings, Sainte-Chapelle's disappointingly unassuming front-side, the trendy gothic 'Cite' metro stop, wrapped in its cloak of vines and ivy. Suddenly, traffic was snarled up with tour buses. I guessed I had arrived. Notre-Dame sat off to my left, hulking in its plaza, flanked by its patinaed Charlemagne statue and formal, clean park. It was much smaller than I'd expected, but also much, much more ornate. The entries were layered in carving - no - sculpture, the gargoyles hissed and screamed down at me. Minimal Christmas decorations ringed the square, trying in vain to get attention from the delicate latticework of the upper stories and the deep-reliefed door recesses. I ducked into a cafe across from the cathedral for an americano and ducked back out to sit on the long wall in front, just to take it in for a while. After finishing my coffee, I walked into the rightmost entrance, the one for 'Easter', which was open for the day. How exciting! I felt like a character in a novel, like some sinister Cardinal was going to call me rumblingly from the gloomy depths. I could hear the Chucks scuffling on the floor, even over the sounds of the other tourists wandering around. Perfect acoustics. Medieval columns and draperies and darkness all combined in this cathedral to create the perfect atmosphere of Gothic moodiness. The ceilings arched up, fairly plainly, but impressively from the columns to make somber and perfect crosses overhead. Notre-Dame doesn't give the majestic aura of St. Paul's, but it's just as ponderous. It may not be as inspiring, but it is certainly more thematic and complete in its mood. Creepy. I loved it.

After making the circuit of the Cathedral inside, then outside again, I decided it was time to go see La Tour. It had teased me long enough. I meandered over to the Cite Metro station, got a little chill as I passed under the gaudily forbidding entry, and boarded 4 (Orleans) to Montparnasse, and then 6 (Charles de Gaulle) to Trocadero. I wanted to get to Trocadero because I had assumed that the cross-river view to the Tower would be the most panoramic and dramatic. The Metro transfers were easy, my daily pass green-lit me through the turnstile no-problem. I remembered that the light green (6) line went to Trocadero, but I had forgotten the switch-point from the purple (4) line, so I consulted the convenient schematic in the tunnel. I wasn't the only one. Apparently, Parisians still consult the schematic from time to time, I'm guessing when they are doing unusual transfers. Cite is pretty much a tourist stop though. Anyway, when I disembarked at Trocadero, I read a sign (in French and English) saying that the Trocadero 6 connection would be closed from January to March of 2009 for improvements. Well, at least they give good advance warning! It didn't really concern me, of course, but it was considerate. So at 4 or so, I got my first good view of La Tour Eiffel. Unobstructed by anything.

So I again found myself dumbstruck amongst the French. A girl stopped me and asked me for a cigarette and I dazedly handed her a pack and I told her to keep it. "Are you american?" "Oui..." "Oh, you are so lucky! And thank you so much!" I barely remember the exchange. I was captured, enthralled again. The sense of drama in this city is incredible. The landmarks push everything else to the background, the neighborhoods are drawn with some master-painter's brush for maximum heightening of effect. Eiffel was the grand architect of the Tower, sure, but the city planners who have constructed up and down the Seine, indeed, all over the city, surely take this into account. It's monumental, the impact of the visual approach. And Trocadero turned out to be a wise choice. All right! Grab some food, and sit and eat and absorb. I found a vendor in the Trocadero plaza, really a metro stop and a gap between a couple of museums on Avenue Woodrow Wilson. He sold me a Croque-Monsieur and a Coke-Zero for 7 euro, 50 centieme. The coke was 1.50. Oh boy! My first meal. Yeah. Wow. A grilled cheese sandwich with enough ham on it so you could almost taste it. It was warm and crispy and gooey, though. I munched, sipped, sat, and watched the people milling around, old folks holding hands, oblivious children tugging on their parents' cuffs, young hostelers listening to their guide. A great choreography and caricature of life, in this little moment in time, across from arguably the most recognizeable landmark in the world. The Tower had been built for the World's Fair to commemorate the French Revolution in the 1880s and was only meant to last 15 or 20 years, I think. But the French knew they had a good thing. It's been used for communications, science, study of structures and wind, political statements, advertising, and most recently, to commemorate the French term of the rotating presidency of the EU. (So the Hostel guide said when a backpacker asked why the stars were on it). Since 1950 or so, maintenance of the Eiffel Tower has been probably THE top priority in Paris City Government. It gets unquestioned allocation of funds, staff, police, and surveilance technology. They're pretty worried about terrorism on such a visible target, of course.

After a sufficient period of awe and contemplation, it was time to get back to the hotel and rest. It had already been a pretty long day, and I wanted to unload the camera and charge its batteries, check in with work email (still Friday), clean up, and maybe lie down for about a half hour or so. So.. 6 to Charles, 2 toward Nation, 4 toward Orleans, and disembark at Gare de l'Est. Voila! I reentered the hotel and began what was to become my 'normal' greeting in Paris: "Bonjour, hallo!" I figured this was respectful without being snooty or demanding. The desk clerk, a pretty black lady, greeted me primly but friendlily enough, and I went up to the room. Pictures downloaded, email checked, battery plugged, shower, relaaaaaax... My phone booped incessantly... it was 5:45! Time to get a-going, off to the Louvre. Camera assembly, Out, Down ("Au revoir! Goodbye!"), across the street, Metro de l'Est, 7 toward Villejeuf Louis Aragon. Disembarked at Louvre-Palais, right across the street from where I needed to be. I tell you, it was like Star Trek, almost. Whooshing along, and ending up where you needed to go. How amazed people must have been when these systems first started coming into operation. As I emerged from the depths, I realized (or internalized) that it had gotten dim, to a dark twilight, while I was resting in the hotel. I arrived at the Louvre courtyard right around 6:10, and made my way through to the great glass Pyramid, spectacularly dazzling, lit from underneath, the crisses and crosses on the glass creating playful patterns in the courtyard fountains' water. I walked along a fountain lip, delighting a French couple pushing a stroller who clapped their hands and cheered at me. I sketched a bow, then hopped from one shelf to the next, jumped back down, and arrived at the entrance.

All of us modern folks should be familiar with Louvre Security. It's the same nightmare that greets us every time we go to the airport - no bags, no liquids, guards, queues, the works. My arrival was perfect in its timing, the long line before 6 had dissipated and the wait was short. I passed over my jacket to the x-ray tech, along with my camera, and proceeded without event through the metal detector. At least I wasn't required to take off my shoes. I had anticipated this turn of events and left my pack in the hotel room. So, after passing through the checkpoint, I came to the top landing of the entry stairs, under the apex of the great glass pyramid. I made the gentle spiraled descent, taking in the main lobby, noting the information desk and ticket machines, the cafe and book store, and the three grand promenades to the Richelieu, Denon, and Sully wings. Each pavilion was highlighted by a modern minimalist glass plaque suspended from the ceiling, with the wing name etched in large roman type in white on the glass. Nonobtrusive, but obvious. After making my way across the main lobby, purchasing my ticket (cash, again) and finding an 'English' guide at the information desk, I sauntered to the cafe, got a quick coffee, and then wove through families and clans of museum-goers to find a good seat, where I might observe the crowd and have my coffee and study the guide to prioritize. 1500s Italian? Duh. Yeah! Greek sculpture? Again... duh. Egypt? Medieval Louvre? The French Crown Jewels? Oi veh! O! And there was a Picasso exhibit? Jeez! This museum is easily a day, maybe with a followup of two additional 3-hour sessions. It's not fair! :-) I just thanked whatever lucky stars I had that I was there. I would see Mona and Venus and some Picassos. It would be awesome.

And it was. The first stop, of course, was the Mona Lisa. But dodging through the Etruscan sculptures and pre-Roman works was daunting. First, the crowds were phenomenal on this side (Denon). So when I wanted to stop and look and learn and read, I felt jostled and pressured to move toward Mona, already! I fought it as best I could and studied at the devolution in sculpture the Louvre was trying to present between the Greeks, Romans, and Dark Ages (early Christian period). We really *were* waiting for a Renaissance. I would have loved a guide for this part. I could almost see the commonalities and influences from piece to piece (the names escape me, it was SO rich!), but I would have liked to hear the prevailing theories. I vowed: In the future, I will get a week in Paris, and dedicate a day and a half to this museum. And another day to Orsay. But for an orientation, my one dedicated evening of the weekend, this worked out well. Since I was already tired, this tasting-tour made my brain buzz and my heart sing sufficiently, and got me ready to see paintings. I find painted art mysterious. It seems so open to interpretation! I know when I like something, and when I find a work interesting (two very different categories) and when I think a painting is garbage. So, I will say, every single Italian painting in the Louvre after 1200 or so is interesting. I do not find dark-ages flat madonnae that inspiring. [GJF: I am learning, 2/2009]. So the crescendo of art built, and I was treated to more and more glorious representation of reality, perspectives and vistas opening, caricatures and exaggerations becoming more refined, until I was treated to Da Vinci's masterpiece. She was mobbed by people. I snapped a quick picture, then fought my way through the crowd to see. And I mean *fought*. I had to push and jostle just to get to the third row of this sardine-fest. Eventually situated, some of the muttered curses coming from my lips, I looked up and beheld. Brilliant, breathtaking, beautiful, ... but how much of that was anticipation? Being told that this was IT? I rolled that around in my head for a little bit, and came up with "Doesn't matter. I'm enjoying it." I put on my own small smile, my navigation through the Renaissance complete for now. The crowd easily parted to release me back to the wilderness of expression enshrined on the walls.

On my way back down out of Denon, I had two movie moments which made me grin and chuckle: First, of course, a running theme between Ihling and me all month, 'European Vacation'. It had mostly been the Big Ben scene while we were driving around, but now, duh, I felt like the Louvre scene. Second, surprisingly, but then not, Mel Brooks's 'History of the World, Part 1' where King Louis is suggesting 'getting in the mood' by viewing some naked paintings. Ha. Just at that point, my foot kicked a small piece of paper on the floor. I bent to retrieve it: Paris en Poche, a tiny credit-card size (when folded) map! With Metro and RER on one side, and buses and street map on the other! Wow! How lucky was that? There was noone stationary in my current gallery, and it would have been absolutely fruitless, not to mention creepy, to start asking anonymous strangers in broken French if they had lost something. So I did as it suggested. En-Poche it went. Venus had been relocated from Sully into Richelieu temporarily, so I traipsed through galleries of sculpture, their tracks and traces whirling in my brain, until I reached her new place. For a 2200 year old lady, she looked pretty good! I was again struck at how much had been lost after Rome fell. The later Renaissance works I had seen and this were separated by almost 1600 years! I circled the statue a few times and was amazed, of course, but I had buzzing through my head the consequence of the death of Empire. Venus has a few lessons to teach there. I continued via the 'secret' passage at the bottom of Richelieu through medieval-Louvre, a fascinating exhibit about the museum itself and the pains taken to preserve this house of riches. This led me to Egypt, where I saw Ramses's sarcophagus. I wish I could be more descriptive, but alas, time is finite. Suffice to say that between Mona and my arrival at the Picasso gallery (last stop for the evening) was about 2 hours and 15 minutes of reading, looking, examining, checking different angles and perspectives, meditating on the meaning and artists' intent, debating on the point of taking pictures, and just giddily smiling at the immersion. It's too vast for my meager talents, time constraints, and the space in this blog. $150 coffee table books don't even begin to capture the majesty I saw in some of these works, their relative placements, their orientations in the galleries, the chronology presented. Louvre is amazing. So, after over two hours of head-spinning delight, I made it to the temporary Picasso exhibit. It was a study in Picasso's women, and his successive attempts at Women of Algers. There were about 20 variations on the theme, showing how he added and then subtracted, abstracted and realized. It was hugely instructive on the technical aspects of the man. Certainly way more than splotching paint on canvas. What torture, to meditate over each shape, each angle, each curve, each color! Playing with abstraction, how, which parts, what? Do I understand this? Does this represent what I need it to? What am I trying to say with this shape? Incredible thought processes. And to have it come out so coherent and vivid and timeless! I had seen a few Picasso displays in my time, but each I had seen was a snapshot, amidst other snapshots and other artists. I had never seen the *same* theme over and over. It made me happy and reflective. It's tough, being an artist! Unfortunately, there were no pictures allowed in this gallery. I did manage to let the guard allow me to take a picture of the 'no pictures' sign and the 'Picasso' header. He smiled when I asked.

OK, after that assimilation, enough was enough. I was full. Too much, too fast. Bloated with new sensations, needing time to process, I headed out of the Louvre. This was an adventure in itself, as each of the side passages and galleries I passed beckoned my battered spirit to enter. But I remained firm. I had seen the top, and I wanted to hold that dear. On exiting, back up the escalator and out the pyramid, I was surprised to see blue sparklies off to the southwest. Something was happening! The Eiffel Tower was lit up! Oooooo! It suddenly cut off, and the night returned. All right... what's going on? I dragged my body toward the street, and (with the aid of my new map!) prepared to cross the Pont du Carrousel, just south of Louvre. Along the way, I was treated to dimly-lit streets... and, somewhere near Saint-Michel, what seemed to be an impromptu Christmas fair! While I was standing, gazing at the lights strung across the alleys, a girl came up to me and asked me for 'feu'. It took me a little too long to respond, apparently, because, as I was moving my eyes from her to my pocket to retrieve my lighter, she stomped her foot (petulantly, I may add), and said 'Fire?' rather obnoxiously. I grinned and put on my stupid-simple-tourist face, and handed it over. She returned it (without a thank-you), and stomped off. At some point, I also found an open supermarket. Thank goodness! I ducked in and bought some bread, cheese, and soda, after minimal confusion over the word 'centieme' (for cent). I thought the lady wanted another euro or something. Anyway, that done, and loaded up for my late supper-to-be at the Tower, I marched my way down Monttessuy and, again, beheld the great icon, more intimately this time.

Blue. Absolutely gorgeous, symmetric, shadowed, perfect. I fended off the souvenir 'salesmen' three or four times before spitting out a growl in French to 'go eff yourself!' (thanks again, European Vacation!). Then they all left me alone - they must have some kind of psychic link. I went around the plaza and under the tower, checking out the guards in their black riot gear with semiautomatic submachine guns (!). I decided against taking a picture of the military. I bet they get cranky about that. But they were present, and intimidating. i eventually came across a couple setting up a tripod in the great plaza, evidently waiting for something to happen, and through my nosiness (eavesdropping), I could pick out a few words of German. So, fresh from my German audiocourse, I naturally asked them how they were and what they were about. Of course, the problem here is, as usual, I can make myself understood, but I have no idea what they say in return! I got the jist, though, especially after apologizing and asking for English clarification. They smiled. The Tower was lighting up every hour for the same reason the stars on the north face were in place and the blue-light on in the evenings - the French hold on the EU presidency. It would be doing this for a few months or maybe the entire term, but the couple wasn't sure. They had been going to the EU seat and taking a picture of each country's 'memorial'. Kind of a neat little quest, I told them, and they beamed in return. I then asked them what time it was, and they said I had only about another 5 minutes to go! Cool! So, all told, it must have taken just under an hour for me to walk, eat, stroll, and marvel, and therefore, just as I was ready to leave, the Tower did her sparkly trick again. It capped the evening off perfectly. Time to go.

I debated taking the Metro from the Tower stop, and decided to walk back through that charming neighborhood near the University. So I went back off east, a slightly different route, and stopped and pre-reminisced on some of the sights. I happened across a pubby-looking wine bar, and went in. Why not? After being ignored for a few minutes, there were only about six people in the place, and the keeper was occupied down the line a ways, I decided this might be English-style service and I (loudly) said 'Pardon?' 'Hm?' No offense at all, so I ordered a vin ordinaire and was pleased to get a nice small glass for 2 euro. I bumped a 50-c tip too. The keeper nodded a Merci at me and I sat and considered the day and my remaining walk. Wine is good for reflection. Good for the growing soul, in moderation, of course. After leaving, quietly, with a wave, I strode past an unexpectedly magnificent peace monument near l'Ecole Militaire (ha!), and then back to the University district. I revisited the remainder of the Christmas decorations, still charmed, crossed the bridge, and made my way to the Palais-Louvre stop. The district had died down significantly since the museum closed, but the metro entry was still lit and easy to navigate. Direct line (7, away from Villejeuf) back to Gare de L'Est. Out, across the street, "Bon soir..." et "Bonne nuit!" To the room. In. I don't even recall if I checked email or did anything else. I do recall about 11:15 on my clock. I was out like a light, and I'm sure my mind worked like hell to catch up with the day, through the night. Tomorrow, Versailles and the Sun King.

Map: Google "Paris I"

Album: Facebook "Paris - Partie Premiere"

[GJF: Started 1/26/2009, completed 2/28 and 3/1/2009]