We arrive in Paris on a late evening flight after having spent the entire day in Malaga. It rained the entire day in Malaga but overall it was a great day even though we were all terribly drenched. We visited two art museums, the Picasso Museum and the Thysen Museum, all staples of Spanish Painting from the 19th and 20th centuries. Not bad but not great. I knew what I was soon in for!
We stayed at a large, fairly central hotel right off of the metro in the Port de Clichy. Starting the morning early with an English breakfast at a French Corner bar (they are everywhere and this should be a much bigger thing in the US) we headed excitedly straight to the Eiffel Tower. For the three days we visited, Paris had a high pollution rating and offered free metro rides, which benefited us immensly. The metro is clean, safe and incredibly easy to figure out. It's also a fabulous opportunity to scope out the locals and their fashion flare. Our first ride however started on an irritating note when a seemingly nice man told us about the pollution clause entirely in French to save us from buying tickets. We understood his statement but he continued to insistently speak at me in French even after I informed him that I only spoke English several times. Over and over I apologized for my limited ability to communicate and he yammered on and on. Finally after three minutes of insistent French I realize that the joke is at my expense and he states in perfect English that he does understand it and speaks it fluently. He thought himself clever but then I remembered that the French think Jerry Louis is a comedic genius and that the rat tail is still a thing there.
The Eiffel Tower was crowded even at the early hour but it struck me as surprisingly ornate, with iron ornament in the most unexpected of places. Every walk on our commute in Paris was laden with statuary and commemorative monuments to France's empirical exploits. We walked the bridge where every inch is covered In locks to represent a lovers binding love. It struck me as romantic, even though half had recently been cut off due to extraneous weight. Art is everywhere. Although Paris is incredibly clean and architecturally beautiful, every walk out of a metro station looks oddly the same. We lunched at another corner brasserie where I enjoyed roast chicken and pom frites. Next the Louvre! Holy heaven and earth that place is huge. It was beyond belief in both its' expansive collection as well as the overwhelming size. I managed to get through most everything hustling ass for a little over two and a half hours. Highlights include the Hellenistic sculpture, Dutch still life, Delacroix's "Death of Sardonopolous" and the Rubens room. It was overwhelming as there was way too much to see, one could easily spend several days roaming the galleries. But I felt numbed by the end. We waited two hours in line to get tickets and must have walked 15 miles that day. We stalked the streets for macarons and Paris obliged. We eagerly collapsed into our beds that night high off of the bounty of Paris. I don't remember the last time I had been that excited to be somewhere. It was incredibly clean and safe but equally expensive. I kept repeating my worst French laugh and "WE'RE IN FRANCE Y'ALL" in my most irritating backwoods accent. Some thought it funny enough to repeat, others not. I suppose it's yet another symptom of not fitting in well, laughing at my own expense. I may have hooked young Clay on coffee while there. I ushered him into a right of passage (and regularity) I'm proud to say.
The next morning we headed out to the Musee D'Orsay, a 19th century extravaganza of French art. Hollaaaaaa. Good stuff. Walking along the Seine we stumbled onto the start of a marathon where Latin American drummers pumped up the crowd with a pounding primal performance. I think that is one of the best things about city life, you never know what you'll stumble onto. The Musee D'Orsay was a real power house of art history and what's odd is that the heavy hitters aren't isolated on their own. The blockbusters live amongst the other, quieter gems, one treasure after another. Manet's "Le dejeuner sur l herbe" and Courbet's "Origin of the World" struck a high note for me. There were these large leather resting couches that had tourists splayed out like hookers. I gave them the stink eye, scorning them for their lack of manners until I laid in one. I may have looked like a seal sunning itself. Good thing seals don't wear red Pumas. They don't have a great fashion sense, seals.
A note on the food. Those French? They know how to make a proper salad. I mentally noted how expensive they were at first but when I finally got one, it wasn't messin' round. Cheese is like nothing else here too. And croissants? Yeah, I know what all the fuss is about now. Young Angela kept complaining about how croissant flakes kept getting into her passport. What a first world problem if I ever heard one. Eclairs, tarts and macarons got my engine running too. After a literal marathon of walking every single day, we shed any sense of guilt like heathens.
We hit up Notre Dame (those doors, ooh la la!), stumbled into a small little known gothic church right around the bend that slayed us with its' stained glass beauty, and later walked the catacombs in silent awe, after waiting another two hours in line of course. Millions and millions of bones piled on top of each other to create a maze work of morbid architecture. AND, no stink! There were momento mori phrases scripted with the dates at every turn, a sort of macabre status update for the living- "hey ya'll, you gonna be dead and whatnot! #deathinparis #gonnadie" I witnessed a dolt of a mother encouraging her little children to scroll graffiti on the ossuary walls. I had the urge to shake her but I didn't want some French cow screaming at me so I thought better of it. Then onto the Champs Elysees and walking past luxury shops I had no interest in, but a good place to scope out foolish heals on questionable stone walkways. Boy I love me a near ankle fracture. We topped the night off with cafe lattes and some Japanese food and me painfully trying and failing at chopsticks, and with noodles no less. Why is it I can paint with such intricacy and control but I can't handle a damn pair of chopsticks? I stayed in that night with the kids out.
Our last day in Paris and we get duped into paying way too much for a continental breakfast. We can argue but what's the point anyway? The waiter will just pretend to not understand. Oh well, off to an old cabinet of curiosities called Deyrolle. The collector of oddities is catered to at this joint. It's the most extensive menagerie of taxidermy that I've ever seen in one place, and not some lame steam punk, sharp canine wearing, goth crap they celebrate on the Discovery Chanel. I'm talking some real deal, 19th century French naturalist works of art kind of curio cabinet here. Lions, tigers, elephants, ostriches, insects, snakes, you name it. If it can be killed and preserved, it was there. Drawers and drawers full of metallic scarabs and butterflies from far off lands to gawk at. I'm glad we didn't have any vegetarians on the trip. Awkward. Setting out for the famous Pere Lachaisse cemetery we lamented at both leaving Paris and being ready to go to Italy. The cemetery was as beautiful as expected, with family crypts that displayed both the reverence for the artistic tastes of its inhabitants as well as the lives they led. Without really knowing who Oscar Wilde was, the kids insisted on hunting for his crypt, eager for a challenge. We found it finally after listening to "what'd he write again?" There were lipstick kisses as far as height would allow. My cherry Chapstick left nothing behind but admiration. I'm sentimental thinking of it now. It didn't occur to me how much of our visit to Paris centered around death.
A word on fashion: EVERYBODY has a unique look here. Chicks, dudes, old ladies WERK IT. It seems that Parisians avoid athletic wear at all times. Foreigners stick out because they wear labels in which the brand is plastered loudly all over everything. Parisians seem to have an eclectic mix of fabrics but not print. Very classic hair that is incredibly well groomed and sprayed but no real trendy cuts. I didn't see an ugly, un-tailored coat while there at all. No loud colors but always classic. Lots of wools and cashmere. No street athletic shoes either, sadly. Boots are all the rage. Paris struck me as very young, very fit and hardworking, reminding me a lot of Manhattan. I didn't see that many people smoking. I didn't find them too intimidating either. I kept getting checked out by older men on the metro which lifted my insecurities a bit. Hey, every little bit counts.
On to Roma!
