How did this week in Paris fly by so fast?! I turned around
and I felt like it was over! I spent the week walking around—surprise!
(not)—for over 12 hours a day, and I’m pretty sure my feet hate me. Tuesday, I
thought I had the beginnings of 2 ingrown toenails, and I thought my big-toe
knuckle was broken. Turns out my shoes were just too small. And today, I wore
at least a 3-skin-layer hole in my pinkie toe (completely skipped blister
stage). Owww. I will be walking gingerly for the next couple of days trying to
recover. (What I wouldn’t give for an Epson salt foot bath…)
But it was worth it. Oh, was it worth it. (As I sit in my Oxford dorm room writing this, I'm so very thankful that I was able to go back to Paris, but I can sense a new chapter of my life about to begin here at Oxford. I suspect that my time here will be a milestone in my becoming an adult and adopting a more professional persona. More to come in an Oxford blog later!)
Tuesday, I set out with Allie and Will to visit the catacombs, but once I saw the line wrapped COMPLETELY around the median (that’s the wrong word, but that’s what it was: a huge median surrounded by a bunch of intersections) over the entrance. I.e. 2.5 city blocks, with 1.5+ hour wait time.
No thanks. I have better things to do in Paris than wait in Disney-worthy lines.
So I left Allie and Will to wait in a what would become a 3+ hour line. :o Phew! Glad I dodged that one!
Instead, I went to the Panthéon to see where Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, and Mme. Curie were buried. It was really neat seeing their tombs, especially Hugo, since I read so much of his poetry in my French Poetry class last semester. <<Je suis oiseau.>> (He thought he was able to rise above normal man, like a bird, and reach the truth…)
There was also a memorial to Antoine de Saint-Exupèry, who wrote Le Petit Prince, which is one of my favorite books of all time. Julie G and I share this love for the little blond Prince, his sheep, rose, and elephant-inside-the-boa, and I very much wished she could’ve seen that with me.
But it was worth it. Oh, was it worth it. (As I sit in my Oxford dorm room writing this, I'm so very thankful that I was able to go back to Paris, but I can sense a new chapter of my life about to begin here at Oxford. I suspect that my time here will be a milestone in my becoming an adult and adopting a more professional persona. More to come in an Oxford blog later!)
Tuesday, I set out with Allie and Will to visit the catacombs, but once I saw the line wrapped COMPLETELY around the median (that’s the wrong word, but that’s what it was: a huge median surrounded by a bunch of intersections) over the entrance. I.e. 2.5 city blocks, with 1.5+ hour wait time.
No thanks. I have better things to do in Paris than wait in Disney-worthy lines.
So I left Allie and Will to wait in a what would become a 3+ hour line. :o Phew! Glad I dodged that one!
Instead, I went to the Panthéon to see where Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, and Mme. Curie were buried. It was really neat seeing their tombs, especially Hugo, since I read so much of his poetry in my French Poetry class last semester. <<Je suis oiseau.>> (He thought he was able to rise above normal man, like a bird, and reach the truth…)
There was also a memorial to Antoine de Saint-Exupèry, who wrote Le Petit Prince, which is one of my favorite books of all time. Julie G and I share this love for the little blond Prince, his sheep, rose, and elephant-inside-the-boa, and I very much wished she could’ve seen that with me.
I missed Julie a lot on this trip. We’ve known each other
for the past 3 years, but we’ve become very close over the last year. I
could’nt ask for a better friend! Julie lived in Burgundy (I’m always terrified
that I’m going to slip and say Bordeaux!) for a year and can empathize with my
love for all things French. Especially the camembert and baguette. And le Petit
Prince. That, and she’s willing to put up with my kindergarten-level French
skills, haha. Merci, Julie for your patience with my struggling language
skills. I’ll get there one day!
But more than a fellow French fanatic, Julie simply understands. As she said of me in her blog, the same is true of Julie: she is a "part-time sorority sister, part-time therapist, and full-time confidant." One of the things I love most about Julie is her fearlessness at speaking her mind. She is also down-to-earth and brutally honest, which is a nice balance for my over charismatic and idealistic personality. She tells me ‘how it is,’ and I love her dearly for it.
But I digress…after the Panthéon, I ate lunch on the Panthéon stairs and looked out at the Eiffel Tower peeking from the greenry of the Luxembourg Gardens. It is now one of my favorite views in Paris.
Afterwards, I decided to go to Père Lachase to see Edith Piaf’s grave, in addition to the graves of Molière, Bizet, Oscar Wilde, and a few others, but the 4 métro line got stuck for over 10 minutes at Châtlet, so I ended up walking to Gibert-Jeune (a bookstore) to buy an EU paper-sized folder for Oxford and then to a super cheap shoe store I’d found last year and wanted to visit again. (They didn’t have any cute shoes this year, but I’m glad I could find it again for future trips!)
From there, I decided that I might as well go to the H&M around the corner, and I’m glad I did because they were marking things down for the Soldes that began on Wednesday! The Soldes are annual, month-long, Black-Friday equivalent sales held in Paris. Prices are slashed, and I was under the impression that they were already underway, but my trip to H&M told me otherwise.
Since I was there, I did some pre-Soldes shopping and trying-on to avoid the lines the next day, and headed to another store Camaieu (they have the BEST jackets!) to do the same. Afterwards, I headed to my grocery store to get a salad for dinner, and then to my patisserie, where I got a Tarte au chocolate :)
From there I walked to Pont Marie, where I would always eat with friends last summer. (I took a wrong turn on the way there and found my way without a map!) While I was finishing my salad, a man sat down beside me, and we chatted for a bit, mostly about the Seine. He told me about a time when he accidentally fell in! He said it was really difficult to swim in because the currents were very different from those in the ocean or a river, not to mention the trash. He hopes that one day they will clean the river so that people can swim in the Seine. (Even after being cleaned, I’m not sure I would trust that water…)
Afterwards, I headed back to the hostel, where I fought with my computer to back-up my pictures to my flash drive until 2am.
Wednesday was mostly consumed with the Soldes (I left the hostel at 7:30 to beat the crowds). While I was at le Forum les Halles (a HUGE shopping-mall/center), I found a crowd gathered around a piano. Turns out there is an organization that places pianos all over the city so that people can play in public! What a great idea! Afterwards, some men from the mall’s music store came out and led a game of name-that-tune. It was so much fun sitting in a circle on piano benches appreciating the local Parisian talent, and it was a welcome rest from being on my feet all day.
Afterwards, I dropped my purchases off at the hostel, ate a croissant and Nutella for a snack, and headed to Pont Alexandre, where I listened to Adele’s “Someone Like You”, as its where the music video is filmed. Then, I crossed the street to the other side of the bridge and listened to the theme song from Midnight in Paris, as that is the location for the closing scene of the film. I mean, I just had to. Cliché? Yes. Touristy? Yes. Awesome? You betcha! ;)
But more than a fellow French fanatic, Julie simply understands. As she said of me in her blog, the same is true of Julie: she is a "part-time sorority sister, part-time therapist, and full-time confidant." One of the things I love most about Julie is her fearlessness at speaking her mind. She is also down-to-earth and brutally honest, which is a nice balance for my over charismatic and idealistic personality. She tells me ‘how it is,’ and I love her dearly for it.
But I digress…after the Panthéon, I ate lunch on the Panthéon stairs and looked out at the Eiffel Tower peeking from the greenry of the Luxembourg Gardens. It is now one of my favorite views in Paris.
Afterwards, I decided to go to Père Lachase to see Edith Piaf’s grave, in addition to the graves of Molière, Bizet, Oscar Wilde, and a few others, but the 4 métro line got stuck for over 10 minutes at Châtlet, so I ended up walking to Gibert-Jeune (a bookstore) to buy an EU paper-sized folder for Oxford and then to a super cheap shoe store I’d found last year and wanted to visit again. (They didn’t have any cute shoes this year, but I’m glad I could find it again for future trips!)
From there, I decided that I might as well go to the H&M around the corner, and I’m glad I did because they were marking things down for the Soldes that began on Wednesday! The Soldes are annual, month-long, Black-Friday equivalent sales held in Paris. Prices are slashed, and I was under the impression that they were already underway, but my trip to H&M told me otherwise.
Since I was there, I did some pre-Soldes shopping and trying-on to avoid the lines the next day, and headed to another store Camaieu (they have the BEST jackets!) to do the same. Afterwards, I headed to my grocery store to get a salad for dinner, and then to my patisserie, where I got a Tarte au chocolate :)
From there I walked to Pont Marie, where I would always eat with friends last summer. (I took a wrong turn on the way there and found my way without a map!) While I was finishing my salad, a man sat down beside me, and we chatted for a bit, mostly about the Seine. He told me about a time when he accidentally fell in! He said it was really difficult to swim in because the currents were very different from those in the ocean or a river, not to mention the trash. He hopes that one day they will clean the river so that people can swim in the Seine. (Even after being cleaned, I’m not sure I would trust that water…)
Afterwards, I headed back to the hostel, where I fought with my computer to back-up my pictures to my flash drive until 2am.
Wednesday was mostly consumed with the Soldes (I left the hostel at 7:30 to beat the crowds). While I was at le Forum les Halles (a HUGE shopping-mall/center), I found a crowd gathered around a piano. Turns out there is an organization that places pianos all over the city so that people can play in public! What a great idea! Afterwards, some men from the mall’s music store came out and led a game of name-that-tune. It was so much fun sitting in a circle on piano benches appreciating the local Parisian talent, and it was a welcome rest from being on my feet all day.
Afterwards, I dropped my purchases off at the hostel, ate a croissant and Nutella for a snack, and headed to Pont Alexandre, where I listened to Adele’s “Someone Like You”, as its where the music video is filmed. Then, I crossed the street to the other side of the bridge and listened to the theme song from Midnight in Paris, as that is the location for the closing scene of the film. I mean, I just had to. Cliché? Yes. Touristy? Yes. Awesome? You betcha! ;)
From there I walked to the Eiffel Tower to find les petit
rues with the quaint views of the Tower. La Rue de l’Université (Julia Child’s
street!) offered one of the prettiest views, and again, I took a few pictures.
I planned to take the Trocadero métro stop back, and in walking through the park I met a group of adult Parisians drinking and eating dinner at the base of the tower, in addition to an Indian family, for both of which I took group pictures.
As it turns out, Trocadero was a bad choice. That night was the Spain v. Portugal Eurocup match, and unbeknownst to me, there was a viewing party at the Trocadero. Ugh.
There were FLOCKS of people decked out in their orange and red lined up to watch the game. There was also a rock concert pre-game. The crowds was overwhelming to the point where they’d closed down the Trocadero stop for the evening, so I ended up having to walk yet another 20 minutes to the nearest stop.
Back at the hostel, I cooked some potato-stuffed pasta shells and ate them while I watched the soccer match with people from all over the Europe in the hostel. It was a really neat atmosphere, and there was a sense of commonality among everyone who was there, despite being from different countries and speaking different languages.
I planned to take the Trocadero métro stop back, and in walking through the park I met a group of adult Parisians drinking and eating dinner at the base of the tower, in addition to an Indian family, for both of which I took group pictures.
As it turns out, Trocadero was a bad choice. That night was the Spain v. Portugal Eurocup match, and unbeknownst to me, there was a viewing party at the Trocadero. Ugh.
There were FLOCKS of people decked out in their orange and red lined up to watch the game. There was also a rock concert pre-game. The crowds was overwhelming to the point where they’d closed down the Trocadero stop for the evening, so I ended up having to walk yet another 20 minutes to the nearest stop.
Back at the hostel, I cooked some potato-stuffed pasta shells and ate them while I watched the soccer match with people from all over the Europe in the hostel. It was a really neat atmosphere, and there was a sense of commonality among everyone who was there, despite being from different countries and speaking different languages.
Thursday morning, I’d planed to give Montmartre another shot
after a not-so-great experience there last year, but it decided to rain (big
surprise in Paris), so it was the least I could do to visit Shakespeare and Co.
:)
Shakespeare & Co. is the only English bookshop in Paris, and it was originally owned and operated by Sylvia Beach, beginning in 1919. For any book connoisseur living in Paris, it is a natural hotspot for its winding bookshelves, inspiring quotes painted on the walls, and all of the reading inglenooks one could ask for. (I visited there last year, but I wasn’t able to take pictures upstairs—event though they aren’t allowed in the shop at all—due to the crowds, so I (of course) simply HAD to go back and finish my undercover, literary photographic mission.
I also filmed the route I took from Hôtel de Ville, the city hall, to my Sorbonne building every morning so that I could ‘re-live’ that experience whenever I was feeling homesick for Paris at, well, home.
It was still a little drizzly, so I headed of to le Bon Marché (THE first department store/supermarket) to get a tote bag with their logo on it that I decided not to buy last year but wished I had. Although they didn’t end up carrying the tote anymore, it was nice to visit the neighborhood again, and I discovered an open-aired market en route to another H&M in the area.
Once the weather cleared up, I headed to Montmartre and the métro stop Absesses.
The Absesses is one of the oldest metro stops in Paris, and it is known for its muraled staircases, in addition to the ‘classic’ green and yellow “Metropolitain” sign above the entrance. Oh, yeah, there is a historic merry-go-round there, too. So needless to say, it is a popular tourist attraction.
No sooner had I made it to the subway exit when Montmartre fulfilled my expectations of being the loopy arrondissement I experienced last year. Sloppy drunk men hanging around the métro exits are the same everywhere.
But nevertheless, I told myself I WAS going to enjoy Montmartre, and that I did. I wandered side streets and climbed a few steep ones until I happened upon Place Emilé Goudeau, a quiet, shady, park-benched area over-looking a picturesque, winding Montmartre street, where I ate my usual Camembert and Baguette. I followed another side street, which led me to Rue L’Epic, which is the subject of the famous Jacques Brel song.
Shakespeare & Co. is the only English bookshop in Paris, and it was originally owned and operated by Sylvia Beach, beginning in 1919. For any book connoisseur living in Paris, it is a natural hotspot for its winding bookshelves, inspiring quotes painted on the walls, and all of the reading inglenooks one could ask for. (I visited there last year, but I wasn’t able to take pictures upstairs—event though they aren’t allowed in the shop at all—due to the crowds, so I (of course) simply HAD to go back and finish my undercover, literary photographic mission.
I also filmed the route I took from Hôtel de Ville, the city hall, to my Sorbonne building every morning so that I could ‘re-live’ that experience whenever I was feeling homesick for Paris at, well, home.
It was still a little drizzly, so I headed of to le Bon Marché (THE first department store/supermarket) to get a tote bag with their logo on it that I decided not to buy last year but wished I had. Although they didn’t end up carrying the tote anymore, it was nice to visit the neighborhood again, and I discovered an open-aired market en route to another H&M in the area.
Once the weather cleared up, I headed to Montmartre and the métro stop Absesses.
The Absesses is one of the oldest metro stops in Paris, and it is known for its muraled staircases, in addition to the ‘classic’ green and yellow “Metropolitain” sign above the entrance. Oh, yeah, there is a historic merry-go-round there, too. So needless to say, it is a popular tourist attraction.
No sooner had I made it to the subway exit when Montmartre fulfilled my expectations of being the loopy arrondissement I experienced last year. Sloppy drunk men hanging around the métro exits are the same everywhere.
But nevertheless, I told myself I WAS going to enjoy Montmartre, and that I did. I wandered side streets and climbed a few steep ones until I happened upon Place Emilé Goudeau, a quiet, shady, park-benched area over-looking a picturesque, winding Montmartre street, where I ate my usual Camembert and Baguette. I followed another side street, which led me to Rue L’Epic, which is the subject of the famous Jacques Brel song.
I now know why.
Dotted with two historic windmills and lined with shops, Rue
l’Epic (Rue Epic in my mind) is one of the most scenic streets in Paris and
certainl in Montmartre. It is a quiet, winding street, and it is tattooed on
one building with a painting of le Petit Prince’s “Un elephant dans un boa,”
which I absolutely LOVE.
After exploring the understandably epic rue, I made my way to (and skirted through as quickly as possible) Place de Tetre and onto Sacre Coeur. I’ve always felt as if Sacre Coeur’s Eastern architecture is more suitable to a mosque than a Roman Catholic Church, but it fits the neighborhood: a mismatch of cultures, languages, religions, architecture, and everything in between.
(Sorry, I’m realizing now—as I’m frantically trying to catch up on blog posts—that I need to speed things up a bit. I apologize for future brevity.)
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to visit Canal St Martin, as it is supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Paris. By now, my feet were absolutely killing me, (I’d bought some 5 euro fabric flats in hopes that they’d alleviate my feet pains, but to no avail. Now my toes burned rather than my heels.) so I limped my way out of the metro, and couldn’t figure out for the life of me where I was supposed to go. Finally, I realized the landmark garden was hidden behind a gigantic wall and made my way to the canal.
It is, indeed, very beautiful, as there are bridges between the various locks, with overhanging trees and the park (apparently open to view on one side) at the end. But even the picturesque setting couldn’t provide distraction enough for my feet, so I didn’t dally.
In fact, I hobbled back to the metro so slowly that an approaching car honked at me as I crossed the cross-walk at granny pace. Despite all this, I made it back to the hostel, changed my shoes (aah!), and treated myself to some Bertillon.
You will remember from last summer that Bertillon is quite literally the best ice cream/sorbet in the world. As part of a small family business on Île de Saint Louis, the quality is impeccable. Their blueberry <<mertille>> flavor makes me feel as if I’ve just bitten into a great big iced, plump blueberry that would make Sal very jealous. (See Blueberries for Sal for those of you who didn’t catch the reference. It’s a Cape Cod thing.)
I ate my Bertillon—mango and strawberry—at Pont Marie, where I sat down next to a frazzled, middle-aged (stick-thin) man drinking, you guessed it, Heinekin. (Heinekin is the cheapest, respectable beer in France. It’s our equivalent of PBR, if you could call that respectable. Here at Oxford, Carlsberg is the cheap beer of choice, judging by the trash left in the Junior Commons Room (imagine the common rooms in Harry Potter…)
Anyways, we started talking, and turns out that although he was born in Paris, he moved to Seattle, WA as a toddler and only moved back a few years ago. We chatted for quite awhile about American politics (thank you @ Dr. Wainscott for asking the US politics question in the Duckenfield interview!), the French and American perceptions of each other, the difference in lifestyles, the global economic crisis, etc. It was a really neat conversation, speaking with someone who has such an insiders viewpoint of countries, about the political and economic upheaval in both countries….or it was a nice conversation until he asked me to hold his things—a portable speaker and an iPad (apparently he was preparing to blare music across the Seine)—and I soon quit his presence. (He also kept calling me “Miss” (“You’re rather shy, miss. So where are you from, Miss? You speak English, then, Miss? Ugh. Bug off.), which was also quite annoying.
I then managed some razzle-dazzle and exchanged a sweatshirt I’d gotten for my dad the previous year for a different size, went to the Bastille to buy some fruit at my old fruit stand (owned by a very nice Asian family) and a chocolât noir from one of the Bastille patisseries, and enjoyed my dinner at the Bastille canal before heading back to the hostel.
(Btw, the chocolât noir is the most rich/chocolately/scrumptious thing I’ve ever tasted (a different scrumptious from Bertillon. The chocolât noir is savory, while Bertillon is succulent.) and I gorged myself in the chocolatey goodness until A) I finished it and B) couldn’t eat any more.)
Eating there on the canal, I finally felt as if I was back in my Paris I know and love. Walking around the city was terrific, but it wasn’t until I ate there, in my former neighborhood, at my favorite haunt, that I really felt like I was back in my Parisian home.
And boy, was it good to be back.
Friday was ushered in with a whirlwind of razzle-dazzle (I’d been charged the wrong amount for a pair of shoes and was refunded the difference, all of which I conducted in French!) and last-minute sightseeing.
I was so tired Friday morning that I misread the metro signs and ended up on the wrong line…twice. Ugh. It took me about an hour to get to Cemetière Père-Lachaise, where I saw the graves of Jim Morrison (not my favorite, but you have to go see him), Oscar Wilde (a little too fabulous for my tastes), Bizet (I sung the chorus from Carmen in my head, in French), Molière, Apollinaire, La Fontaine (French authors/poets, both of whom I’ve read for class), Balzac, Haussman, Chopin, Delacroix, Edith Piaf, and Yves Montand.
The cemetery was MUCH larger than I anticipated, and I found myself getting lost (even with a map) amongst the endless sea of tombstones, monuments, and mausoleums, and in order to avoid the cobblestones, I ended up walking on the flat stone curb most of the way. (Ballet flats and cobblestones don’t mix well…)
There was some really great, geometric photo opps in the cemetery, and I let myself take a few photo breaks, but towards the end I had to speed the trip up (I was there for nearly 3 hours!), so I couldn’t explore the design features of the cemetery as much as I would’ve liked….(Photography trip to Paris with my Dad and Uncle Rob?)
After exploring the understandably epic rue, I made my way to (and skirted through as quickly as possible) Place de Tetre and onto Sacre Coeur. I’ve always felt as if Sacre Coeur’s Eastern architecture is more suitable to a mosque than a Roman Catholic Church, but it fits the neighborhood: a mismatch of cultures, languages, religions, architecture, and everything in between.
(Sorry, I’m realizing now—as I’m frantically trying to catch up on blog posts—that I need to speed things up a bit. I apologize for future brevity.)
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to visit Canal St Martin, as it is supposedly one of the most beautiful places in Paris. By now, my feet were absolutely killing me, (I’d bought some 5 euro fabric flats in hopes that they’d alleviate my feet pains, but to no avail. Now my toes burned rather than my heels.) so I limped my way out of the metro, and couldn’t figure out for the life of me where I was supposed to go. Finally, I realized the landmark garden was hidden behind a gigantic wall and made my way to the canal.
It is, indeed, very beautiful, as there are bridges between the various locks, with overhanging trees and the park (apparently open to view on one side) at the end. But even the picturesque setting couldn’t provide distraction enough for my feet, so I didn’t dally.
In fact, I hobbled back to the metro so slowly that an approaching car honked at me as I crossed the cross-walk at granny pace. Despite all this, I made it back to the hostel, changed my shoes (aah!), and treated myself to some Bertillon.
You will remember from last summer that Bertillon is quite literally the best ice cream/sorbet in the world. As part of a small family business on Île de Saint Louis, the quality is impeccable. Their blueberry <<mertille>> flavor makes me feel as if I’ve just bitten into a great big iced, plump blueberry that would make Sal very jealous. (See Blueberries for Sal for those of you who didn’t catch the reference. It’s a Cape Cod thing.)
I ate my Bertillon—mango and strawberry—at Pont Marie, where I sat down next to a frazzled, middle-aged (stick-thin) man drinking, you guessed it, Heinekin. (Heinekin is the cheapest, respectable beer in France. It’s our equivalent of PBR, if you could call that respectable. Here at Oxford, Carlsberg is the cheap beer of choice, judging by the trash left in the Junior Commons Room (imagine the common rooms in Harry Potter…)
Anyways, we started talking, and turns out that although he was born in Paris, he moved to Seattle, WA as a toddler and only moved back a few years ago. We chatted for quite awhile about American politics (thank you @ Dr. Wainscott for asking the US politics question in the Duckenfield interview!), the French and American perceptions of each other, the difference in lifestyles, the global economic crisis, etc. It was a really neat conversation, speaking with someone who has such an insiders viewpoint of countries, about the political and economic upheaval in both countries….or it was a nice conversation until he asked me to hold his things—a portable speaker and an iPad (apparently he was preparing to blare music across the Seine)—and I soon quit his presence. (He also kept calling me “Miss” (“You’re rather shy, miss. So where are you from, Miss? You speak English, then, Miss? Ugh. Bug off.), which was also quite annoying.
I then managed some razzle-dazzle and exchanged a sweatshirt I’d gotten for my dad the previous year for a different size, went to the Bastille to buy some fruit at my old fruit stand (owned by a very nice Asian family) and a chocolât noir from one of the Bastille patisseries, and enjoyed my dinner at the Bastille canal before heading back to the hostel.
(Btw, the chocolât noir is the most rich/chocolately/scrumptious thing I’ve ever tasted (a different scrumptious from Bertillon. The chocolât noir is savory, while Bertillon is succulent.) and I gorged myself in the chocolatey goodness until A) I finished it and B) couldn’t eat any more.)
Eating there on the canal, I finally felt as if I was back in my Paris I know and love. Walking around the city was terrific, but it wasn’t until I ate there, in my former neighborhood, at my favorite haunt, that I really felt like I was back in my Parisian home.
And boy, was it good to be back.
Friday was ushered in with a whirlwind of razzle-dazzle (I’d been charged the wrong amount for a pair of shoes and was refunded the difference, all of which I conducted in French!) and last-minute sightseeing.
I was so tired Friday morning that I misread the metro signs and ended up on the wrong line…twice. Ugh. It took me about an hour to get to Cemetière Père-Lachaise, where I saw the graves of Jim Morrison (not my favorite, but you have to go see him), Oscar Wilde (a little too fabulous for my tastes), Bizet (I sung the chorus from Carmen in my head, in French), Molière, Apollinaire, La Fontaine (French authors/poets, both of whom I’ve read for class), Balzac, Haussman, Chopin, Delacroix, Edith Piaf, and Yves Montand.
The cemetery was MUCH larger than I anticipated, and I found myself getting lost (even with a map) amongst the endless sea of tombstones, monuments, and mausoleums, and in order to avoid the cobblestones, I ended up walking on the flat stone curb most of the way. (Ballet flats and cobblestones don’t mix well…)
There was some really great, geometric photo opps in the cemetery, and I let myself take a few photo breaks, but towards the end I had to speed the trip up (I was there for nearly 3 hours!), so I couldn’t explore the design features of the cemetery as much as I would’ve liked….(Photography trip to Paris with my Dad and Uncle Rob?)
Next, I explored la Défense on the outskirts of Paris. After
having made the tragic mistake to build Montparnasse Tower in the heart of
Paris (it is U.G.L.Y compared with the Haussmanian Paris skyline—or lack
thereof), they pushed all of the sky-scrapers to one, isolated location on the
edge of the city, known as la Défense. There is an arch there MUCH bigger than
the Arc de Triomphe. The arch is also a very modern structure, as are all the
buildings, so it feels as if a bit of NYC has been copied and pasted into
Paris. It was neat (?) to visit, but I wasn’t particularly pleased or
impressed. Lets just say the modern buildings in Dubai needen’t fear those in
Paris for competition…
After la Défense, I went back to the hostel, dropped off
some of my load, and headed back out to Bastille for groceries. By this time it
was almost 9pm, so my patisserie was closed :( Instead, I bought some chocolât
tartes at the grocery store, along with another Camembert and some Kinder bars
(Cow Tails meet Kit Kat Bars!) to eat at the Bastille canal again.
The chocolât tartes were a HUGE disappointment (they simply filled a crust with Nutella, which I still can’t eat plain after a bout of the stomach flu immediately following a Nutella crêpe binge,) so I simply munched on my camembert, baguette, and remaining fruit until the sun went down.
The next morning, the morning of my departure, I ate breakfast across a group of girls who were apparently in the wrong country. One of them gave away her croissant because “She didn’t like it,” and another tried to give away half of her “roll."
The chocolât tartes were a HUGE disappointment (they simply filled a crust with Nutella, which I still can’t eat plain after a bout of the stomach flu immediately following a Nutella crêpe binge,) so I simply munched on my camembert, baguette, and remaining fruit until the sun went down.
The next morning, the morning of my departure, I ate breakfast across a group of girls who were apparently in the wrong country. One of them gave away her croissant because “She didn’t like it,” and another tried to give away half of her “roll."
Um, excuse me?
HOW DO YOU NOT LIKE BREAD?!?!? Moreover, how do you not like
FRENCH bread?!?!
Also, it’s called un petit pan, NOT a “roll." Ugh. I’m pretty sure both of their
offenses are considered felonies in France. They are in my court of law, that’s
for sure.
Nevertheless, I thought I might have some time to grab un café before leaving Paris, but I ended up having the perfect amount of time to get to the train station before my Eurostar(!) departed for London.
Do you remember how, in Joan of Arcadia, God would simply appear as everyday, normal people?
Nevertheless, I thought I might have some time to grab un café before leaving Paris, but I ended up having the perfect amount of time to get to the train station before my Eurostar(!) departed for London.
Do you remember how, in Joan of Arcadia, God would simply appear as everyday, normal people?
Yeah. That happened to me.
As I stood at the top of the métro stairs with my now 60ish lb suitcase, a man probably about my parents age came over and offered to help carry my suitcase down the flight of stairs. At first lift, he almost angrily exclaimed “Oof! C’est trop (heavy)!”, but he carried it nevertheless. He then asked me where I was going, and when I explained to him that I needed the 5 to Gâre du Nord, he sighed and said that there were two entranced to the métro. The entrance to the 5 was at the other entrance.
Great.
Much to my surprise (and relief!) he picked up my bag and said he’d help me carry it there.
And they say the French are rude?
As I stood at the top of the métro stairs with my now 60ish lb suitcase, a man probably about my parents age came over and offered to help carry my suitcase down the flight of stairs. At first lift, he almost angrily exclaimed “Oof! C’est trop (heavy)!”, but he carried it nevertheless. He then asked me where I was going, and when I explained to him that I needed the 5 to Gâre du Nord, he sighed and said that there were two entranced to the métro. The entrance to the 5 was at the other entrance.
Great.
Much to my surprise (and relief!) he picked up my bag and said he’d help me carry it there.
And they say the French are rude?
So off we went…until my métro NaviGo Card expired and
wouldn’t let me in (my pre-pay tickets expired the previous evening.), so he
waited while I crawled under the bar and slipped through the doors so I wouldn’t
have to buy another ticket.
We must’ve gone down 5 flights of stairs, across a platform, and he didn’t stop there. He even put it on the métro for me, since there was about an 8” gap to the platform. I offered to pay him multiple times, but he refused, and simply advised me to watch my things before he walked away. And as he walked away, with me shouting my thanks after him, his snow white hair glowed with the sunlight that came from somewhere else than inside the subway.
Once at Gâre du Nord, I found the check-in station with no problem, due to a dry-run the day before, filled out my immigration card, went through both French and UK customs, baggage check, and due to a group in front of me (two women in addition to a grandfather and wheel-chair bound grandmother, leaving the women in charge of 4 suitcases and carry-ons), I almost missed the train. I scurried around them, running with my suitcase through the station, onto the downward-sloping moving side walk, running faster and faster and faster until…..BOOM! My suitcase went down, and had I not let go at the last minute, I would’ve gone down, too.
Luckily, one of the station workers saw me, hid his laugh, and told me I had time. Of course, my car was all the way at the end of the train, so I had to hurry to get to my car in time. After re-arranging some luggage on the rack, my suitcase was settled, and I soon followed.
I was on my way to Oxford and to the best five academic weeks of my life!
We must’ve gone down 5 flights of stairs, across a platform, and he didn’t stop there. He even put it on the métro for me, since there was about an 8” gap to the platform. I offered to pay him multiple times, but he refused, and simply advised me to watch my things before he walked away. And as he walked away, with me shouting my thanks after him, his snow white hair glowed with the sunlight that came from somewhere else than inside the subway.
Once at Gâre du Nord, I found the check-in station with no problem, due to a dry-run the day before, filled out my immigration card, went through both French and UK customs, baggage check, and due to a group in front of me (two women in addition to a grandfather and wheel-chair bound grandmother, leaving the women in charge of 4 suitcases and carry-ons), I almost missed the train. I scurried around them, running with my suitcase through the station, onto the downward-sloping moving side walk, running faster and faster and faster until…..BOOM! My suitcase went down, and had I not let go at the last minute, I would’ve gone down, too.
Luckily, one of the station workers saw me, hid his laugh, and told me I had time. Of course, my car was all the way at the end of the train, so I had to hurry to get to my car in time. After re-arranging some luggage on the rack, my suitcase was settled, and I soon followed.
I was on my way to Oxford and to the best five academic weeks of my life!
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