Paris 11/17/99 – 11/23/99
Mel was adamant, we weren't going to live in Europe and not see Paris, so
when she found twenty dollar airfares we bought three. My first move, as
always, was to go to the bookstore where I bought a Hemmingway biography - the
Paris years. Within the first fifty pages I decided that we should hole
up on the Left Bank, hopefully somewhere in the Latin Quarter. Luckily Lori
and Jane had left us their Paris Hotel guide and so I reserved us a room near
the famous university La Sorbone. The hotel was relatively cheap at one
hundred dollars a night, what we saved in airfare we made in in accommodation.
Looking through the hotel book I figured one hundred dollars a night to be a
fairly good bargain, but if I had really tried I may have found something for
as low as seventy five. I suppose that there are flea bags for even less than
that, but I’m not going to drag a two year old into some dodgy French dive.
In typical fashion our only pre-trip planning consisted of buying and
browsing through tour books. We had a short hit list: Muse D’Orsay, The
Louvre, Notre Dame and Versailles, the rest we would plan as we went.
11/17/99
We arrived in Beauvais airport in mid-afternoon, and only one bag didn’t
come off the airplane - mine. Since one plane at a time services this tiny
airport fifty miles north of Paris we were quite sure that the bag had been
loaded onto the wrong aircraft. I think Mel was expecting me to blow my top,
but I even surprised myself by staying calm, telling the apologetic counter
lady that "these things happen." RyanAir has a Paris-bound shuttle
bus that meets every flight so we bought a couple of tickets and left my
missing bag to fate.
The shuttle bus dropped us off in front of the James Joyce pub - I suppose
it’s an easy name for Irelanders to remember - where we hailed a cab and
took a grand prix tour of historic Paris. Despite the cab driver’s speed our
ride cost twenty dollars, I really can’t complain about that though, the
same ride would have been more expensive in the States. Our hotel was on 13
Rue de Cujas, next to the Sorbone, so the streets were filled with students,
but I saw disappointingly few coffeehouses.
The desk lady at the hotel spoke flawless English and was very apologetic
as she said that the baby bed we had requested was much too small for Sam, who
as she accurately noted is no longer a baby but a little boy. I said that we
would take a look at the bed and if it looked too small we’d simply have Sam
sleep with us. Mel wasn’t too excited about this proposition.
A minute after we arrived in the room a maid brought in a folding bed the
same size as Sam’s bed at home. Once set up the contraption filled the only
empty space in our tiny room, hopefully we wouldn’t be spending much time in
there. Other than its miniscule scale, the room was faultless. As it was still
early in the afternoon we bundled up Sam, loaded him into the backpack and set
off to explore our surroundings.
I was quite surprised about the weather, I didn’t expect Paris to be so
cold, it was at or near freezing with a substantial sleet/rain drenching the
town. We walked down St. Michel to the river Seine where we turned right and
headed for Notre Dame. Paris must be getting ready for the new millennium by
cleaning up recognizable buildings as Notre Dame, like many other famous
sights was enshrouded in scaffolding. I was disappointed to find the famous
rose window almost totally obscured. The only entrance fee to Notre Dame, like
all other churches we visited, was silence, a price Sam wasn’t willing to
pay. Once Sam discovers the acoustic amplification of a high ceiling nothing
will stop him from shouting loud and continuously.
We managed to stay inside long enough to only begin to grasp the grandeur
of this building, how such a cathedral was even conceived much less actually
built is beyond me. I tastelessly snapped a flash photo of a man praying and
then Mel and I made for the door, Sam releasing top of the lung outbursts
along the way.
We walked through alleys up the hill to the Pantheon and then down to the
Luxembourg gardens. The rain was showing no signs of retreat so we bought some
milk and oranges for Sam, and some panini for ourselves and returned to our
warm and dry hotel room. Unlike the panini I’ve bought in Seattle which is
made with a foccacia-style flat bread, the grilled sandwiches in France are
made on a light crust baguette. I think that the French way is preferable.
Our hotel wasn’t furnished with a refrigerator so we simply placed Sam’s
milk on the ledge outside of our window. When Sam was zipped into his pajamas
and ready for bed I opened the window knocking the milk from its narrow perch.
Out into the wet night I went in search of a local grocery store. I discovered
that our fourth floor room was directly above the main entrance to the hotel
as milk coated the sidewalk and the hood of an unfortunately parked silver
Citroen.
I found a shop near the Pantheon, and tucked the milk bottle into my coat
before passing the hotel’s night manager mopping up the front steps. He
looked like he was onto me, but I wasn’t admitting to anything. Back in the
room Sam refused to lie down in his crib so Mel and I tucked him in between us
and turned off the lights, even though it was not yet nine o-clock. This is
one of the problems with traveling with a small child, if you are sharing a
hotel room lights out for one means lights out for all. I suppose I could have
sat reading in the bathroom, but instead I opted for an early night.
11/18/99
After Sam fell asleep we moved him into the crib where he slept soundly
until seven AM. We took our time getting ready and didn’t get downstairs to
breakfast until eight thirty. Eating at the hotel was probably our most
expensive option, but the rain and our hunger made it worth the cost - $10.00
for coffee, croissant and plain yogurt (I found that adding jam to plain
yogurt makes it quite edible). The coffee was served in two parts, a small
pitcher of espresso accompanied by a equally-sized pitcher of hot water.
On our Paris map made the Muse D’Orsay appeared deceptively close, in
reality it took us about thirty minutes of walking fast through a hard cold
rain to get there. I had thrown in Sam’s rain pants at the last minute,
which kept him warm and in good spirits. At the train station turned art
museum we waited in an unexpected, but quick moving ticket line, the guard
standing watch at the revolving front door pointed to Sam’s backpack and
shook his head. He directed us to the coat check area where we exchanged the
cumbersome backpack for a welcome stroller.
The Muse D’Orsay is filled with the art I like featuring artists such as:
Monet, Degas, Manet, Van Gough, Pissaro, Boudin, Roseau, Renoir and Cezzane. I
don’t know much about art, but when I see something I like I know it, and I
liked this stuff. The room dedicated to the sketch-like work of Boudin who
turned out to be my favorite part of the museum, unfortunately the bookstore
only carried a single Boudin print. The appeal of Van Gough was a mystery to
me until I saw Afternoon Siesta, which I found spectacular. I was surprised to
learn that Afternoon Siesta is actually a copy of another painting. The Muse D’Orsay
mainly contains Impressionist art and has of the funky abstract art that goes
right over my head. The only slightly odd exhibit was a room filled with half
a dozen framed television sets displaying footage from cameras fixed at
unimpressive locations. I guess the artist was going for some kind of real
world as art theme.
Overall Sam was very good at the museum, only getting a little squirmy at
lunch time. Sam and I took a walk while Mel ordered lunch, I had to fight to
keep the little monkey from fingering the paintings but all temptations
considered he was extraordinarily good.
From the Muse D’Orsay we hiked back streets to the Tour Eiffel. My hands
were getting stiff from the swelling that always comes with bitterly cold
weather, but the rain had ceased and the glimpses of blue sky convinced us to
see the city from the top of the tower. Fortunately I’ve traveled, and on
the road I’ve noticed two types of travelers, those who are drawn to their
own countrymen and those who are repulsed by them. The short anxious American
standing next to me on the elevator was the former.
"You’all from the U.S?" he asked, "I’m from Charleston
myself."
"We’re from Seattle, but we live in Dublin." I replied.
"Did you see who was on the other elevator," he continued,
"Roger Staubach, you know the 49er."
When it comes to professional American football I’m sure of two things:
Walter Peyton played for the Bears and Roger Staubach played for the Cowboys,
but I was happy for the English conversation so I didn’t correct the guy
from Charleston.
"The Charleston paper prints photos of locals with famous people, I’m
going to go get my picture taken with him."
"I you see him let me know," I said, "I don’t think that I’d
recognize him in a crowd." I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that
one of the few things I find less interesting than professional football is
the people who play it.
My cynicism about greedy adults playing a child’s game aside I must admit
that I do respect Roger Staubach - despite winning the Heisman he served out
his Naval obligation instead of crying his way straight into the NFL. We saw
him on the observation platform, I was right I wouldn’t have recognized him
as he was taller and heavier than I would have thought.
The view from the top was disappointing, the tower is too high, too far
removed from the slate roofs and gold-trimmed domes of the city. The flat gray
light did little to help matters. Four years ago when I was working with the
French aircraft company Sogerma Socea the engineers would tell me that the
French see the Tour Eiffel as a blemish on the Parisian cityscape, a blemish
that many want removed. One man’s eyesore is another man’s landmark.
The old wood-trimmed elevator returned us to the east pillar and while I
shot some photos of the late sun reflecting off the steel girders Mel, our
navigator plotted our route home via the Metro.
The metro costs 8FF (approx. $1.25) and will take you anywhere within urban
Paris. Passes, which include unlimited travel on both the Metro and surface
busses, are available for 80FF/day, 160FF/3 days or 240FF/5 days. At most Mel
and I bought three tickets in a single day and we both figured that it would
be rare if someone actually broke even by purchasing one of these passes.
Museum passes are also available at 90FF/day or 180FF/3 days. As most museums
cost less than 30FF it would once again be difficult to justify the expense of
a pass, although the pass does allow you to o to the front of the line, which
during the high season can be a luxury well worth the expense.
Back at the hotel we let Sam run wild for an hour during which Mel
discovered that the Museum National D’Histore Naturelle Paleontologie is
kept open late on Mondays and since it was Monday we decided to go. The museum
contains a zoo of stuffed animals and the highlight is the gallery of
evolution, which is a parade of mounted animals parading in step down the main
corridor. The walnut paneling, musty air and dim lights gave the museum the
scholarly air of an nineteenth century library, which I greatly enjoyed. The
museum was nearly empty of visitors and the dim hallway of extinct and
endangered animals was fittingly solemn and abandoned. The scrollwork and
oiled walnut and dusty light gave the quiet hall the look and scent of a
medieval monastery. A monumental brass clock on which was mounted a polished
brass plaque that referred to Marie Antoinette ticked solemnly and marked the
wrong time.
One of the most noticeable displays was that of a now extinct Chinese
tiger, it was white and black like the pair of Siberian Snow tigers in the
Washington DC zoo, and the specimen here was half again the size of a Bengal,
of which there were numerous examples. I had gone into the endangered and
extinct animals hall hoping to see an odd half zebra half horse that I
remembered reading about when I was in elementary school. I remember the stun
of realizing that this once prolific animal had been hunted to extinction in
the nineteenth century. This taught me about the sensitivity of Earth to man’s
touch.
Mel and I were getting hungry and Sam was getting impatient when we finally
walked past the two whale skeletons, a blue and a sperm, on the way to the
door. Like the Filed Museum in Chicago this was a place I could have spent
many happy weeks.
One of our largest problems while visiting Paris was the search for an
evening meal. Breakfast and dinner could be taken in a small patisserie or
from a sidewalk vendor, but dinner in Paris should include a table and wine.
Unfortunately most restaurants don’t open until seven thirty and are very
small and fitted with very small tables. Bringing Sam into such a tight
environment was a risky endeavor any time of the day, but especially after his
eight o-clock bedtime. Luckily I’ve developed an immunity to the cold stares
of old hags and moussed yuppies who seem to think that children should be left
in a box until the age of eighteen. Kids get tired and they cry, welcome to
the real world honey.
Walking home from the St. Michel-Cluny metro stop Mel and I stepped into
the Bistro De La Sorbone, a small Moroccan restaurant with checked tablecloths
spread over no more than eight tables. Here we learned about Parisian
restaurants, most have either one, two or three set menus. In a set menu you
can choose from a list of appetizers, main courses and deserts. This Bistro
had three set menus, one for seventy five Francs, another for ninety five and
a third for one hundred and twenty, not prices for three course French meals.
I ordered a Moroccan with chicken and dates, while Mel ordered steak. We both
started appropriately with french onion soup and a demi bottle of beaujolais
neuvo. Being November the beaujolais was in season and the bottle we had was
sweet, fruity and very easy to drink. Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t so
easy, we waged a continual battle of attrition as he grabbed for our wine
glasses, swiped at the wine bottle, tried to empty the salt shaker and stabbed
the wooden table with a fork. Finally we gave up, swallowed our sorbet,
settled the bill and returned to room 46.
1/19/99
We took the train to Versailles and it being Sunday we hoped that the
crowds would either be in church or sleeping off Saturday night. We took the
RER, the suburban train for fourteen and a half Francs per person and the trip
took a little over thirty minutes. Paris is very expensive, we bought a
coffee, a hot chocolate and two croissants cost us over six dollars. Melony
and I could write a book, Paris on two hundred dollars a day. The best
way to avoid going broke in Paris is to eat a light breakfast away from your
hotel, eat a crepe or sandwich for lunch and then spend some money on a good
sit down dinner.
Versailles offers several tours ranging from a limited access walk alone to
a fully guided English speaking tours, we chose the self-guided audio tour,
which included the king’s quarters costing seventy Francs. Inside the first
room Sam discovered that the excellent acoustical amplification lent by the
twenty foot ceilings and for the entire tour Sam screamed loud and
continuously. I ended the hour-long tours by running through the final three
rooms. Sam had proved to be too much for the palace of the Sun King.
The only thing that could top the opulence of Versailles was Versailles
itself and when we stepped out the back door and into the King’s gardens. A
manicured landscape the size of a small national park rolls out the rear of
the main palace, three fountains form the center of a large boulevard. Melony,
the reliable map reader, spotted a small café tucked into the gardens where
maybe she could use the restroom, I could get a cup of coffee and Sam could
roam.
The sky was relatively clear and the temperature was accordingly low, all
of the garden statues were covered with green canvas tarps. I reckon the
statues might crack in the low winter temperatures had they not been covered.
Versailles can be grouped with the Pyramids at Giza or the home of the
Ottoman Sultans, the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul as something so grand and
opulent that it simply could not be built today. The splendor of Versailles is
not in its immense scale, but rather in the precision of the details. The
guilded mouldings, the marble fireplace surrounds, even the door handles were
both intricately and passionately carved, fitted and finished. This was the
product of people who worked for reasons that surpassed a paycheck, the
masters who built Versailles were motivated by a passion for their country and
their king and this passion is reflected in and lives on through their work.
Back in Paris we walked west from the St Michel-Cluny Metro station towards
the Odeon theater and into the St.-Germain and Montparnasse quarters. We found
Cour du Commerce which is lined with quaint shops and four table restaurants,
at the head of the little lane is the tacky Indiana Café. During the twenties
Montparnasse was a literary and artistic stronghold; Hemmingway and F. Scott
Fitzgerald walked these streets going to and from Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare
and Co. bookstore.
We walked the Rue de l’Odeon making a half-hearted attempt to find a
plaque or some other sign of Ms. Beach’s famous bookstore. No luck, so we
returned to the restaurant-lined alleys between Place St Michel and St.
Severin Cathedral, where we found an appealing pizzeria tucked in between
Greek sandwich shops and small restaurants advertising onion soup and mussels.
Nearly every restaurant had a hawker cruising the stretch of concrete between
front door and curb seemingly oblivious to the fact that he served as a
tourist repellent, especially American tourists. I wanted to tell a
particularly ambitious hawker that an American would walk away from a pushy
salesman for no other reason than to prove that he won’t be bullied.
The pizzeria was filled with American businessmen, easily identifiable by
chino pants, running shoes and an expressed disinterest in their surroundings.
Mel and I ordered two small pizzas, which were very good, and a small pitcher
of house red wine. Sam was quiet and patient even though it was an hour past
his bedtime, he nibbled on some pizza and read the little A-frame card
describing a new wine on offer. While eating in a restaurant filled with
Americans lacked cultural appeal at least we had a break from the second-hand
cigarette smoke that forms a carcinogenic cloud over every enclosed European
space. I wonder why so many young Europeans allow themselves to be conned by
tobacco companies.
There are some good aspects of traveling to Paris in November:
- No (or at least reduced) crowds and entrance lines
- Low season prices
- More availability of hotels and more room in restaurants
- Beaujolais Nouveau
There are also some cons:
- Cold and wet
- Paris seems to be an outside town (sidewalk cafes, parks and
markets) and November is too cold to enjoy these.
11/20/99
From the top of the Tour Eiffel Melony pointed out the Sacre Coeur, a domed
basilica perched on strategic high ground above the city. Mel had learned
about the gleaming chalk-colored walls of the Sacre Coeur, the result of lime
deposits that leach out in the fall rains to continually whitewash the stone
ridding the basilica of the city’s grime.
We rode the Metro to the Abbesses station which, being the deepest subway
stop in Paris, required a climb of what seemed to be six stories up an
unending spiral staircase. I estimate that we were walking approximately five
to seven miles a day, during the majority of this I was carrying Sam on my
back. Lugging Sam up and down the Metro stairways and along the uneven cobbled
streets gave our trip the physical feeling of a mountaineering expedition.
Each night I collapsed in bed and didn’t flinch until morning.
From the Abbesses station we continued climbing up narrow streets and
alleys towards the Sacre Coeur. At the top of the hill we hit the Place du
Tertre which despite the light drizzle was filled with artists and portrait
painters. Hindsight tells me that we should have had Sam’s portrait painted.
Mel and I saw a few tempting works, but in the end we escaped with all of our
Francs intact. The Place du Tertre seemed to be the classic tourist trap and
the crappy weather didn’t detour either the buyers or the sellers.
After elbowing our way past the somewhat pushy portrait painters we
continued up to the Sacre Coeur. The domed basilica is chalk white and stands
over an impressive view of the city, and while its interior was equally
dramatic I couldn’t spend much time inside as Sam immediately recognized the
acoustic potential of the high ceiling and wasted no time in exercising her
lungs.
Outside of the Sacre Coeur stood a three street performers, one tenacious
guy stood motionless in the cold rain wrapped in a white sheet, another was
dressed in gold and wore the mask and headdress of an ancient Egyptian
sarcophagus. The Egyptian stood beside the sidewalk dead still, but as we
passed he squatted and peered at Sam, surprisingly Sam didn’t seemed
shocked, instead he simply pointed and laughed.
From the Sacre Coeur we descended a long series of graffiti-lined concrete
steps towards the Boulevard de Rochechouart and the famous red windmill of the
Moulin Rouge. At the base of he stairs we bought some sandwiches for lunch and
released Sam into a small playground at Place St. Pierre. Sam didn’t seem to
mind the winos on the benches surrounding the park, and exchanged turns on a
spring supported horse with a couple of brightly dressed French children.
The Place St. Pierre has a well-maintained merry-go-round and Mel thought
that Sam might want a ride so she bought a ticket and found him the best
horse. Sam was ecstatic and was in seventh heaven in the wooded saddle until
the ride stopped. Mel had to pry his little fingers from the reins and Sam
yelled like he was being hung by his thumbs. He screamed uncontrollably for
over ten minutes before he collapsed into a welcome sleep. Mel and I continued
down the hill to the Boulevard de Rochechouart which appeared to be the dingy
red light district of Paris. The street was lined with cheap discount stores,
peep shows and adult bookstores. Greasy guys in smooth shoes and black suits
stood in front of their respective shops trying to entice anyone passing by
with free drinks and guaranteed satisfaction. The fact that was with my wife
and child served as no deterrent to these gutter snakes.
Following a longer than anticipated walk down the Boulevard de Clichy we
arrived at the Place Blanche where we found the often-photographed red
windmill atop the Moulin Rouge cabaret covered in scaffolding. Scaffolding
seems to be a common theme of the Paris off-season. This was far and away the
dirtiest and most depressing street we had seen in Paris so we quickly
backtracked through an increasingly persistent sleet storm and ducked into the
Pigalle Metro station and returned to the enthusiasm and life of the Latin
Quarter.
Back on our home ground we embarked on a literary tour, setting out to find
the fourth floor walkup of Earnest Hemmingway and the former sight of the
Shakespeare and Company bookstore. I know that Hemmingway lived on Cardinal
Lemoine; scanning our now worn Paris map we found the street within six blocks
of our hotel. Walking past the Pantheon, across Rue Delacroix and past the
Philippe-Auguste Wall we turned right on Cardinal Lemoine and headed towards
the cafes of Place de la Contrescarpe. Above the door of a white apartment
building at 74 Cardinal Lemoine Melony spotted a plaque noting this as the
first Paris residence of the American writer Earnest Hemmingway. A travel
agency housed in this building is named below Hemmingway’s. I don’t know
what I expected coming here, I certainly didn’t feel the ghostly presence of
the great writer, I took a photo of the plaque and we continued on to the
Place de la Contrescarpe.
The narrow streets radiating from the chain-rimmed hub at the Place de la
Contrescarpe are filled with small cafes and restaurants, as it was still
early we surveyed some possible dinner spots and aimed our shoes towards the
Odeon and Sylivia Beach’s famous bookstore.
The cloud-veiled sky absorbed the dusk and within the space of a block
Paris went from light to dark. Once again we passed the Pantheon then crossed
Boulevard St. Michel where we followed a dim alley to the Odeon. From the
Place de Odeon we turned onto the Rue de Odeon in the direction of the Seine.
Once the haven of avant gard writers the Rue de Odeon is now lined upscale
clothing and jewelry stores the interiors of which are brightly lit pastel.
After several passes we found a small plaque mounted to the second story of a
renovated building noting the location where James Joyce’s Ulysses was first
published. Luckily the Hemmingway biography that I was reading noted that
Sylvia Beach financed the first publishing of Joyce’s backbreaking novel so
this was the location of her bookstore. The space which once harbored
Hemmingway, Fitzgerald and Pound is now a jewelry store and its façade bears
no resemblance to the photo of Shakespeare and Co. in the Hemmingway bio.
We still had two hours to burn before the restaurants opened so Mel
suggested that we seek refuge from the rain in the nearby covered markets.
With the exception of an interesting shop selling vintage canes and walking
sticks the market had little to offer, so after browsing through the cheap
bins at a secondhand French bookshop we returned to the hotel to allow Sam a
little time to blow off some steam before dinner.
We took a chance and had Sam walk the six blocks back to the Place de la
Contrescarpe where we had seen several inviting restaurants. We decided on a
cozy French restaurant because there was another family with two young
children already seated and having dinner. I figured that some portion of Sam’s
yelling could be pawned off on these French kids.
On our way to the restaurant I noticed that many of the cafes and coffee
houses were filled to capacity with young and old sipping espresso, demi
bottles of red wine and watery pilsner beer. It appeared that the typical
French routine is to sit in the coffee shops patiently awaiting the seven
thirty opening of nearly all sit down style restaurants.
The menu was is French and our waitress spoke no English so Melony and I
took our chances, she ended up with a chicken dish and I was given pork.
Because we were ordering from a set menu we also each had French onion soup
for a starter and sorbet for desert. It was well past Sam’s bedtime and he
was running around the restaurant like a child possessed, but once this little
four year old blonde caught his eye he sauntered over joined her by the
fireplace. The girl’s mom spoke English very well and told us that her
daughter had a friend similar to Sam who had recently moved away so she was
used to his antics. "He’s all boy," she said as Sam laughed and
jumped around the restaurant.
A few weeks prior to leaving for Paris Sam began kissing Mel and I
goodnight, but only before he goes to bed and he wouldn’t kiss anyone other
than Mel and myself, not even his grandparents. As we were leaving the
restaurant, making our getaway before the manager threw us out, Sam walked
over to the little girl and kissed her goodbye. "What was that all
about?" I asked, but he just smiled.
11/21/99
Mel and I had decided that the Louvre should warrant a full day’s visit
and even though this was the first dry morning we stayed true to our plans to
see the famous museum. Near the Place de St. Michel we found a small bakery
offering coffee and croissants for twenty Francs (a little over three
dollars). At less than half the standard petite dejuneur rate of fifty Francs
we decided to give the tiny bakery a chance. Once inside the narrow space the
owner came out and showed us to a marble-lined rear room which we only shared
with a trio of Spansih men. It was very clean, very relaxed and the coffee and
croissants were fresh, this would be our breakfast place for the remainder of
our stay in Paris.
We arrived at the Louvre Metro station at the relatively early hour of ten
o-clock, Mel went straight for the rear of the quarter mile-long line
uncoiling from the glass pyramid while Sam and I toured the courtyard shooting
photos of the opulent French architecture lit by a nearly flawless blue
morning sky. The clear sky had lowered the morning temperature to very near
freezing, and the sidewalks were covered in salt where they were soaked by
misting fountains. Sam and I found Mel, her purple hat pulled low on her
forehead well back in the glacially slow line.
After approximately five minutes in line an official of the Louvre
approached us and motioned for us to follow him into the pyramid. I wondered
if we had inadvertently violated some French statute, but the official said
nothing, he simply led us down the escalator where he stopped at the
Information desk, said something in French, smiled and then returned to his
post at the front door. Inside the pyramid I realized that the line outside
was just a preliminary stage, because once inside there was another line in
front of the ticket booth. Near as I could tell the officials at the outer
door were allowing people to trickle into the pyramid as the inner lines grew
shorter.
Fortunately we didn’t have to stand in this line either as the English
speaking man at the Information desk got us a stroller and then directed us to
a special ticket counter, one without a line. Contrary to popular belief both
Mel and I found the Parisians very kind and welcoming and many people went out
of their way to help us.
The Louvre is too big to fit into a single day, but by skimming through
much of it we managed to see two of its three wings. The highlight of the trip
was the Mona Lisa, seeing it in person I now realized why Da Vinci never
parted with it and why it is such a remarkable piece of art. What I found most
striking about the paining was the way the Mona Lisa’s eyes followed you
around the room. No matter where you stood you would swear that she is looking
through the crowd straight at you. The other remarkable feature of the
painting is the calm, Buddha-like, expression on the model’s face. For some
reason the calming effect of the painting is lost on reproductions, why this
is I don’t know.
Much of the wall space in the Louvre is covered with either religious works
or portraits commissioned by royalty and subsequently I found much of it easy
to pass by. Other than the Mona Lisa, the highlights for me were the Venus de
Milo, Michelangelo’s Rebellious Slave and The Coronation of Napoleon I by
Jacques-Louis David. For whatever reason the Rebellious Slave is unfinished at
the figure not only seems to be struggling against his bindings but also
against the uncut marble from which he is emerging. David’s depiction of the
Napoleon’s coronation is life size and took three years to paint. When asked
his opinion Napoleon reputedly stated that he felt as though he could walk
right into the canvas and return to the scene.
We left the Louvre after dark and walked across the Jardin du Carrousel,
past the Jardin des Tuileries and into the Place de la Concorde. Thousands
lost their heads on this very ground during the Reign of Terror, today a
carnival company was setting up what looking like a Ferris wheel. Continuing
towards the Arc de Triumph we stopped at a kiosk where we bought a crepe
fromage for Sam. He ate over half of it. Crossing Avenue Montaigne we stepped
onto the Champs de Elysees, which despite it being a Sunday night was crowded
with shoppers. Mel was interested in buying a hard to find perfume for her
mother so we entered in cosmetics shops repudiated to sell every scent made.
The place was so full Sam and I had to bump our way through the crowds to keep
up with Mel who finally found the what she was looking for, but she quickly
put it back on the shelf after seeing the astronomical price.
We pushed our way back onto the incandescent street and continued our
journey to the Arc de Triumph. In the pedestrian underpass we bought two
tickets to the top of the centrally located arch, and when we gave them to the
guard at the stairway he directed us to a secret elevator entrance. We pulled
the Sam sham again.
By the time we returned to the hotel we were too worn out to deal with a
restaurant, but too hungry to go to bed on an empty stomach. I left Mel to
chase Sam around the jail cell sized room and went down the hill to buy some
Greek sandwiches. I returned with one for Mel and two for myself. The giros in
Paris are unique in that they are served on French bread with fries tucked
inside.
11/22/99
We’d been running hard for the past five days and this morning I really
didn’t look forward to another day with Sam on my back. But we were in Paris
and had things to see, specifically Notre Dame and the Musee Picasso. There is
no use waking up early in Paris as only the garbage collectors begin work
before nine o-clock. The rattling of steel trash cans woke Sam and I up at
half past seven.
Like during a climbing expedition my body was adapting to the constant
exertion of carrying Sam on my back, but the ball of my right foot had
developed a bruise that was constantly aggravated by the uneven cobblestone
alleys we were so fond of. Fortunately I was wearing a pair of stiff
mountaineering boots, had I brought some flimsy running shoes my feet would
have been in worse straits. Surprisingly Sam seemed to truly enjoy his
piggyback ride; he never once complained. Possibly he enjoyed looking at faces
instead of knees.
After a breakfast at our favorite bakery we passed the fountain at the
Place St Michel walked along the Seine and crossed to the Ile de la Cite at
the Petit Pont Bridge. When I was still working at Boeing I had come to France
for business, during that visit I drove six hours each way to Paris where I
spent a single afternoon. I spent much of my four hours in the city searching
for Notre Dame unaware that it is located on an island, the Ile de la Cite, in
the Seine river. Needless to say I never found it.
In what was becoming a standard scene, much of the western façade of the
cathedral was covered in scaffolding. The three western portal entrances were
nearly completely obscured as was the lower half of the western rose window.
Despite the renovations and cold weather the landmark cathedral was
surprisingly crowded, I wonder what is the total amount of money spent abroad
by Japanese tourists.
Once again, Sam’s discovery of the Notre Dame’s remarkable acoustics
convinced us to make a premature exit of the main chamber, so we bought two
tickets at the base of the North Tower and began climbing towards the famous
gargoyles. The spiraling staircase was quite narrow and I felt like Quasimoto
as Sam and I circled to the top. With its direct view of the Seine and the
catwalk between the North and South towers offered the best view yet of the
city. Notre Dame is located at the east end of the old city and the catwalk is
only slightly higher than the surrounding buildings, this offers a more
intimate and better located view than either the Arc de Triumph or the Tour
Eiffel.
The narrow walkway between the North and South towers was too narrow to
pass through carrying Sam so we gave him his freedom. The entire area is
enclosed in a wire mesh with openings just large enough to slip a camera lens
through so though Sam was safe, I was still nervous that he would find some
overlooked weakness. My edgy nerves were warranted, with fifteen seconds Mel
caught Sam squeezing between the large wooden louvers concealing the now empty
North tower bell chamber.
The gargoyles, some of which double as gutter spouts, would put any
Hollywood monster to shame. Each of the hellish figures squatting on the
ledges is unique, the only common characteristics are that they are all gaunt
and twisted with horrendous fangs and curled claws. One particularly memorable
demon squatted atop the stone railing viciously raising an impaled rabbit into
its needled jaws.
After spending a roll of film on the gargoyles we squeezed along the
walkway towards the South tower where we ducked through the doorway leading to
the cathedral’s only bell to survive the revolutionary melt-down. Sam
scampered up the rickety wooden staircase and in the instant we weren’t
looking ducked beneath the do not pass this point ropes and stood
beneath the great bell smiling. Mel and I stretched ourselves out as far as we
could holding out our hands and calling for Sam to come back. Obviously he
didn’t so I crawled out onto the platform, grabbed his ankle and pulled the
little violator back.
From Notre Dame we continued across the Seine, past the many statued Hotel
de Ville and up the shop lined alleys towards the Musee Picasso. We were in no
hurry and so we wondered the back streets filled with chain smoking art
students. We had seen the Muse D’Orsay and the Louvre where for lack of a
better term what hung on the walls resembled the actual world. Now I wanted to
visit the Picasso Museum in order to see the work of a quintessential
abstractionist.
Picasso claimed to be the greatest collector of Picasso and the Museum in
Paris houses the artist’s personal collection of his own work. The Musee
Picasso contains an eclectic collection of paintings, line drawings, ceramics
and sculptures, the largest single collection of the world. I confess that I
don’t understand abstract art, and have difficulty seeing Picasso’s work
as anything other than childish scribbles. Secretly I hoped that surrounding
myself with Picassos would switch on a light – oh now I get it.
Unfortunately our visit to the Musee Picasso only served to convince myself
that much of what the guy created was little more than a big con. I’m
convinced that if I would have brought in six paintings from this collection
to the art gallery that displayed my photography I would have been laughed out
the door. Maybe I’m too shallow for abstract art, but the bottom line is
that I neither understood nor enjoyed the work of Picasso. The best I could
say about the collection was that there were a few inspired pieces scattered
among a bunch of crap. I would think that many artists would become
disheartened after touring the museum because it convincingly demonstrates the
fickle nature of the art market.
I had to carry Sam through the museum as they wouldn’t allow the backpack
and didn’t have any strollers, so by the time we left my arm was stiff and
cramped. Sam is getting too big too fast. The walls and buildings surrounding
the Picasso Museum contain a surprising amount of graffiti; Paris hardware
store owners must be growing rich on sales of spray paint. On our way to the
museum Mel spotted a tiny store selling miniature glass bottles we decided to
return and possibly pick up some interesting souvenirs.
The shop contained little more than a table, a chair and six wooden crates
filled with brightly colored weathered glass bottles. The salesman told us
that he had accumulated his wares from Iraq and Iran and that they were, in
his words, "very very old." Melony picked out a tiny spotted pitcher
and a spiral pattered vase, we paid about five dollars apiece.
Continuing our exploration of the back streets we stumbled into the Place
des Vosges. The Place des Vosages is the oldest square in Paris and is
outlined on four sides by red brick and stone apartments of classic French
architecture. The arch-covered sidewalks which encircle the park-like central
square are lined with overflowing cafes and upscale art galleries. Like much
of Paris this is a wonderful place to go window shopping and people watching.
As we approached the south east corner of the square Mel spotted a small
plaque designating the home of Victor Hugo, the French author lived at Number
6 from 1832 to 1848. The apartment is now a museum and contains the bed in
which the writer died, unfortunately it is closed during the low season.
From the Place des Vosages we strolled down a narrow alley and onto the Rue
St. Antoine where we bought two ham and cheese crepes and a square of pizza.
Sam was finally getting over his hunger strike and nearly ate the entire piece
of pizza.
Melony directed us back to a small shop that appeared to contain some good
Christmas presents, but on second look we didn’t find anything capable of
prying the Francs out of my pocket. By now it was getting dark so we rode the
Metro St. Germain station where exited into the rain and began looking for the
Village Voice bookstore. For some reason I wanted to buy a copy of Hemmingway’s
Moveable Feast in this well-known English bookstore. We found the store
and the book easily and I was quite surprised by the low prices of the
imported books. After a bit of confusion we found our way back to the hotel
where we unloaded Sam and allowed him to blow off some steam prior to diner.
We decided to return to the restaurant-filled alleys behind Place de St.
Michel for our final diner in Paris. We entered what looked like a cozy French
restaurant, but the meal was anything but enjoyable, the onion soup was
watery, the meat was thin and cheaply cut and through it all Sam was
uncontrollable. I was glad to finally get out of the place and even though I
was short-changed I made a hasty run for the door.
11/23/99
Our last day in Paris. We didn’t need to meet the bus back to Beauvais
airport until 3:30, but we decided not to be too risky and elected to stick
close to the hotel. We started our leisurely day visiting a pair of churches
near our hotel, St. Severin and St. Etienne-de-Mont. Hemmingway lived quite
close to St. Etienne-de-Mont and mentions passing by it in his book A
Moveable Feast. It is was quite spectacular mainly because, in contrast to
other cathedrals, it has a light-colored interior which makes it quite bright
and cheery. Our guidebook states that St. Etienne-de-Mont contains an
extremely rare rood screen, which I later learned is an ornamental alter
separating the choir of the church from the nave. In this case the rod screen
consists of an elevated walkway accessed on either side via an ornate
spiraling staircase. Basically it’s a bridge inside the cathedral. Atop the
walkway a large crucifix looks down on the congregation.
Leaving St. Etienne-de-Mont we walked across the street to the Pantheon,
which was built to be yet another cathedral now serves as a graveyard and
shrine to Distinguished Men. We were short on time and entrance
required an outlay of thirty five Francs (nearly six dollars) per person, so
we turned around at the ticket booth and continued down Rue Soufflot towards
the Jardin du Luxenbourg. One bit of French I learned on this trip is that
Jardin means garden.
The Luxembourg Gardens offered us a welcome bit of open space and
tranquility and, best of all, we were able to let Sam run free. The garden was
nearly deserted as Sam ran through the leaves and attempted to climb into the
large center fountain. The fountain was lined with an assortment of various
metal chairs all painted green, nearly all stood vacant. On a warm summer day
I could imagine the fountain rimed with students enjoying a quiet lunch or
office workers looking for a few peaceful moments minutes in the middle of
this hectic town.
We exited the garden at its western gate, passing by the tennis courts used
by Hemmingway to challenge and belittle his friends. We turned right at the
gate, passed the fountain at the Place St. Sulpice and continued down to
Boulevard St Germain. I doubt that there is a right-angled intersection within
the Paris city limits and it is quite easy to become disorientated, somehow
after a week of faultless navigation we managed to take a wrong turn on St.
Germain and by the time we discovered our error we were nearly an hours walk
from the hotel. I was now becoming worried about the time so we grabbed a
metro ride back to the Sorbonne, grabbed our bags at the hotel and then raced
a marching student protest back to the Cluny la Sorbonne Metro station. We had
to make two transfers and the trains were running extremely slow, every five
minutes a voice would come over the intercom with a message that seemed to
cause great concern among the French passengers. Being ignorant Americans we
hadn’t a clue as to what was said, but since none of the other passengers
got off we stuck out the long waits. Finally we arrived at the station near
the James Joyce Pub, but as the station is located in the middle of a
tremendous round-about it took us three tries to find the correct exit.
We arrived at the Pub with two minutes to spare only to find that the bus
was full, so we waited fifteen minutes for another. Sam was relatively
mild-mannered during the hour long bus ride, unfortunately however he peed
through his diaper soaking me crotch in the process. This was Sam’s third
blowout of the French Pampers, for some reason they didn’t hold up as well
as their American and Irish counterparts.
We left Beauvais at six o-clock and arrived in Dublin at five fifty,
another great trip gone into memory.
Travel tips
- When traveling with young children avoid feeding them new foods for
risk of allergies. If you have older kids and want them to try out local
cuisine maybe try any new ingredients out at home before venturing into
unknown waters.
- Wear shirts with covered chest pocket(s) large enough for passports.
- Stiff-soled shoes are good if you plan on a lot of walking.
- Dress in layers
- Keep hydrated
- Get/bring plastic bags for dirty clothes
- Don’t eat at McDonalds, only use their restrooms
- Use restrooms whenever available for you don’t when you’ll have
another opportunity.
- Crepes are a good cheap meal or desert
- Greek sandwiches are good
- If you bring kids to Paris it is probably best to rent an apartment
where you can cook at least some of the time.