I’m sitting alone in my room in Paris. All the lights off but the fluorescent bulb in the bathroom. The window open, evening light is casting through the sheer white curtains. I’ve sunken back into darkness again. Why must my happiness always end this way? Maybe it’s the cold and the fact that people don’t smile here, but I’m worried that I’m getting depressed again. I can’t understand how Hemingway and Baldwin found joy here, but then again, what do I know of joy and men?
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So here i am the third class-led excursion of the day, which is January 16; unheard of for me. I usually am tired before we even leave leave the hotel; put in my headphones and hope everyone understands i am not interested in a conversation. My usual routine consists of bearing through the first piece of our agenda and waiting to gorge on food companied by my new favorite drink vin chaud which I indulge through two or three drinks, BUT today I said no to breakfast due to a well deserved shower after walking back from the apartment of my latest lil cutie. Its a shame I won't develop true feelings for him as i do not have enough time to develop emotional attachment but I go through the motions as if I would be able to. So today I leave the hotel clean and hungry. I push the hunger to the back of my mind. We take a quick sweep through the Picasso museum and it is very Picasso-y. Then we head to some food market and I am excited. Being as it was my wine tolerance has built up on this trip and it was time to put my tolerance to the test. My favorite type of drunk is day drunk and with no food in my stomach i will finally fulfill my desires. I have a total of three glasses of wine with half a burger and float to the meeting point my class plans upon. We walk to another destination. The modern museum. FINALLY. Something modern. For the past week i have been glazing through the french museums as if it were a pathetic rebound from the Italian art museums i had visited previously... unimpressed. So i am here in the modern museum ready to experience the beauty with new eyes and my half eaten burger I plan to hide from the security.
Subtle Hints
→ Taking pictures out the plane window, marveling at the city beneath me → My American accent when I say “bonjour” and “merci" → The constant state of impatience and rushing → The constant smile on my face most say separate Americans from the rest of the world → Vocally enlightened by the 3€²¹ bottles of wine in the nearby liquor store Bigger Clues → Getting off the plane and running into a giant poster → Almost knocking that poster down → Running from the poster when it started to really wobble → Taking advantage of the row on the plane to myself that was bestowed on me by stretching across the whole row with two blankets and two pillows, and eventually creating a puddle of drool → Tripping on the sidewalks → Wearing my backpack in front in fear of pick-pocketers and accidentally chest-bumping everyone in my path → Asking the cab driver if every arch encountered is “the famous arch?” to which he snickered and kindly told me “no” This marks the last post where I will be writing about my experiences in Paris. When I made my first journal I thought that my experiences here may help me to experience this city as an actual place with actual people, rather than as tourist destination. And to an extent this was true, but I mostly ended up examining these experiences by comparing them to a typical tourist experiences and noting how they failed this expectation. What I feel I have not noted are the unique things that I have learned about it.
For instance, where, in The United States, bread is something only served occasionally with a nice meal, in Paris bread is served as an addition to all kinds of meals, even sometimes with breakfast. At the hotel bread and croissants are actually served as the main course for breakfast every morning, and are of good enough quality for this to be okay (for a while). Some other people in the group have also noted how the French frequently greet people with “bon jour,” while it is far less common in The United States for someone to greet you with “hello” unless you directly approach them. Water is given in a larger pitcher that the customer then pours into his glass (as opposed to the U.S., where the glass is served already full); pizza is not always served pre-cut, but must be cut by the customer (this also occurs in Italy, pizza’s country of origin); and both cars and the ever so common scooter seem incredibly willing to drive uncomfortable close to a passing pedestrian (though this may be true for many big cities). Though I may not have enjoyed this city in the way people would have expected me to enjoy it, it is clear that I have learned a bit about what makes its culture unique. I’ve learned a lot about what actually makes my travel experiences enjoyable, and I’ve seen a lot of this city that genuinely did impress me. However, at this point in the trip, I am well ready to make my way back to the familiar comfort of home this Friday. Au revoir, Paris! Thanks to films like Midnight in Paris, Before Sunset, and an array of television shows who dedicate episodes to a Parisian setting, my view of Paris prior to our trip was a very specific one. One of narrow streets and red, smoky cafés where Parisians and tourists gathered to drink bitter coffee and speak in the romantic language. However, once we arrived to Paris, we had not seen such a thing. While the red, smoky cafés were a common sight, they did not appear as welcoming as they did in the films. And five Euro for a small cup of coffee? The films did not prepare me for this. The films I watched depicted a romantic Paris, one of bright blue skies, occasional light rain, an intact Notre Dame, a quiet river with which couples ride boats across, gazing at landmarks and at each other.
I love these films, but not because they depict Paris, but because they are nice films who make you feel warm inside and make Paris seem like the destination of one’s dreams. As previously told in my older journals, we have seen the real Paris on this trip. The Paris where men cat call women from dark, gritty streets in uneven neighborhoods, where buses never arrive despite the stop saying they are near, where Metros shut down due to constant striking, and the sun doesn’t seem to appear for days. There’s a reason films depict one side of Paris, and I was finally able to see that side today after making a trek via Metro (which was running) back to the Sacré-Cour and down the hill into what appeared to be a small Parisian town with its narrow streets, red cafés, tourist gift shops, and artists painting portraits in the very center. I wasn’t impressed, and instead I longed to be back on the young, busting street we inhabited everyday of our trip, where there are more Asian restaurants than cafés and the makers of Kebabs laugh and throw ingredients into the air, creating amusements out of the patrons. This was the Paris I was now used to, and I didn’t need to see the filmic version any longer. I am glad I was able to, to reconcile with my past self who wanted to see this side so badly. But now I know, some things are better in films than in reality, and that’s why we have them. There’s now been two victims to the booby trapped public restrooms of Paris. The first will remain named as “Jolly Green”, and the other was Zachary. We had been wandering around the Luxembourg garden park and had a moderately calm lunch, and Zachary was in desperate need of the bathroom. He’d thought he’d been saved when he came across a self cleaning public bathroom with automatic opening and closing doors. To make a long story short nearly everything went wrong and the toilet itself decided he was done and retreated back into the wall and automatically opened the door on him. Thankfully he was later able to be treated like a normal human in a “safer” bathroom inside the zoo. At the zoo, we started with Chopan nearly getting into a fistfight with a Pallas cat when he called it chubby and dead stopped walking to stare him straight in the face. He apologized and the cat kept moving, so the altercation was avoided. Zachary went around trying to pronounce all the french names of the various animals housed at the zoo and failed miserably, but made everyone’s day regardless. My personal favorite was the “Poocatachoopa” warthog, which was actually named “Potamochere”. His whole commentary essentially sounded like that one episode of friends where Joey was trying to speak french. I had an awesome time at this zoo, but I guess I pushed myself a little too hard today because I wound up having a panic attack when we got back to the hotel. I hate when they happen because everything can be going just fine until I get hit with the wall that is my panic disorder. Working through being an introvert on a group full of extroverts was a journey in and of itself, but adding the need to cope and function a panic disorder on top of that really adds to the circus going on in my brain. However, it has inspired me to explore my experience traveling as an anxious human being in my travel essay, so more to come in that regard.
Today we left for the airport. I wondered what it would feel like to be embraced by warm, summery air once I got home... but I was told that it got colder over in Florida. I'm not surprised because it's January, but Florida, in my mind is like an eternal place of summer.
Overall, my Paris experience taught me a lot. It taught me a lot of art & museums & Paris culture, but mostly art. If I had to have learned something the most here, it would definitely be in the Arts department. And I got to know a little bit about the food, too. It was really cool to be face-to-face, finally, with works of famous artists! Seeing things that you had always seen online, but now, it was right in front of you. I guess I'd have to thank Van Gogh and Degas for that, among many other artists. They are an inspiration to me because I think they've had to go through a lot to get where they are now. They had to sacrifice a lot in their lives to be artists, and eventually end up in museums. I had also appreciated the cold weather, because it was DIFFERENT for me and now I feel so used to it. The lights of the city will be a memory in my mind, now, but never forgotten. I waited to be seated behind a carrot-colored barrier that wrapped around the perimeter of Café Campana on the fifth floor of the Musée d’Orsay. It looked more like squiggles drawn by a toddler than a divider, but what else was I to expect from a café above an art museum. A French woman with bright red lipstick and a warm smile came up to me and glanced behind me to see if there was anyone else with me. ‘Table for one?” she asked, her smile a little too bright now. I nodded, telling her in broken French that it was just me today. She led me to an empty two-seater table and placed a menu down in front of me before going to seat an elderly British couple.
Upon sitting down my first instinct was to pull out my phone in order to look ‘busy’ should anyone look at me and wonder why I was dining alone. This wasn’t my first time eating alone, but it was the first time I did so during my trip to Paris and somehow that made me very aware of the fact that I was the only person in the room sitting by myself. I reached for my purse but stopped myself. Instead of going for the mindless distraction of my phone I decided to take in my surroundings and enjoy the taste of the chocolat chaud à la cannelle I had ordered. While waiting for my drink I pulled out a notebook and wrote down some ideas for a novel I have been working on, trying not to let the anxiety of eating alone bother me. Not only was I the only person sitting alone, but I was the only person who was just drinking instead of eating a full plate of food. I reminded myself that the other people in the café were more focused on themselves and their foods to notice me, or even care. And even if they did, it was unlikely they would give me more than a passing thought. So why did the idea of sitting alone and enjoying my own company send waves of panic through me? 17th-century philosopher and mathematician, Blaise Pascal, once wrote that “The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room”. This quote has come across my mind quite a lot over these past three weeks in Paris, especially in the moments that I find myself alone in the City of Lights. The first time I read this quote I believed that Pascal was referring to travel and the nature of all people to be discontent where they are. People always want to be wherever it is they are not. When it is cold, people want to travel to sandy beaches and sip piña coladas in hammocks. When it is hot, they dream of falling leaves and snuggling up by the fire with hot cocoa. In a way, the grass is always greener on the other side. This quote is proposing that true happiness comes when people can find joy where they are before they attempt to find it elsewhere. Over the past few weeks, however, this quote has taken a new form in my mind. At the heart of what Pascal is saying is, not only to enjoy where you are but to enjoy your own company as well. This ‘quiet’ that he is referring to is the idea of finding peace with yourself before you can find happiness with others. Never has this idea been more applicable to me than when I am traveling. It’s impossible for me to know the exact reasons why so many people dislike being alone, but it was an interesting idea to talk about with some of my friends on the Paris trip and get their thoughts. For some, the idea is scary. Others said they grow bored if they don’t have someone to talk to. And some struggle with the idea of being alone with their own thoughts. It was hard to pinpoint an exact reason why I myself felt this way. Being alone has never been difficult for me and I love my own company. Yet, as soon as I am faced with dining alone my confidence wavers. After looking at some posts online I found that some people struggle with the idea of traveling and dining on their own because it makes them feel isolated and lonely, even if they are doing those things in a public area. I knew that this wasn’t the reason for me either. My personality type tends to be more introverted and I always cherish the time I’ve spent alone. Finally, I came across one post online that made everything clear. The anxiety of sitting alone often comes from the unease of bystanders. This is a trend I have noticed to be common among my more extroverted friends. When they see strangers alone they get confused because, unlike us introverts, seeking out alone time does not come as naturally to them. This would cause all sorts of questions to pop into their heads like, ‘why would someone want to sit alone?’ ‘did their friends not show up?’ ‘are they upset?’. More than once I have had extroverts approach me and ask if I was okay when they saw me by myself. Even after telling a sociable person multiple times that you are fine, some refuse to believe you. Though it may seem awkward at first, it is possible to enjoy your own company and be content without feeling like you are reenacting a sad scene from a Hollywood film. For example, food is pretty amazing. Drinks are great. And people-watching is incredibly fun and great story inspiration. These are all things that can be enjoyed with others, but the acts themselves are individual acts. Good food is still good whether you eat it alone or with a friend. I find that when I’m with others I spend more time trying to fill the void of silence with idle chit chat or worrying whether or not the other person is having a good time than actually enjoying where I’m at and what I’m doing. But when I am alone, I don’t have to worry about any of that. The experience is mine alone to enjoy for as little or as long as I want to. The times I dine alone (without going to my phone for distraction) are the times where I am forced to notice the finer details of what’s around me. The taste of food ignites in my mouth, the scenery around me unfolds with new wonder and I become hypersensitive to the people around me. There is no rush or other obligations to worry about. My first time going to a laundromat was in Paris. Not only did I figure out how to use the machines and payment methods for the first time, but I had to do so in French. With the help of a friend, it was easy enough to figure out and once she left I had around an hour to kill before my clothes finished washing and drying. There were a lot of people sitting and waiting for their clothes, phones or books in their laps to pass the time. I found an empty section of the wall to lean against as I read my own book, “How to be a Travel Writer” by Don George. While part of my attention was focused on the book, I also found it to be a great front for people watching. Under the cover of reading, I was able to pay attention to all the interesting people that inhabited the laundromat late at night. One woman was dressed in an elegant black dress and fur coat, pacing back and forth across the room as she spoke to someone over the phone. Two university students were leaning on one another against the wall and would jump up every so often to check how their mattress was fairing in the washer. A man with a baguette as long as my arm stood in front of his washer as he ate the bread. Being alone is a great way to become more aware of your surroundings. I never would have noticed the finer details and patterns in those around me if I hadn’t been doing things alone. First stop of the day was the catacombs. I’ve always wanted to see the catacombs since I’d heard of them as a kid. I remember learning about how they spanned through Paris and it was possible to get lost in them and spend the rest of your life trapped among the dead. I don’t know how true that is, but it always interested me when I was young. I was really excited to see them for myself. We walked down many steps before finally reaching the tunnels. At first we walked through a normal tunnel at I felt a little disappointed when I didn’t see any bones. Eventually we made it to the section with the bones which was really cool to see until I realized how many people are buried beneath my feet. It was one thing to hear that they hold six million people but it was eye opening to see it. Bones on top of bones and we could only follow the path that had been set out. I can understand how someone could get lost down there. Still, I’m really glad that I was able to see it with my own eyes.
After we were cut loose for the rest of the day so I walked to the Picasso museum. It was really interesting to see his art, because for some of his paintings I couldn’t tell that he was painting people. They looked so different from his perspective. There was one painting that was just lines and it was supposed to be a person. There was a description of how to put the picture together and what the different lines represented, but as hard as I stared at it I couldn’t see a face. That’s how I felt for a lot of his paintings, like I was missing a piece of the puzzle. I would stand further back or tilt my head in the hopes that I would be able to see what he was painting but I never could. The museum had quotes from him and one of them was about how he wanted people to feel something when they looked at his paintings. As a writer I can understand. I think artists just want their audience to feel something, anything when they see their art. At first I felt bad that I couldn’t see what he was trying to paint so I stopped looking for faces and just looked at the art. One painting that I really liked had the outline of a face looking into a room with a figure with multiple eyes. Looking at it made me smile and I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t see what he was trying to paint and I didn’t try to make sense of it. I decided that I liked it and I didn’t try to understand why. I went back to the painting with the lines and instead of focusing on which line represented what I just appreciated that he was able to look at another human’s face and turn it into lines. Just appreciating his art without trying to see something in it made me like his artwork more. I guess some things don’t have to be understood as long as they can be felt. In the beginning of my final 48 hours in the city, I began my Wednesday morning lazy in bed, surrounded by pastries and baked goods from around the corner. While I leave wishing I had more time in the city, continuing to find hidden areas, good clothing shops, and delicious food, I felt no rush to finish “seeing the city.” I still have not seen the Dali Museum or Jim Morrison’s grave (sorry Dad), but I don’t believe my experience is lessened for having not seen these two major attractions (alongside many others that I most likely missed). I believe that I’ve had just as meaningful experiences in laundromats as I’ve had visiting the Eifel Tower – Maybe even more meaningful in the former.
On my final day I took my time walking down to the Seine. I meandered and even took shortcuts! Finally piecing together, a mental image of how the streets around me connected. For the last time on this trip, I went to Xiaoji Buns – an Asian restaurant I would confidently call a place of habit for me on this trip. In three weeks, I had probably come to this place a total of four times – while that number doesn’t seem too profuse, I returned to it significantly more than any other place on the trip. In a climate much cooler than the Florida I’m used to, the warmth from consistently steaming buns in a small shop was a welcomed friend on each of my returns. I ate my “usual,” surprised I had already accrued one: four steamed buns stuffed with pork and corn. The rest of my day was spent searching for gifts to bring home to friends and family. While it’s easy to get caught up in where you are I think it’s still important to remember where you have been – to separate reality from vacation, really. The small mementos while from Paris won’t be indicative of any of my time there. They’ll be enough to satisfy the receivers’ curiosities for a moment, maybe, but if anything, I hope they act more as encouragement for them to seek their own experiences in the city from which the gifts came. Truly this was our second to last day in Paris, but I will combine both day into one last journal entry. I was lucky enough to be swapped in for the last session or workshops being done. Few students had work that was ready to be workshopped. What I learned about workshop from my first experience earlier in the week, was, no one is judged, everyone on this trip has their own unique and amazing writing style, the city really didn't have a major impact on anyone's life, but did inspire some great experiences to be realized and put into eloquent or terrifying words. The process of workshopping is one I very much enjoy as I enjoy hearing compliments about my writing, like everyone else, but I also really love hearing ways to improve it, and genuine feedback about practicals ways in which to do so! Everyone was so helpful, especially the writing majors providing not only intellectual feedback, but teaching me terminology along the way.
Waking up, and staring for one last time out the window of the downstairs lobby, I appreciated everything I was seeing that was different from the United states, as I had done previously on the trip. The architecture will definitely be the thing I remember most from my trip abroad to Paris. Every detail, from the cobblestone roads, to the intricate lamp posts, street signs made of colorful blue and green tiles cemented into the side of buildings, and the narrow, often one way back roads that lead in all kinds of zig zagging directions across the entirety of the city. I will not miss the cold, but I will dearly miss the pace and the atmosphere of the particular area of Paris in which these past few weeks I have come very accustomed to. Right as soon as I did, we pack up and leave. C'est la vie en Pari. Thanks for coming along this journey with me. Today was yet another adventure that I scratched off my bucket list, going to the palace of Versailles. The French don’t call it a palace though, it’s a Château which translates into just a big house. Elizabeth and I wake up and go around 11, the Uber ride is around 45 minutes which is not too bad. The ride there is taking so long I can hardly wait to see this place, I already know it is going to be amazing. We then get out of the car, I can hardly breathe because it's right in front of me, the palace of Versailles. So much history and so much beauty in one place I don’t think my heart can take it. Elizabeth and I wait in line for a while before entering the palace and being with the visit. The first couple rooms were beautiful, but we came for that good good, the hall of mirrors and the King and Queens chamber. After walking around, going through the museum section of the palace, taking around an hour to so we finally get the chance to see the hall of mirrors. It is so beautiful, and the King's chamber is in that hall. Marie Antoinette’s room was by far my favorite, and one of the things that I really wanted to see. The most interesting part was the secret doors that were beside her bed, that she used to escape when the people stormed the palace and the beginning of the revolution in 1789. The garden is enormous I actually couldn’t believe how big it was. Elizabeth and I walked part of it, but no way the whole garden, we would get lost. I am so thankful for the opportunity of being able to go and see the palace of Versailles, it is something that I will carry with me forever. After getting back I stayed back from the herd which went on another adventure. I wrote and laid down for a little bit before going out for drinks with a friend. After we finish our drinks we head to the bar where the group has become regulars, Wide Open Spaces. We get there have a drink and it turns into a Christmas part, we even put on costumes. I danced with friends, drank, and the day became weird very quickly, but still pretty fun.
We spent the morning at a mall, walking around looking at the expensive clothing. There were about four floors and we spent an hour just walking around the different floors. In the afternoon we went to the Pantheon, which is an old church near our hotel. I walked around it with my friend Emma looking at the murals on the walls. We spent time looking at one of them, which had clothed men surrounded a naked woman. We were confused about why she was naked and why she was the only one naked and we got kind of annoyed by the way she was portrayed. Then we moved onto the second panel only to realize that it was connected to the first one. There were three panels in total and in the center one was a dying man surrounded by all the people who had come to see him. We couldn’t figure out who he was, but clearly he was someone important like a saint or a king. Most of the other women in the other panels were naked as well which seriously annoyed us, because there was no reason for them to be naked they weren’t even the center of the painting. Their bodies were just used to be stared as part of the scene that was being depicted. We spent a lot of time just standing in front of that mural talking about it before moving on.
There were descriptions for the paintings, but they were all written in French. The only thing we could read was the name Saint Genevieve. We ended up googling her and apparently she was the patron saint of Paris. When the Huns came to attack Paris and the people started to panic she persuaded them to have a prayer circle and the Huns ended up diverting their attack. There was one mural that depicted this event using different panels. In the first panel it depicted the panic of the people as they tried to leave Paris. The last panel was of Genevieve staring out over the city with a deep blue background. Even before we looked at the story of Genevieve the panel appealed to me. I felt a sense of loneliness from staring at the mural. It must be lonely to be a saint, to be the only one with faith while everyone feels fear. I liked that the patron saint of Paris was this lone woman who had faith in a time when everyone had forgotten theirs and that she is forever remembered and glorified for it. 30 minutes until we land and I can hardly sit in my seat I am so excited. The plane lands around 9 am, my first full day in France. The Charles De Gaulle airport is smaller in size, and their baggage claim is set up differently than in America. I am so eager to find my bag, that when I finally see if I look down and I have already broken a nail from my fresh manicure… sigh but it doesn’t matter because I made it.
Finally through customs, saw three soldiers with large weapons which is a new sight. Out of the airport, we have an hour drive until we reach our hotel, seeing France for the first time through the window of this van. The architecture is breathtaking, and the driving is more chaotic than in America, bikes swerving in-between lanes it takes my breath away from how quickly they drive. Once we arrive at our hotel my excitement is taking over my body, all I want to do is put my bags down and go and explore. Elizabeth and I get our room and join Oliva and Emma for brunch. We walk down the street not too far away from our hotel, find a cute little café and enjoy our first meal. I chose my favorite Croque monsieur, amazing with the juicy cheese and ham sandwich it was a wonderful first choice for a meal. Once back at the hotel I can’t help but fall asleep, a little longer than I expected but I still got up for our group dinner. We take the metro for the first time, and what an experience it was, Jeff, unfortunately, was pickpocketed someone taking his new iPhone 11. Teaching all of the students that we do have to be careful, keeping our valuables close to us at all times. The group goes to an Italian restaurant, all of us together it is a nice chance for me to start to get to know my classmates, all of which I have not met before this trip. After dinner, some students decide to take an Uber home, and the rest of us decide to take the bus. We start walking through a neighborhood that was described as “uneven”. No women were out, only groups of men, many of the girls on the trip being catcalled and talked at because we were the only women passing by. When we reach the bus stop, we wait around 45 minutes before realizing that the bus is not coming, so we decide the best course of action would be Uber or to take a taxi. However, Erin and Melinda and I decided that it could be fun to walk and see the city, and it was. Our walk took around an hour, we get back to the hotel and join some people from the group for a drink. A beautifully warm 50 degree day started with our gang all tired and mildly hungover at noon. However, as our last class outing, it was fitting for it to be a cute family trip to the zoo! While zoos don't seem like the best way to get to know a city or a new country, it was very much a different kind of zoo than any other I've ever been to. As one of the oldest zoos in the world, some aspects seem to have not changed one bit. The garden entrance before the entrance before the entrance t the zoo was also quite a different expectation. When expecting the French to take things seriously, never do so. The garden, filled with exotic and perfectly placed flowers, herbs, fruits and vegetables was littered or decorated, depending on how cynical you are, with cloth covered wire sculptures of plants and animals with a large section towards the back included many sea creatures like giant turtles, fish, crabs and seashells. There I was, expecting guards at the grass beds warning us not to get too close to the precious plants, but I was pleasantly surprised with a giant shark we could walk through. The zoo had a similar effect, in simply that it was different from my experience of zoos in the past. Rather small, this historic zoo seems as if it hadn't changed in over 50 to 100 years. The small enclosures and sometimes open enclosures made viewing the wildlife inside even more sad than most normal zoos. We all did get a few laughs at some of the very cute animals shown and at the surprising amount of diversity among the species of goats on exhibit, questioning if this was once a petting zoo. If i had to pick one animal to be my favorite from this zoo, it would be this one lonely tapir who absolutely stole my heart. I had never seen a tapir before. The body size of a small rhino, but with smooth dark gray skin, the face of a squashed elephant with an anteater like trunk, he pranced about his enclosure with pure glee; his elastic trunk bouncing and flopping about. Each time he paused he would have one leg, front or hind, suspended in the air as he posed and froze in his own game of freeze dance. I could watch him gallop all day; he galloped into my heart.
With only three weeks to immerse ourselves in the city, it was essential for us to have an itinerary. This is common while traveling. To ensure that we did not lose ourselves in awe of one attraction over another, it was only fair that we planned an allotted date and time for each. What once was thought of as a sporadic dive into a new city has now become regimented and predictable – taking away one element of how we typically experience life as we know it: spontaneity. I became highly aware of this while standing in line for the Musée du Louvre, one of Paris’ top attractions housing thousands of timeless art pieces and artifacts from famed individuals.
The line wrapped tightly in neatly folded lines. Despite being able to see the entrance, we and many others waited at least 40 minutes to make it there. Walking through the museum was inspiring, seeing so many artifacts that had influenced so many cultures and impacted peoples’ perspectives worldwide. At the same time, I went into it somewhat underwhelmed – knowing I was among a sea of tourists who similarly used this place as a criterion check in “seeing Paris” made the experience feel much shallower. While I meandered through the many exhibits, I searched for something that would make the experience feel more meaningful to me. I expected it to be resonation, possibly in some piece of work that would make me feel more connected to this place than I believed any of the other tourists could be – a museum niche, if you will. In reality, I never “resonated” with any piece in particular. But after walking with a friend on the trip, my experience soon felt much more meaningful. For our entire stay, Nora and I laughed at geese (and other animals, a few humans, and a jar lid, but mainly geese). The depiction of some humored us and for the rest of our time they were the only subjects we actively searched for. In this small activity, I felt my visit turn from forced, to purposeful and added back the element that I felt I had lost while standing in line. So, tip: to maintain the element of spontaneity, keep good company that helps you go beyond the expectations set by the setting and people around you. My day started with what I have come to know as the classic French breakfast, which is a baguette roll, a croissant, and a cup of strong coffee. To my delight, I discovered that the hotel provides small packets of Nutella to enhance the breakfast experience, and enhance it did ⎼ the best damn croissant I’ve ever had, topped with the chocolate hazelnut spread of dreams and lore? Are you kidding me?
After everyone had been fed, watered, and coffeed (and I had my mind rightfully blown), the tribe and I set out on our first big day in the city, which, fittingly, consisted of visiting the Eiffel Tower. We walked down the Seine, after which we continued walking down the Seine, after which we kept walking down the goddamn Seine, until we reached the entrance to the Louvre. We crossed the street and entered the massive cobblestone courtyard, where I recognized the glass pyramid that marks the underground entrance to the Louvre and remarked, quite intelligently, “That’s where Mary Magdalene is buried!” Nobody believed me. Thanks a lot, The DaVinci Code. We continued our trek through the Louvre's sculpture-laden gardens, discussing whether or not French people would react kindly to dog-petting inquiries, when we happened upon just about the last thing you would expect to happen upon in the middle of Paris: a fair. That’s right. Rides, food stands, the whole kit and caboodle. It was so bizarre that we just had to detour through it. I quickly realized that it was a Christmas-themed fair when I glimpsed Santa Claus himself buying a crepe at the stand adjacent to his throne. I watched as he dug into it, leaving chocolatey brown streaks in his extremely real snow-white beard, and plop back down into his seat, where nobody awaited him. I took a moment to wonder what kind of kid would want to put in a present request in so far in advance, and then moved on down the long stretch of tents. The tribe reconvened at the farthest end of the fair, where some folks felt particularly drawn to a stand where you paid actual money to enter into a human-sized hamster ball floating on water and try your damndest to stand, walk around, do anything, really. I opted out, but I will admit, it was fun to watch my classmates eat shit over and over again in their little plastic orbs. Behind that stand, though, sat a ride that more suited my tastes: a dangerous-looking hunk of painted metal that Kendall dubbed “The Tilt-A-Whirl of Death.” I begged my classmates to go on it with me, and eventually, I managed to lure Elizabeth into my trap. I paid my ten euros and skipped to my seat, waving excitedly at my classmates as they grimaced back. The ride went sort of like this: we spun, very fast, many times. Then, we spun, very fast, many times, but backwards. It was the tallest ride in the whole fair ⎼ even taller than the ferris wheel ⎼ so I saw a lot of Paris, which was cool. It was also in the high forties, so I gave sweet sweet deliverance to having feeling in my hands and screamed my way through. I had the time of my life ⎼ Elizabeth, not so much. After we got off, it was brought to my attention that Chopan and the others were betting on whether or not she would puke because of the mounting horror on her face as the ride went on. Nothing quite like good, clean fun. Finally, we made it to the Eiffel Tower, where I had to physically pull Georgia away from one of those petition scammers, giving the woman my very best venomous look over my shoulder as we strutted away, and saving myself from one by answering their signature “Do you speak English?” question with a short and sweet “Nein.” They bought it. Look at me go, scamming the scammer!! We went to the tower with the intention to go all the way to the top, which we soon found out was unfortunately closed for “construction.” We decided it wasn’t worth waiting in line only to go halfway up, and the tribe dispersed. I was quite thankful that I'd gone on that giant metal death trap at the fair, because I got to see everything I would've seen at the top, only in a much more entertaining way: upside down and screaming. I went with a smaller group of scoundrels to a cafe nearby, where our waiter dealt each of us a firm slap on the noggin with a menu, Kendall got a faceful of whipped cream (again, thanks to our waiter ⎼ but really, Kendall, you shouldn’t have fallen for the old “Does this smell weird?” trick, that’s so 2010), we learned to ask specifically for tap water, I accidentally belched with the strength of a thousand rhinos while the waiter was leaning over my shoulder, amongst many, many other memorable slip-ups. It was all in good-natured fun, though. The waiter guy was a riot. After lunch, we all trekked home (WALKING UP THE SEINE), and I spent the rest of my day laying down, vegetating, existing horizontally, whatever you want to call it, and trying to get myself used to the fact that I’ll be here for another three weeks. What a life. With more than 380,000 objects and 35,000 works of art, it would take weeks to see every exhibit in the Musée du Louvre. There is something interesting for everyone to look at. Sculptures, paintings, drawings and archaeological finds from all over the world. Even as someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy going to museums, I found the architecture of the rooms themselves magnificent. My favorite room within the Louvre was where the crown jewels were kept.
The room was a golden paradise. All four walls walls were covered with a golden paint and carvings reaching to the massive ceiling where detailed stone statues of angels stared down at the crown jewels of France. The intricate design of the walls, floor and ceiling was more breathtaking to me than the jewels themselves. In the middle of the floor down the length of the room were tables with crowns, jewelry and more. The wealth in that room would have paid for the tuition of every single person in our group, and likely that of every college student in America. Though you would have been lucky to get up close to the glass cases to properly see the jewels past the hoards of people that blocked the path. This of course wouldn’t have been a problem with me. The jewels were magnificent and people would be crazy to come to the Louvre and not try to get a closer look. What bothered me about the crowds of people was the seeming lack of interest by everyone that walked by to actually look at the jewels. Each person I saw would walk up to the case, snap a picture with their phone, then walk away. They weren’t there long enough to take in the astounding display in front of them before they were off to the next one. Many people would kill for a chance to see these historic pieces up close, yet most museum goers spend more time looking through camera lenses than their own two eyes. It makes me sad to see that, and I wish more people would put the phones away and just take in the pieces live and in person. Sure, sometimes you want to have a photo to show friends and family (or post in a blog perhaps) but they will never be anything like the real deal in front of you. We went to the catacombs today. It was cool, but I wasn’t that impressed. It was just a bunch of skeletons and that’s it. I would have been more impressed, for sure, if they had been more ancient - but they were only from the 1700s and 1800s. That is still a long way back, but honestly, nothing special. We walked around, scanning the dark walls and rusted skulls - we made sure not to trip! Then, we stopped by another cemetery. There were some cool graves, I admit. There were black ebony graves, written with gold letters of Chinese - and there was a grave of some French philosopher with a bunch of lipstick marks and flowers on it. At first, I thought he had a lot of side-hoes, but the lipstick marks were recent, obviously. It was strange but funny. I also got a strawberry-banana & Nutella crepe. My first time trying crepes here! It was sugary and I’m glad I stopped there.
Overall, we ended a bit early. Today felt relaxing and the walk around the city was nice. The wind was especially gusty today, and very icy. You could feel it rush down your back and push against you - very cold! But by now, I’m used to it. It’s going to be strange, once we arrive in Tampa, welcomed by the heat and glowing sun. I think the trip is half-way over, around there, at this point. I will miss it dearly, but I will also be relieved to go home and enjoy the summery air. I woke up this morning and my room wreaked of sex. What an interesting night I had. As I write this, I’m sitting outside the zoo, alone on a park bench, hungover. I’ve smoked about three cigarettes, crushing the butts into my sketchbook like charcoal. I would be worried about the smell, but all of my wardrobe smells like smoke and I’ve got burn holes in both of my coats, so I’ve given up trying to hide my new addiction in my appearance. I’m listening to my favorite band, Motley Crue, and the song Girls, Girls, Girls begins. I’m laughing at the fact that my night reciprocated some of the lyrics,
“Crazy Horse, Paris, France Forgot the names, remember romance I got the photos, a manage et trois Musta broke those Frenchies laws with those Girls, girls, girls…” C’est la vie? I’m admittedly not the biggest fan of Picasso, but the journey there was just so entertaining I wound up enjoying myself more than I’d planned. Our day started with Chopan muttering about his ongoing battle with the 38 bus, which if you recall was the bus we’d been abandoned by in one of my first journals. While we were meandering and looking for the proper bus to catch, a barrage of police officers and riot vans sped by at lightning speed, so we did what anyone would and followed them to see if we could catch a riot in action. Sadly, they were only preparing for the riot that would take place at 1pm that day, so no riot watching for “the herd”. When we arrived to the Picasso museum I found I enjoyed more paintings than I thought I would. We then moved on to the pompidou where certain members of the herd narrowly avoided sitting far to close underneath some priceless artwork. I left the pompidou quickly because I’m in constant conflict with how I feel about modern art. I wrote a snippet of how I felt when it was our time to sit and write beneath some of the paintings, titled, “I may leave the museum early.”
I may leave the museum early It’s not that I hate modern art. Some of it is really interesting if done for the right reasons. If you’re giving the middle finger to traditional art of your time, then by all means paint those blue squares. What I do get pissed off by is when there’s a multimillion dollar piece of art I’m being told I’ll see and it winds up being a single dot on a piece of canvas. That’s where the line is drawn for me. Also, modern artists tend to have their heads shoved too far up their own asses. I know several of them, so this isn’t just coming from nowhere. But then again every age of art had its own fair share of self-righteousness. Maybe just because I relate to the more cliche “tortured artist” trope of hating everything you create but still creating it anyways. I like a good visible internal struggle, because it makes me feel less alone. However, I do enjoy the bold color schemes and the monochromatic blends, especially if they’re saying f*** off to countless paintings of the Madonna and a very strange medieval man baby rendition of Jesus. I’m particularly enjoying the mess of blue female bodies calmly watching me write this from their yellow bordered canvas. They probably don’t get too many visitors who actually plop down so close to them and scribble away instead of gazing at them with feigned intent. Then again maybe they do, I don’t know how modern artists behave in the presence of their colleagues so who’s to say a couple of them don’t sprawl out from time to time. Today we saw the Catacombs, an underground graveyard frequented by tourists to see the extent the Parisians have gone to create mines and seemingly endless hallways of bones of real people. Now, when you’re down there, everything seems fake. The hallways reminded me of the queue for Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World due to the way its creepy lighting surrounded the bones, along with the random prison bars put up around exits and rooms for employees. It appeared to me that they had designed it this way to make it more scary and mystical for tourists. Like I stated in a previous journal where we visited the crypts at the Pantheon, I am uncomfortable around dead bodies - rightfully so I feel. However, despite the fact that I saw actual skulls and bones in such an excessive amount, I didn’t feel as scared. I’m not sure if it was because they looked fake or if it was because of the organization of the tourist destination- but I instead appreciated the layout of the Catacombs and it’s brilliant marketing/branding (next door to the gift shop was a “Catacombs Fast Food” which was serving pizza and hot dogs).
Doing the touristy stuff is fun, but after a while it feels draining. One longs to talk to locals about their lives instead of appreciating work of the dead. This isn’t because their work is irrelevant, but more because I feel we learn more about the present from the lives of the alive rather than the dead, at least in Paris for now. I spoke with a grocer near the hotel who is from Morocco and I got a sense of the diversity in Paris from him more than any museum here. Perhaps I should elaborate a bit more on why taking photos seems to help give my experiences meaning. In a previous entry I talked about how my experiences here often seem to have less value in the experience itself, than in being able to say you had that experience in the first place. There’s this social tendency where people seem to idolize those who have been places that are deemed significant, even if there is no real or significant benefit from having actually been there. Though a lot of trip involves difficulties that ultimately do not provide any real rewards, it is the idea of having visited significant places that supposedly makes this effort worth it. However, since the experiences themselves often do not offer more than an occasional sense of awe, it becomes difficult to keep interested in these experiences.
I think when I take photos I am somewhat making myself feel as though I am accomplishing something more real. Though the photos are merely evidence that I did have these experiences, taking them allows me to feel as though I am more actively accomplishing something. I am no longer simply in the location of something we deem significant, but I am actively enhancing the social reward of having had that experience by taking photos that others will enjoy looking at later. Or, at least, I am making myself feel accomplished by trying to take nice photos that often may not have been possible in a less beautiful or interesting location. I’ll say it here; French guys can be pretty damn attractive. I have seen my fair share of good looking Parisian men, but today, I fell in love. Twice. And neither times did it bode well for anyone in the situation:
Handsome Man #1 For breakfast, we went to a hipster coffee shop across the Seine in a town that is considered the “melting pot” of Paris as it holds large Jewish, LGBT, Christian, lower-class citizens, and many other communities. When we entered the shop, there was a long and unorganized line and a narrow pathway to the cashier. I lifted my head up and my eyes glazed over. It was as if the world around me had disappeared and I had forgotten all the intentions I had in that café. The only two things in the world were me… and the most beautiful pastries I had ever seen. From tarts to pies and rows of freshly baked bread, I was in love, as well as so mesmerized I could barley choose. By the time I got to the counter, I decided it was breakfast time and should stick to my gut with a coffee and croissant. I approached the register and was immediately taken aback by the cute barista who came out of the backroom to take my order. His hair was short and flat at the top with a curved up tip framing his face almost perfectly. He had a tall and skinny figure and a stubbled beard below his nose. Now normally I am not a lover of facial hair but he really rocked it. Waiting for my coffee and clenching my receipt tightly, I awkwardly stood standing still staring so hard at the barista I believe I was looking through him. He was speaking to the customer ahead of me, in French of course, then moved on to me and pointed. I’m assuming he wanted to know what I ordered since he was making the coffee, but I had no idea what he actually said so I slyly smiled and replied “oui.” Judging from the look he gave me, his question most likely did not ask for a “yes” or “no” response. He shot back at me with “what did you order?” followed by, “I can speak English.” I held up my receipt and spit out “espresso please.” He moved back to the other customer and continued assisting him. He once again looked at me and said something, in English this time, but I was too zoned-out to understand. Thus, I logically constructed the perfect reply by once again holding up my receipt and saying “espresso.” He grew a little frustrated, said; “yes, I know” and took the receipt from my hand and put it on the counter. “Would you like milk? I know Americans like their coffee tall.” I still have no idea what that means, but instead of responding or even pretending to think about my answer while really trying to comprehend what he said, I stared at his beauty and blinked. A lot. I quickly gathered my blank-minded self and slightly shook my head “no,” to which he replied; “ok then,” and placed down the coffee. What’s almost worse than my so-called exchange is the fact that I did indeed wish for milk, but it was too late. I took the coffee and went back to our table, but much to his dismay I wasn’t done yet. I grabbed a soda, something I don’t even like, strapped on my confidence boots and went back up to the counter. The barista gave a very loud “her again” look as I was next in line. He grabbed the soda and sarcastically said; “my lady.” I believe I chuckled – classic American teenage style of course – but I also may have blacked out after those words. I gave a polite “au revoir” and he responded with; “bye,” as he handed me back my change, his fist crumpling both my cash and my dreams. Handsome Man #2 I’ll make this short and sweet, as that is how long it took for this love story to be disastrous: For lunch, we found a nice café with great options and reasonable prices. Long story short, our waiter was a beautiful young man. The restaurant was crowded so he didn’t have much time for small talk. After the meal, it was time to pay the bill but two of us had to go to the bathroom first. Seizing the opportunity of the empty restroom, I slipped in. I sat on the seatless toilet and relieved myself. I don’t know if this is most of Europe or just Paris, and from my experience, it is just Paris that hides the toilet flusher in a new spot with each restroom as if to give tourists a scavenger hunt. Well, I finally found it on top of the toilet tank that was closer to the ceiling than the toilet, connected by a pipe popping out of the wall. I gave the button a nice firm press and everything escaped the toilet except for the two stones I had just created. Now, I don’t want to flatter myself here – it was not that big so I blame the toilet on this one. No matter how many times I flushed, they simply remained still. At this very moment, I heard on knock on the bathroom door. I can never tell if public restrooms knocks are an; “is anyone there?” or a “hurry up ya dirty bastard there’s a line out here.” An electric shock tased my heart at that knock. Once again, I tried to flush but I knew deep down I had lost the battle that became of this situation. I hung my head low, threw my sweatshirt hood on, and carried myself in shame out of the bathroom. My sorrows turned to joy when I saw nobody in front of me. The plan I concocted to warn the next person how someone before me had clogged the toilet was no longer necessary. I washed my hands in a frenzy and dashed to my friend. “We gotta go,” she started with, I just broke a glass.” As we paid, I got one last glance at the cute waiter before we bounced and never looked back. |
notesfromoutside | Paris journals |