The good bit, which I realize only now looking back on it, was that I took some of the best "street" pictures of Paris (best for me, relative term). On my first day in Paris I noticed double rows of "stanchions" in the sidewalks leading to sets of big wooden double-doors. I did not understand what they were until this morning. The big wooden double-doors lead to gorgeous courtyards. There's a whole different world inside these old 17th, 18th and 19th century buildings. This also explains the small, what a friend of mine calls "clown cars," that so many Parisians drive. Very well-to-do people drive these, what are by "American" standards, tiny cars that look a bit ridiculous. But it all makes sense now. "American" sized cars will never fit through these doors. Back to Wednesday morning during the hunt for a cybercafe: I saw people leaving through these wooden doors and saw several of the interior courtyards of these buildings. The trouble was that every time I had my camera ready, the Parisian closed the door. I finally did take a reasonably good picture. Keep in mind that the courtyard I did manage to photograph looked like a slum compared to the others I saw.
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| "a look inside a mystery door" |
I also took pictures of some street art:
and a remarkable store front:
When I returned to the D'Orsey I decided to eat something first. The following is from my "travel journal" :
I am writing this in a brasserie next to the museum. I am tired, angry (mostly with myself) and my feet hurt (already). ... I'd hoped that with some food and a pot of tea I'd be ready for a 2nd go in the D'Orsey. I have eaten a banana crepe and I'm finishing my tea as I write this. I am beginning to feel better, but I am still upset. I will decide when I see the line outside the museum.
I arrived at the D'Orsey an hour or so later than the day before but the line was half as long. [note: I found out later that the Louvre was closed the day before, resulting in "spill-over" crowd.] And we had some free entertainment. A stereotypical "ugly American" middle-aged couple blundered around a bit, the husband barking questions (at whom? We who stood on line, the world in general, Thor, Odin?) He wanted to know why there were two lines (a sign in English explained that the other line was for pre-scheduled group tours - maybe the union jack next to the text failed to penetrate into his consciousness that the words were in English?), then he wanted to know if the "Mona Lisa" was in this museum. I told him it was in the Louvre. He asked me what was here. I answered, "French Impressionists, mostly." He and his wife took off, after he made a somewhat childish downward motion with his hand. A couple (English?) next to me chuckled over that and I said to them that I wished it were always that easy. What have we learned? That French Impressionist art makes for a very good jackass repellant. Good to know.
I retraced my route from the previous day and this time had far fewer people to deal with in the galleries. I had the presence of mind to take some notes about the artists I had never heard of before to investigate them at my leisure when I returned home. I found a gallery that had escaped my notice the day before as well. Then for lunch, since I was on vacation and the day started out so badly, I decided to treat myself. I found the restaurant (not the same as the cafe I visited the day before). This time I had a camera ready. The presentation of the food is a work of art in itself here. I ordered a fish stew a la bouillabaisse with ratatouille. A very nice couple from Rhode Island sat at the table next to mine. When they saw me photograph my lunch they asked why. I explained to them that the presentation of the food was so beautiful that I wanted to have a picture. They invited me to take pictures of their lunches too. I did not want to hurt their feelings, so I also took a picture of a cheese plate and a chicken salad, but they were not as beautiful as my fish stew. As I finished the weather cleared and we had a beautiful view from the huge "clock window" of the restaurant. (They built the restaurant next to a huge window with huge clock hands mounted in it - it was designed as a train station after all). This was the best meal I had in Paris.
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| Fish stew a la bouillabaisse with ratatouille |
I spent another 2-3 hours in the museum then asked at the information booth as I left where I could find an internet cafe. Given the better directions from the museum staff I found it without much difficulty, then confirmed my plans to meet my neighbor near his apartment. He lives in a small but very nicely furnished apartment a couple of blocks from the Champs d'Elysee (sp.?). I walked around the neighborhood with him; then, on the way to meet his friends he took one last picture of me, with the Arc de Triumph in the background. We stood in the middle of the street with me up on the meridian. I felt a little silly having such a "touristy" picture taken of me (and it shows by the look on my face), but that's what vacations are for. Right?
My neighbor, David, and I met his business partner and a Congolese musician for dinner. We found a Japanese noodle place near the opera that served fantastic udon soup. The restaurant had a basement section at the bottom of a narrow, winding staircase. I kept having to remind myself that I was not in San Francisco anymore. In an earthquake everyone down there would be trapped. Good thing Paris does not have earthquakes. David's partner, Christoff and his friend Borrina, were lots of fun. I can not remember the specifics of the conversation, but I sat back and listened to them talk about a variety of topics, mostly about Paris and French society. I questioned Borrina closely about his music, and looked up some of his work when I returned (see and hear him on You Tube from a 2004 concert in Berkeley: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyHUyl97x-s ).
I told them that what I most wanted to do for my last night in Paris was a boat ride on the Seine. It was very cold by that point and I left my hat in my hotel room. After dinner they walked me to a row of shops near the river, one of which had a plain old pull-over crew hat. That was enough to keep my head warm. David gave me very precise directions, repeating frequently the name of the boat company (Batou-mouche) as he has already figured out how bad I am with directions and remembering names. David tried taking a picture of us with his digital camera but my foul weather jacket had a reflecting strip which, although slate gray in the daylight, glows brightly under intense artificial light. In the picture I looked like I had a halo around my neck. I had run out of film in my disposable camera (the one above was the last frame left). I would have liked to have had a picture of them.
I froze my butt off on the upper deck of one of those batou-mouche boats, but it was worth it. There was enough fog to add to rather than detract from the experience. They light up the Eiffel tower with vibrant electric blue lights and a huge circle of white 5-point stars. And the concrete embankments along the Seine have rows of high intensity lights that shine on the buildings at night. I never noticed them in daytime. Some lights on the buildings shine through trees, casting shadows in the fog which created a sight I will remember for a very long time. I need only close my eyes as I write this to recall those images.
Thursday I took the train from Gare L'Est to Luxembourg. The organization of the Paris Metro system helped. They number their exits and provide signs that inform the reader very clearly. Some days before I had taken a long walk to this station from my hotel to scope it out in preparation for this leg of the trip. It was hardly necessary. I found my train with little difficulty. The carriage and seat numbers also proved easy for me, the ignorant foreigner, to figure out as well. While waiting I had another one of those "seriously good" apple torts. In a train station. Good, fresh food. I also noticed that when in a Metro station when I took out one of the sandwiches I bought for lunch the French people gave me funny looks (but no one said anything). I guess that the French take their meals seriously and a tourist eating in that environment sticks out a bit. They looked at me like I was "Zog" from one of Kurt Vonnegut's books, communicating by farting and tap dancing. I put the sandwich away.
The trip progressed smoothly. Although very fast, I could still see some French villages through the window as we sped across the country. Most ever village had a church in its center and from a distance, the churches looked like they were made of stone and dated back as far as the Renaissance (or more likely the 18th century). I also noticed some place names. My rural high school education did not cover much of things European. But my friend Sam and I played games that took place in, among other places, Northern France. I recognized towns such as Nancy and the train even stopped in Metz, both place names I knew from the games. A very nice young French guy sat in the seat next to me. When he realized my confusion at Metz (I did not know how many stops to Luxembourg) he did his best, working with me and my phrase book, to tell me that Luxembourg (city) was the last stop and that there was only one other between it and Metz.
In Luxembourg I found my hotel after only one wrong turn. The part of the city with the train station is under construction, with one of the streets most directly along the way to my hotel impassible. But I quickly realized that Luxembourg the city very much resembled Luxembourg the country in that they are both quite small. It's difficult to get lost in a city that size. The Hotel Italia dates back to the 1960s and its decor has not changed from that early 60s sort of "mod" design. Bigger than my hotel room in Paris (but then there's no where to go but up in that regard), this one was also just as clean and comfortable. I was able to rest for an hour before going on to look for dinner.
Next, pt. 9: the keyboards in Luxembourg, visiting my ancestral homeland, and the nicest bus driver in the world.
