The Paris Post

Hello true believers! I'm back, safe and sound, both feet firmly on the ground. My trip was uneventful, but I'm tired and sore from walking all over Paris for the past three days.

I flew in on Wednesday evening and met my friend Sarah at the airport. Sarah went to Goldsmiths and worked on "Hedwig" with me, and she was kind enough to offer me a place to stay whilst I was in the City of Light. She also showed me around, translated menus for me ("what is cafe au lait? ...oh, wait.") and ran interference if one of her six cats decided to make friends with me. The first day I wanted to go see Napoleon's tomb, so we went to Les Invalides ("Le On-vahl-eed") via the Arc de Triomphe.
Practically all roads lead here--during the 1840s and 50s, Paris was torn up and laid out again in a pleasing, sensible geometrical pattern. Easier to get around, but harder for revolutionaries to build barricades. Most of what I thought of as "Paris" comes from WWII movies when there's tanks everywhere. I was struck by how same everything looked: neat sandstone buildings with ornate ironwork balustrades and doors. It gives a city a lot cleaner lines, but it got confusing after awhile where I was.
My reaction to anything in Paris was this: "Wow! Wow! That's amazing! Wow, that's...a lot bigger than I thought it was." When we first saw the Arc de Triomphe I was blown away by the scale of it. It's HUGE! I guess I was thinking about Wellington's arch in Hyde Park, but this is more on the scale of...um. Can't think of anything. Anyway, it's huge.

We finally got to Les Invalides, which is a (huge) hospital built by Louis XIV (the Sun King) for his veterans. Which was nice, until you consider the fact they were only veterans because HE declared war. Anyway, now it's a huge museum for France's military history. I was keen to see the parts on the Revolution (the first one--there were several) and First Empire--both of which were CLOSED for refurbishment!!! Dar!!! Disappointing! Sarah and I wandered through the other exhibits, but we weren't really interested. (I may be biased, but I feel like the National Imperial Museum in London does it better: more civilian stuff alongside the war stuff) Then we went into the chapel where Napoleon is buried. I say "buried" but he's actually in a huge sarcophagus that's sunk into the main chapel like some kind of massive red boat. This picture doesn't do it justice: really, it's massive, like ten feet by four feet by six feet. When Napoleon's nephew decided to become Napoleon III he turned his uncle into a hero and the First Empire into a little cult, and brought Napoleon's body back from St. Helena. While we were there, a whole pack of French soldiers was also wandering around (there are other war heroes buried here) resulting in this picture. I can't imagine what having this guy in your national history must do to your psyche as a soldier. If I was a drill sargent in America, I would pound the lessons of G. Washington into my pupils heads, but here they learn about this short megalomaniac who ruled most of the known world. Hmm. (remind me to ruminate sometime on why I'm so obsessed with military history...)

This is the church where Napoleon is buried:

After that, we hopped on a bus and went to Monmarte, to meet Sarah's boyfriend for coffee. Jean-Pierre is a a communist philosphy student who's working on a doctorate in polical science. (well, this is France) We waited for him in a very existential little coffee shop populated by thin glamourous women who were smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine and making dramatic statements about the world. (at least, I assume they were.) Unfortunately JP could only stay about five minutes because he had to work, so we decided to wander amongst the shops and get some dinner. This being Monmarte, the bohemian setting of "Moulin Rouge" I immediately began to drink absinthe and conduct a tumultuous love affair, before we stopped for pizza for dinner.

The next day we went to Versailles. Which defies description. For starters, the house, the chalet, the main building, whatever, is HUGE. Louis the 14th, who built it up, had about twenty rooms for his personal use, and the queen had about ten and so on and so forth. Huge. Just beyond believeable. And every room was an art lesson waiting to happen: paintings, tromp l'oeil, sculptures, bas reliefs. It looked like a set for a movie. Every surface available was covered in marble, and if that wasn't convenient, it was gilded. Or covered with miles of exquisite embroidery. It makes your eyes hurt. Truly. I kept thinking about the ridiculous clothes people wore back then against the ridiculous wallpaper and began understanding why women were always passing out. None of the pictures I have does it justice, but I did buy a visitor's guidebook which you are all welcome to take a look at when you come visit me.

Again, we were thwarted by "conservation activities:" the Hall of Mirrors is being conserved for the future, so half of it is covered up by scaffolding and screens, the other half...is less impressive because of this. Inside the tunnel in the scaffolding they blew up an etching of a night at Versailles and put mirrors on the other side, which led to this kind of fun picture:

On the way home, Sarah convinced me to stop and see some actual touristy things. I agreed, since we hadn't had much luck with Napoleon (although I did get a small plastic figurine to go with my Nelson), and we stopped off to see Notre Dame. This was actually smaller than I expected, but more beautiful. It was recently cleaned and it gleams quietly on it's little island like a pearl.

Then, of course, there's the obligatory shot of me in front of the Eiffel Tower (or "Tour Eiffel" or "Le Dame Fere"). Again--Eiffel Tower: WAY bigger than I imagined! I thought it was, you know, some piffy little metal thing, but it's huge! And divinely displayed again the black sky lit up like a copper penny.

The next day we were both a little drained, so we didn't get going until after twelve. We missed getting the boat tour because I was buying rechargeable batteries for SOMEONE, but I didn't mind too much because the street we were on had pet shops, so I got my dog fix for the day. Then I had an idea: why don't we go see the Opera? My thirteen year old self immediately declared this was a great idea! so Sarah (poor Sarah) and I set off down the road. Soon we come to a huge, imposing grey building and she says "well, this is it." My thirteen year old self tells me this is not "it" but at the same moment I realise she (Sarah) means the Louvre. The mother and father of all museums. And it is (you've probably guessed it) HUGE. I mean, when you say art museum, I think of the National Gallery, but square foot-wise, this probably covers all the National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square and probably Leceister Square too, for good measure. (or, for my GB readers: the Ashwaubenon mall, including the blocks on either side that have Best Buy and JC Penney). And it's four stories tall. "Can we go in?" I say. I was expecting it to be free, but it's not. I totally take that for granted in London. Sarah has a suggestion: we were going to meet her dad to watch rugby, but since I am clearly in sightseeing mode, we agree to part ways. I'll do the Louvre, see the Opera and meet her back at her house. She hands me a train ticket, gives me vague directions to the Opera metro (somehowe we both forgot a map), pats me on the back and wishes me luck before disappearing into the crowds. I am very excited: there's so much stuff here! And I only have two hours. Well, if I showed you on a map where I went you'd say I saw a lot, but the only reason for that is because I started walking and I didn't stop. You can't stop and read all the plaques--and not just because they're all in French--because there is SO MUCH to see. I saw the Egyptian exhibit, French paintings up until 1820, De Brun's "Life of Alexander" series, then veered toward the large-scale paintings, passing on my way the Mona Lisa (which is hanging by itself on a wall surrounded by bullet proof glass), the Venus d' Milo (who gets her own room--it's in her contract) and La Victoirie, which was really cool.

Also really cool: Napoleon's coronoation picture, which is, I swear, taller than my parent's house. I passed through the 1700s and 1800s display (I love furniture) at a leisurely pace--this area is almost totally empty, unlike the crowds arond Ms. Lisa) and run into Napoleon III's state apartments which are GORGEOUS. The height of Victorian splendor, all red plush and gilt and mirrors. Completely alone now, I felt like I was walking through a memory, I could almost hear the waltzes and smell cigar smoke and hear taffeta skirts and wine glasses tinkling. Unfortunately by that point it was time to go, but it was fantastic to be able to just react to art and objects like that. usually in a museum I have to stop and read everything--but when it's in French that's not possible, so all I could do was have an honest emotional reaction to pieces of art. Of course, then I come out and this is what I'm greeted with: reminding me that all Art is but an imitation of Real Beauty.

After all that walking, I decided to treat myself to dinner at a bratisserie--roast duck with garlic potatoes. The waiter was horrified I didn't stay for desert.

I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find the opera, but there it was: bobbing and peeking out from behind street signs like a low-flung moon. It's very squat and quite low inside: I was grinning like an idiot as I made my way up the stairs, and the guy who was checking bags gave me a weird look. But it's the opera house!!! Like where Phantom of the Opera took place!!! And not the stupid movie or the tired old show in the West End, but the real, heart-stopping piece of musical theatre that captivated me when I was younger and got me started on all this. It was quite a moment--after all that history to have a moment alone with my history was nice. They didn't let me past the main foyer without a ticket to whatever was going on, but I could see the grand staircase with all the candelabras and mirrors, and I was very happy.

So that was Paris. There's lots of other fun stories, like the nice Americans who we met on the train coming back to Versailles who kept asking us about who this king or that emperor was, and the bad Americans like the ones I was listening to as I consumed my cannard last night whine about "how I don't want to be a suburban mom but I want my kids to be American!" I like Paris. I feel I could be quite comfortable there, if my heart didn't already belong to another city. I would definitely go back.