Paris
Even at 30,000 feet, France looks different.
About a month after I got back from the trip I'm describing, I went to an open-mic poetry reading a friend of mine was organizing. Since Valentine's Day was coming up, Terry decided to give the evening a romantic theme, and every reader had to identify the quality they most desired in a mate (epicurianism was popular). On top of that, there was an impromptu poetry contest in which you could write a love poem in the style of "Roses are red, violets are blue..." or a hate poem in the same style.
My winning entry in the hate category:
We could live in a trailer;
we could live on a train;
we could live in a big big house
on a cul de sac in Maine.
In the trailer I would kiss you;
on the train we'd run from the law,
but in that house I'd grow to hate
your love for urban sprawl.
I won a box of those horrifically sweet cordial cherries, which I distributed at work the next day. I have recited the poem to a few people, and have been instructed not to quit my day job, but even for the best poets, that tends to be sound advice.
What, you may ask, does this digression have to do with France? Not a lot, but anyone who knows me at all knows that I have a dislike of suburbs that borders on pathology. I like to think of this as a virtue. The SUV drivers of America tend to disagree. Once we broke through the clouds on our descent into Charles de Gaulle, I could see immediately that I was landing somewhere different. I don't know if it's law or temperament, but towns in France are compact clusters of buildings, some of them plainly quite old, and the border between town and country is clearly demarcated. You know when you pass the last house and walk across the road, you are not in town any more. This is not like flying into an American city, when if you look out the window of the airplane you might see the skyline hazy in the distance, and below you the endless office parks, strip malls, and writhing tentacles of meandering roads, lanes, courts, runs, and drives, terminating in bulbous cul de sacs barbed with three-car garages.
Political as the personal may be, my thoughts as we approached the airport were less rooted in the urban manifesto genre than the procedural. I reread my guidebook's cryptic instructions for getting from the airport into the city, and remained baffled. Andy was awake.
"So what's the drill for getting into Paris?" I asked.
"You don't know?" He seemed a little surprised.
"Afraid not." A month before leaving the States when I bought my guidebook, I read the section on getting from the airport into Paris and knew full well that the instructions didn't make any sense to me. I could easily have made an inquiry on the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree and gotten an answer, but why bother? Some would call that laziness. I prefer adventure.
"I'm taking the train in. Just follow me."
Like Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle is an airport populated by airlines that one barely suspects exist: Air Algeria, Ukraine International Airlines, Lithuanian Airlines, Kuwaiti Airlines. The airport itself feels new and old: a decades-old vision of the future that never quite showed up. From the gate to immigration we stood on moving walkways through a long, ethereally lit tunnel that recalls a scaled-down version of a DC Metro station. Past immigration there is another moving walkway, this one ascending through a plexiglass tube over a wintry courtyard, terminating in a high-ceilinged, gleaming baggage hall whose scuff-marked floor reveals its age.
Andy and I waited for a few minutes for our bags. He retrieved his well before mine showed up, so he went over to attempt to work his charms on "the girl with the poster tube" while I waited for my backpack to come out. He returned a few minutes later. I'm not sure if he talked to her or not, but things didn't go anywhere in any case. My grey backpack finally emerged with a telltale stain announcing that my shampoo bottle had exploded.
We got through customs quickly and went downstairs to an ATM. "The train's 50 francs," Andy explained. "The ticket machine only takes exact change, so we'll just buy something small in a shop to break the hundreds." In a convenience store we each picked up a roll of Mentos, receiving Euro conversion cards with our change.
We took the elevator to the bottom level of the terminal, and walked
out to a drive where a bus was waiting. We boarded the bus (it was
free), and after a few minutes drive it dropped us off at a cavernous,
but mostly empty train station. The ticket machine at the station
was out of service due to the Euro conversion. Since the ticket counter
was open and we could
actually get change, it turns out we didn't have to get fresh and full
of life after all. We took the RER train into Paris. I should
take a moment at this point to mention that the part of this the guidebooks
don't make clear is the transfer from the terminal to the train station,
so to reiterate, after you go through customs, get some money, then follow
the signs for the buses and one of those will take you to the station.
Got it? Good.
From the airport to Gare du Nord, where I was getting off to switch to the Metro, was about 45 minutes. Andy helped me figure the Metro route to the hostel where I was staying in Clichy.
"If you've got good subway sense, you'll be fine on the Metro," he said. "If not, you might have trouble."
"I think I'll do ok."
He wasn't getting off the RER until Montparnasse, so we shook hands
and wished each other a good trip. What followed when I got off the
train was an experience I tried to replicate a number of times over the
next few days. The route Andy and I had figured was this (pay attention
those of you planning to stay at the Hostel Leo la Grange):
|
| This is Paris? |
I checked in, but the rooms were closed for cleaning, so I dumped my bags in a locker in the basement, brushed my teeth, and headed out to explore Paris. My first stop was the American Express office to exchange travelers checques. Although I'd gotten money at the airport, I had only withdrawn 400 francs, roughly $70. I took the Metro to the Opera, which is apparently the district of the city where more airlines one would be surprised to discover exist have their offices: Royal Air Maroc or Air Cameroon, anybody? At the entry, my bag was searched and I was swiped with a metal detector before being allowed to pass. This is standard procedure at numerous locations, I discovered. The people employed to do this were always large and usually black. I don't know enough about the racial politics of France to make any comments beyond this observation, so I will let that stand.
Money matters taken care of, I decided to wander around. I wasn't up for any heavy-duty sight-seeing today, since I was still tired from the flight. I decided to circle back toward the Opera, passing a Gap on my way. I'll admit to having fairly dim memories of the Opera. I didn't go in; I just looked at it, took a couple pictures. It's huge and it's pretty, and unfortunately there's nothing more I can say. But I can make a comment on the Parisian character:
"Monsieur! Monsieur!" I heard a woman's voice as I walked away from the Opera. A stylish woman of a certain age armed with a fur coat and a cigarette pointed at the ground. "Le pen," she said. My pen must have fallen out of my bag when I was getting my camera.
"Oh," I said. "Merci."
She nodded and went back to posing elegantly with her cigarette. So much for the legendary Parisian rudeness.
I walked without any particular destination in mind. I didn't expect to like Paris, but having been in the city for maybe two hours, I could already sense something about it. There's something in Paris that's different from other places, and it's not just the Eiffel Tower or the Opera or the intimate and peculiar relationship that Parisian drivers plainly have with death. The city simultaneously has the dense, ponderous weight of history, and something light, ineffable, and somehow immediately apparent to tourists with a romantic bent; never mind what the locals think.
Maybe it's the fact that to my left, out of the corner of my eye, I had spotted Sacre Coeur, a church that rises over the city like a hilltop Taj Mahal, while to my right, I saw a restaurant whose existence I'd been alerted to by a parishioner at church: Indiana Tex-Mex.
Amused by the right, I turned left, and began the climb to Montmartre.
It was about the time that I resolved that I was going to climb up to Sacre Coeur that I realized I was starving. A survey of my surroundings yielded nothing obvious besides a McDonald's, which I refused to enter on principle. I considered Indiana Tex-Mex, but thought better of it. I ducked into a covered shopping arcade that conveniently appeared to my left. The noise of the crowded street faded. The arcade was nearly deserted, so I could hear each footstep captured between the white tile and translucent glass and iron ceiling; the diffused light from the overcast sky made everything a bright, shimmering grey. The shops were what you'd expect from a nineteenth century holdover-antiques, rare books, the obligatory souvenir stand, and a Chinese takeout? I stood outside it for a moment in hungry regard, and moved on.
Back on the street a few minutes later, I spotted a crepe stand and decided that this was lunch. I ordered one with chicken, mushrooms and tomatoes. A few minutes later, when my crepe was presented to me, I was a bit taken aback. This was no effete crepe like you get at the shops in the States that specialize in this sort of thing. This was a big butch crepe, the kind that spits, rides a Harley, and growls at your mother. Heard of burritos as big as your head? Bigger.
So big, in fact, that after standing on a streetcorner and gnawing at the thing for 20 minutes, I was full and figured I stood little chance of finishing it before nightfall. I walked, and when I didn't think anyone was looking, sheepishly dropped it in the trash.
As I started walking toward Sacre Coeur, I quickly lost sight of it. I entered a maze of narrow streets, constantly curving, some empty, some inexplicably clogged with traffic, all walled with four-story buildings with empty window-boxes. It wasn't long before the climb really began, along a street lined with travel agents, and it was around this point that a school group started stalking me. For a while every turn I took, they took. I started to worry when I finally lost them-what if they were on a field trip to Sacre Coeur and I had taken a wrong turn?
I next saw the church when I emerged at a busy boulevard near a Metro
station. It's a strange-looking place, really. Clearly European
and clearly Christian, its domes look like Buddhist stupas atop a classical
base. I got off the boulevard and kept on walking up. The ascent
was steeper now, and eventually I reached a long staircase to the summit
of the hill. To my right as I got near the top, I caught movement
out of the corner of my eye-a sleek modern version of a Pittsburgh incline
carrying
pilgrims to the Basilica.
Paris is not perfect. That ponderous history/ineffable something
is little comfort if you're dirt poor. Steel yourself for Paris.
In front of the main steps of the Basilica, I paused to take a look at
the city. It was hazy. I could vaguely make out Notre Dame.
The Eiffel Tower was invisible. A man in a Rastafarian hat came up to me.
There were several of them around
in various stages of some sort of sell with tourists who are nicer
than I am.
"Hey, man," he started, immediately in English.
"No." I didn't care what he was offering.
"Listen..."
"No." I walked away.
Being a jerk at the entrance makes walking into the doors of a great church feel like entering the gates of Hell. Contributions to the almsbox don't allay the guilt entirely. City sense is necessary but dehumanizing; even Rastafarian touts have to make a living.
Sacre Coeur gleams white on the outside, and though the interior is dim, the same airiness is present, with light emanating from the windows in the huge cupola. Above the altar is a mosaic of Christ, arms stretched wide. Votive candles burn everywhere. I didn't take the tour, which I'm told is worth it, because I was tired enough that I knew I wouldn't absorb anything. After a time walking around the church, I exited and descended the stairs. I took a couple pictures of the church, at which point, only ten pictures into my trip, my camera battery died. I switched to the digital camera, a decision that ended up sticking for the rest of the trip.
Looking out over the city, Notre Dame on its island, hazy in the distance,
drew my eye again. I started down the hill and to the nearest Metro
station. I think I'm a stream-of-consciousness tourist, just moving
on to the next thing that looks interesting. I resolved to be more
systematic tomorrow.
 |
| The entrance to Notre Dame. |
One of the beggars outside Notre Dame actually had a pretty neat gig
going. She stood next to some bushes on the approach to the church
with a bag of bread crumbs. A boy with her collected 10 francs; then
she'd give patrons a small handful of breadcrumbs and instruct them to
hold their hands over the bushes. Small birds fluttered up, eating
the breadcrumbs out of
outstretched hands.
Notre Dame is dark. The soot of hundreds of years of candles and incense has stained the walls and vaulted ceilings black. In the side chapels down the right side of the church, lines of people waited to confess, flags on signs outside each chapel indicated which languages priests could hear confession in. From the ceilings of the side aisles hung large white angels, represented only in outline. I took a detour as I continued down the nave into the treasury, which is filled with more miters, patens, and chalices than you could shake a stick at, were one inclined shake sticks at vestments and liturgical implements. A young Japanese woman asked me to photograph her in front of a chalice. This is a picture that will be incomprehensible even the moment it's developed, I thought, as the flash reflected off the glass case.
I continued on around the ambulatory, peering into side chapels (there are more of those in Notre Dame than you can shake a stick at too-again, provided you're the type who shakes sticks at side-chapels) and avoiding catching fire from the myriad votives. As I came back around on the other side of the high altar, there was a massive life-size creche, surrounded by plexiglass, ensuring that none of the many pictures being taken of it would come out very well. Near it, under one of the angels hanging from a ceiling, was a giant plexiglass cube slowly filling with the written prayers of pilgrims.
When I emerged from the cathedral, the afternoon was growing dark.
I turned the corner of the church to see if the tower was open to climb;
it was not. I walked over the nearest bridge and turned left.
Soon on my right I saw the large and, for lack of a better word, swooshily
modern, Middle Eastern museum, whose walls followed the curve of the speeding
traffic, which in turn followed the riverbank to which I descended.
 |
| Banks of the Seine. |
It was quiet here. A few tourist boats were moored here and there. I walked for a while, aimlessly, as usual, admiring the rising lights as the sky grew darker. Passing under a bridge I saw evidence that it was someone's home-a crude bench, blankets. Startled, I moved back up to street level.
I found a Metro station at roughly 5:30. Predictably, the station
was packed with commuters heading home. Looking around the station,
I noticed a billboard of a fortune teller posing with a crystal ball and
a canister of a product called Knacki Ball. It took me a couple days
to puzzle through the French tagline ("le avenir de la saucisse"), but
when I finally did, it was with a sense of accomplishment and revulsion.
Knacki Balls are microwavable sausage balls, or, as the fortune teller
was saying on the billboard: "the future of sausage." The advertising
campaign was ubiquitous in the Metro while I was there; I couldn't go anywhere
without being confronted by the fortune teller and her futurific sausage.
The whole thing terrified me. There's really nothing very scary about
microwavable sausage; the trouble is that the happily bouncing Knacki Balls
on the canister look like nothing so much as pale malt balls. That
distresses me.
 |
| The future of sausage. |
Back at the hostel, I got into my room, cleaned up the mess from my
wayward shampoo bottle, took a shower, and headed out to find food.
After walking around the neighborhood for a while, I found a small open-air
shop selling half-chickens grilled on a rotisserie for 25 francs.
After my embarrassing currency confusion attempting to pay the shopkeeper
5 francs and 20 centimes, I obtained the chicken, went back to the hostel,
and ate like a
caveman.
The hostel had a large common room with a pool table and a bar, so I
hung out there with a beer for a little bit, talking to a group of people
from Oregon who were traveling together. It had been a long day,
though, so
after flipping through my travel guide for a bit, I went to bed.
Copyright 2002 Brendan O'Sullivan-Hale