Of Parting

Okay, I am exhausted and I have to go to bed in order to get up early tomorrow to catch the flight home, but I just wanted to say:

What better way to end a sejour (stay) in Paris than with an offer for a French kiss while walking the streets of Paris?

It truly is a magical city.

Of Productivity and Paradoxes

Well, it's here, whether I like it or not: the final weekend in Paris. I have succeeded in emptying my cupboards of all perishable items, leaving me with little guilt about living off of ready-made, market-fresh, Parisian goodness. It's market time, people!

I realized this week, though (now that my internship is officially over), that I never really said what I was actually doing at the Conservatoire. My biggest project was updating and cool-icizing a brochure for exchange students who come to Paris with the Erasmus program; I might have mentioned that. It was really fun at first. I entered French cyberspace at light speed, becoming intimately familiar quite quickly with the Mairie de Paris (http://www.paris.fr/) and metro (http://www.ratp.fr/) websites. I even created my own cartoons featuring a Ziggy-reminiscent exchange student encountering all the trials of international travel. Later, the project became much more tedious, and I spent weeks (literally!) making nitpicky formatting and grammatical corrections. "Non, cette police est trop grande," my boss would say ("This font is too big."). I would make the monumental and requisite change from 14 to 12. "Non, je n'aime pas trop cette police" ("No, I don't really like this font"). I would change the font (Times New Roman to Trebuchet MS). "Ce couleur, peut-il etre moins rouge?" ("Can this color be less red?"). Sure, why not. The changes were endless, and extremely frustrating.

In the end, though, the brochure (for your reading pleasure, in both French AND English) is beautiful! It kicks the pants off of the Conservatoire's other brochures in terms of user-friendliness and overall aesthetic appeal.

I also spent lots of time in the Mediatheque. My boss had initially planned to have me do some work in the library database: checking registered patrons, searching for doubled 33 records, etc. After about two weeks, though, I succeeded in finishing all the tasks she had planned for the summer! There is never a shortage of projects in a library, though. This week, for example, I went through all the (uncatalogued) CDs in the contemporary music collection looking for ones of which we already had a copy, as well as created library records for recent acquisitions and affixed labels to new documents. Exciting, I know.

But these past weeks have really been fun, if for no other reason than lunchtime. Yes, that may sound rather elementary school, but it's not just due to the food (well, not entirely). Since the Conservatoire's cafeteria closed two weeks ago, it gave all its remaining employees vouchers to use at several local restaurants. We are supposed to have one hour lunch breaks. Of course, when one takes time to walk to the restaurant, sit down, order, wait for the food, eat the food, wait for the food to be cleared away by the less-than-attentive servers, answer the inevitable question of "Un dessert? Un cafe?", eat the dessert or drink the coffee, and allow at least the requisite fifteen minutes of pre-bill digestion to take place, lunch can take a lot longer. This means that I have gotten to know my coworkers really well in the last two weeks. Over the course of du hummous, du caviar de poivron, des gombos, and du falafel (Lebanese); des brochettes, du riz, la miso, and des crudites (Japanese); or des nems, du potage, et plus de riz (Chinese); I have gotten the opportunity to hear about writing studios, hair salons, rice paddies, French expressions, Parisian concerts, the civil servant administration, woes with children, and numerous other topics from bona fide French people--all over the course of around 2+ hours.

At first, I felt very guilty about taking so much time to eat lunch. Here I was, raised in the water cooler and 15-min lunch break culture, taking so much time to eat that the pita bread at our favorite Lebanese restaurant had an opportunity to harden. Now, though, I have learned to appreciate this style of life. In the French workplace, or at least at the Conservatoire de Paris Berlioz Mediatheque, relationships and comfort come before efficiency. This is the reason, I feel, behind the "French paradox," and something from which, upon reflection, Americans could benefit.

France, you see, is in a constant tug-of-war between two modes of life, two epoques of existence. On the one hand, you have the ancient constructs--Versailles, the Louvre, the still-quaint-and-ever-so-common practice of going to the boulangerie for the daily baguette, fromageries, the valorisation of art. On the other hand, though, is the modern, more "western" world--efficiency, consumerism, supermarkets, tourism.

The remarkable thing about Paris, though, is it has managed to capitalize upon both of these modes of existence simultaneously. By funneling money into the "ancient", it ensures that monuments are well-preserved for the "modern", the millions of tourists who make Paris the most-visited city in the world. It provides for the unemployed by paying people to perform the dignified task (in all seriousness) of cleaning the streets so that visitors can go home marveling at the sanitation. McDonald's offers chocolate pastries in the place of apple pies, and cheese and jambon (ham) "a la parisienne" adorn its salads (the containers of which feature reminders to eat a balanced diet and exercise often). The artists of the ancient village of Montmartre now sell their work to gullible tourists, who sit for portraits and form the bulk of the painters' subjects.

This melange is epitomized, I feel, in a recent dance performance I attended. One of my coworkers (the relationship due to those two-hour lunch breaks!) had an extra ticket to a contemporary dance production, so she invited me to come along. It took place at the Palais Royal, a gorgeous neoclassical/baroque construct right opposite the Louvre. One can actually see the conflation of which I'm speaking in the building itself. While originally built as a palace for Cardinal Richelieu, it now serves as a government building, housing the French Ministry of Culture and the Conseil d'Etat. The front of the courtyard is composed of a modern art piece where pillars appear to come up through the ground, while the back is a formal garden complete with a fountain and nicely-trimmed hedges.

Then there was the performance itself. I don't mean to denigrade contemporary dance; it has its place. But, let's just say, it's not quite my thing. One hundred and ten (silent) minutes of watching people make odd movements on a stage is not exactly what I would tell the Make-a-Wish Foundation. Thus, I was extremely happy when music from a nearby brasserie started up a few minutes into the performance. It was an odd moment, hearing the horn and accordian music--so stereotypically French--played for the enjoyment of tourists, across the square of a building rooted in French history, accompanying the ultimate in dance modernity, dedicated to upholding the French tradition for the patronage of the arts. Yet, the juxtaposition was not at all unpleasant. In fact, for me, it made the whole spectacle more enjoyable.

Perhaps that is why I have enjoyed Paris this summer so much. One still finds vestiges of the fabled French charm, but it is often couched under a layer of modern efficiency that makes it easily accessible to the foreign visitor. Now, I would be the first one to admit that Paris has its problems, but I feel so blessed to have been able to spend this summer here. It has been such an enriching experience, one which, as I sit writing what may be my final blog post from Paris listening to seagulls along the Seine, I fully plan to repeat in the future.

Until next time, this is Rachel Dunn, Paris correspondant, signing off.

Au revoir!

Of Paintings and Pavarotti

Sorry it's been so long since my last post! No, I didn't get lost in the Jardin des Buttes-Chaumont (well, actually I did, but that's not the reason for the AWOL status). I've started to realize how little time I have left in Paris--only one week!!!!!!!--so I've been using the time that remains to do all those things that I had always wanted to do, but never actually succeeded in accomplishing.

One example: buy a painting. I have had a dream of buying an original painting from every country that I visit every since I went to Zambia. Filled with the artistic contributions of cultures from around the globe, I envisioned my room looking like a combination of Pier 1 Imports and the Musee D'Orsay--the epitome of class and intrigue. This hasn't always been realized. In fact, before coming to Paris, Zambia was the only country represented on my bedroom wall (well, unless you count the quintessentially-touristy "RACHEL" spelled out in painted images bought on the street in New York City).

There are several reasons for this: 1) I am a miser when it comes to buying anything superfluous, especially when I know that I will be living in a place for a while or that I will see something similar later. I am the tourist boutique owner's nightmare, as I will visit every store along a street to be sure that I am getting the best possible deal. 2) I don't like to admit to being a tourist. Oh sure, I bought the Chinese name painting, and I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower (a ghastly and vastly disappointing experience), but I don't want to buy a painting that resembles every other one at every tourist stand at every tourist site in Paris. Basically, if the store needs to have a sign that says, "Original paintings", be prepared to buy an un-original painting. I recall one "I Love Lucy" show where she goes to Paris and buys an "original" work of art off of a painter for an exorbitant amount, only after pleading with him to surrender what was "dearer to him than his right arm". She walks away, tickled pink with her taste and powers of persuasion, even as the "artist" furtively takes another of the same painting out of a bag and assumes his "Oh where should I put this next brushstroke" pose. This is what I don't want. Of course, if this is one's decision, the price inevitably is going to be higher (see reason number 1). 3) I'm just plain picky when it comes to art. I want to buy a painting that is both indicative of the culture, reminiscent of my experiences with it, and that I actually like! So, in summary, there is only one painting on my wall.

Now, though, the world is my canvas! Or, the canvas is my world!...Whichever it is, I can now exclaim that propped against my bedroom wall, swathed in a "don't-you-have-anything-more-durable?" bag of white plastic, is a gorgeous French landscape painting in the post-impressionist style. The colors are thick, vivid, and striking: golden-red tints of sunlight on a country field and house. The strokes are bold, reminiscent of the globular lines chosen by Van Gogh in his "Sunflowers".

I saw it at a gallery on my way to the top of Montmartre, the high hill in Paris known for its charming village ambiance, swarms of art galleries and painters "en plein air" (outside), and the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, an architecturally eclectic, yet stunning cathedral perched right on top of the mountain. I had originally visited here with Dad. We revelled in the sales pitches of the portrait artists, gazed at the easels of both the talented and the ennuyant (boring!), drank in the smells of freshly-made crepes, stared open-mouthed at the church's luminescent domes (yet silently, as per the strict instructions of the glaring guides), sampled the butter-soaked buckets (literally!) of mussels at an outdoor cafe, and finally were struck breathless at the incredible vista that opened up onto all of Paris (Wow, that was a long sentence! I really am using used to France!). After seeing all the artists at work, I vowed to return to Montmartre, being reluctant to purchase a painting at the first go-around (see Rachel's Rules of Shopping above).

The second time, though, money in purse, I didn't see anything in the artists' square that caught my eye. Well, that's not quite true. Let me rephrase: I didn't see anything that caught my eye that was less than 200 euros and wouldn't require a magnifying glass to see it from five feet away. Everything that fit in the aesthetically-pleasing, yet culturally-befitting category was way out of my price range. Plus, I had previously nixed anything picturing Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, or the Moulin Rouge; this made my decision even more problematic, as these compose 98% of the subjects depicted on paintings in Paris.

Thankfully, though, I had seen a painting earlier in a gallery on one of the winding, alarmingly-steep side streets that had attracted me instantly. The reason I hadn't bought it straight-away was that it was exactly at what I had designated earlier as the maximum cost threshold. But finding no better substitute elsewhere, I walked meekly back into the gallery, hemming and hawing over the yellow sicker on the frame (Side note: besides the fact that it takes me forever to buy something, the other bad thing about my shopping method is the stares I get from the shopkeepers. They are either angry glares that clearly evince the confirmation of all their prejudices against young people and/or Americans, when I leave without buying anything, or looks of puzzled annoyance when I return. It's hard to remain nonchalant and blend into the 5-feetx5-feet Parisian stores.).

I did it. I had to. I looked at all the other paintings, but I kept returning to the one of the golden field. The nail in the coffin, the straw that broke the camel's back, the thing that pushed me over the edge, was the gallery owner coming up to me and saying, "C'est une jolie piece, ca" ("It's a pretty piece, that one"). I couldn't take it anymore; I bought it. Brimming over with a sense of triumph that was further confirmed with every step, I stuck the painting under my arm, boarded the metro, and headed back to my apartment.

But I didn't have the option of passing the rest of my night savoring my good fortune (or lack thereof, however you want to view it), because it happened to be....BASTILLE DAY!!! Yes, that's right, France's version of the 4th of July, only 10 days later (always fashionably late, the French :) ). I hadn't been able to convince anyone to come with me to the defile (parade) that morning. All of the French people I knew expressed variations of "Oh, it's not worth fighting the fatigue and the crowds to get a good seat", and it seems this opinion had been impressed upon all the PIF interns. So, I had spent that morning lounging around reveling in the day off from work--all the while feeling twinges of self-pity and regret whenever I heard the planes fly right over my apartment. For days, I had watched the barriers going up along the Champs-Elysees, been rerouted on my morning jog by over-zealous French policemen, listened to the rants of Parisians complaining about the numerous metro closings near the parade route, and stalked the Mairie de Paris' website for information about the various military entourages and statesmen that were going to be present. And here I was sitting in my apartment. Blegh.

But, don't worry, I did celebrate Bastille Day! In fact, the night before I had gone with some friends to an outdoor concert at the Place de la Bastille. No, I was disappointed to learn when I arrived at Paris, the prison isn't there, just a statue. But on the evening of July 13th, it was the setting for one of the most eclectic and un-French concerts I've ever seen. The first group was British, and suffered from an absolute extinction of audience participation (of course, this could have been due to the fact that they only addressed the crowd in English). The group following them, though, was Spanish, and had a style reminiscent of slightly rockisized-rumba and salsa. It was amazing!! The male PIF interns I was with were highly skeptical when the lead female singer started, but by the last song they were dancing right along with everyone else in the middle of the street. This time, the audience needed no cues; we waved our arms, stomped our feet, and danced the cucaracha all on our own (there was even a conga line).

After the concert, we had planned to head over to the 6th arrondissement to catch one of the bals de sapeurs-pompiers (firemen's balls). Dozens of these free balls occur throughout the major cities on July 13 and 14, and they are occasions for music, dancing, and DJs from 9pm to 4am. Well, at least for anyone who succeeds in gaining entrance. By the time we arrived at 11 pm, the file d'attente (waiting line) was nearly 5 blocks long! We had only advanced about one of these before a man came around with a megaphone saying the ball was full. While we could have stayed around hoping that the partiers inside would get bored and leave (yeah, right!), we decided it would be a better to go to St. Michel and, perhaps, grab a seat at a cafe or creperie.

St. Michel, located between the Latin Quarter and the Seine, never sleeps. A colorful, vibrant tourist district packed with turkish restaurants (the French equivalent to a Mexican food joint on every corner), brasseries (French bistros), and souvenir stalls, you can find places open and people hanging out until at least in the morning (perhaps later; I'm not exactly sure because I've never been out past that). It is also a great place to find crepes, which is what we ended up doing. The five of us commandeered nearly all the seats in a cute little creperie and sat down to talk, comparing the various flavors of crepes represented and chatting about Princeton, Paris, and life in general. Not quite a fireman's ball, but definitely a great time.

Anyway, back to the post-painting story. I had agreed to meet up with some people from La Vigie to go to the fireworks. If I could survive without seeing the parade, fine, but there was NO WAY I was going to miss seeing fireworks erupting behind the Eiffel Tower.

This resolve, though, was challenged in the hours leading up to sunset. Of the foyer girls, none of the three girls with whom I am sort of close came with us. It was me, a French girl, a Quebecoise, and the latter's boyfriend, sister, and Canadian friends.

This may sound innocuous, but believe you me, it's not. No, I am not Canadophobic. It's just that Quebecois French is ABSOLUTELY, COMPLETELY different from European French! Even the Parisians have trouble understanding their accents, and it's no wonder! The first time I heard Veronique, the girl at La Vigie, speak, I didn't even realize she was speaking French. Now, after a few weeks, I can understand about half of what she says, but her friends' accents were even stronger than hers! And Vanessa, the French girl, always speaks very fast and indistinctly. So, in conclusion, let me just say I was glad our rendez-vous included wine, cheese, and bread, because it gave me an excuse to talk as little as possible.

Well, experiencing Parisian fireworks is quite different from experiencing fireworks in Rochester, MN. People in Rochester complain about finding a parking spot, battling the crowds, avoiding the goose droppings, etc., but they have no concept of patriotic fortitude. Let me tell you, the French have us out-classed when it comes to transcending inconviences to show patriotic spirit. This year, the Champ-de-Mars, the large green space right by the Eiffel Tower, saw 60,000 (!!!) people crammed onto its grass, jostling, pushing, shouting, and maneuvering to best view the spectacular display. Agoraphobics, stay home, please.

This is hardly a simple fireworks display, though. Even before the sun sets, big-name artists perform on a gigantic outdoor stage, their performances projected (with subtitles, so the crowd can sing along) on huge screens for those in less-than-optimal positions. People start arriving in the early afternoon to get a spot on the green.

And then there are the fireworks! Not only are they visually stunning (assuming your position allows you to see them), but they are also synchronized to music played on speakers all along the Seine. So not only do you get a dazzling explosion of vivid color with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, but everything is in time to Mozart, Bizet, Puccini, and other wonderful classical composers. Even though my view was largely blocked by trees, tall people, and the Tower itself, there was something magical about hearing Pavarotti sing "Nessun Dorma", one of the most beautiful pieces of all time, while seeing cascades of fireworks descend upon Paris. It was definitely worth the lost-in-translation preceding hours and the long metro-less walk back to my apartment.

I can hardly believe that I'm going home in a week! I feel like I'm just starting to get used to Paris. I have gotten to the point where the loss of my beautiful, highly-coveted Paris map is not highly significant, because I rarely need to consult a map to know where I'm going, or at least where the nearest boulevard is.

And now I must leave this city of so many new discoveries and experiences. Paris is where I first lost a piece of luggage, where I learned that I actually do like quiche (LOVE it, in fact!), where I wore out two pairs of shoes exploring back alleyways, where I had my first apartment, where I became addicted to weekly outdoor markets. Thursday night, while walking to Pont Neuf to meet some PIFers to sing songs and eat nutella along the Seine, I had to stop and reflect. I looked out at the sun setting behind the beautiful dome of the Insitute de Monnaie, and I realized how much I am going to miss this city. There is no way I would want to live here for the rest of my life; it is ill-suited for the long-term. But now, single, for a few months, a few years...I have fallen in love with it, and it's hard to think each time I pass a favorite spot that it may be the last time in a long while.

Of parcs...

Okay, everyone, I've found it: the most beautiful spot in Paris. Yes, hard to believe, I know. But what may be even harder to believe is that it is far away from Notre Dame, L'Arc de Triomphe, and even the Jardin de Luxembourg, the famous palace and gardens of Marie de Medici. Yes, to find it you have to go way out into the 19th arrondissement, far removed from the haut-culture et chique boutiques of the centre ville. But any walk or metro trip to the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont is worth the visit, for it is, as I said, the most beautiful spot in the City of Light.

For where else, I ask you, can boast a crumbing greco-style gazebo atop atop a rocky, wooded cliff, the view from which allows sensual pleasures full and free reign? Where else can one wander through hidden grottos loathe to display their hidden cache of pools and waterfalls? Where else can one (literally, in my case) stumble across a peacock being pursued by the plump and playful fingers of a curious toddler? Where else can one cross a scenic footbridge twenty-five feet off the ground that joins two wooded hills in harmonious majesty? Where else can one climb endless flights of stony stairways hidden among flowering bushes and overshadowing trees? Where else can one choose to get lost among giggling, screaming children on swings and jungle gyms, or take a seat underneath the shade of a sprawling chestnut to watch three baguette-laden French septagenarians discuss, perhaps, the rising price of their purchases, or else revel in the silence from a perch at the top of a wooded butte? I have found no such other place in all of Paris, and though I ALWAYS lose my sense of direction in this parc (no grid-layout here), I never regret spending a few extra minutes searching for one of the numerous exits.

Of Panzer Tanks and Patriots

Happy day-after-4th of July!

As you may imagine, the 4th of July is not especially important here. Let's face it: the building where Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay signed the treaty with Great Britain ending the Revolutionary War (right near my apartment; I walk past it every day!) is relegated to a simple sign affixed to the side of the hotel. And when I asked my coworker if she knew of any celebrations going on in the city, she responded, "What's July 4?"

Obviously, the French don't care that much about American Independence Day.

But American expatriates do! It's an amazing phenomenon that happens to people when they go overseas: suddenly their sense of patriotism is augmented tenfold, and a simple St. Louis Cardinals hat is enough to spark an instant, on-the-spot friendship--albeit, a friendship confined to the duration of time required to cross the Champs-Elysees or Rue de Rivoli without a risk of involuntary manslaughter. Suddenly, McDonald's is no longer a contemptible vehicle of Supersize Me! obesity, but a fondly-remembered place of childhood repasts and playland parties.

In my case, the 4th of July was provocation enough to break my unintentional burger-and-fries boycott and head out with a group of Princeton-in-France interns to "Breakfast in America", an American-style diner located in the Quartier Latin. This cute, if somewhat Paris-sized(meaning small!), restaurant was created by a man from the US in an effort to bring a touch of Americana to a breakfast-starved French nation. He did an admirable job. Not only does the biliingual menu list the English descriptions au-dessus (above) the French ones (rare, believe me), but the red and chrome tables come complete with Heinz ketchup bottles (which, just as in the USA, still deviously manage to squirt ketchup everywhere except on your burger--and in extreme quantities!), the chef rings one of those cute little bells when the orders are ready, and chili cheese fries are back on menu! There were about 20 or so of us, so between all the Princetonians, an American family, and the five or so guys at the counter, the restaurant was packed.

I just recently moved from the foyer where I was staying all of June into an apartment right by the Musee d'Orsay, so I invited one of my roommates and her friend (both French) to come along and experience some American culture. My roommate Loriane was unable to come, but Charley was eager to meet some Americans and practice her English, in which she certainly succeeded. By the time we had all finished our variously-smothered patties of ground beef and cheese, some of the interns had taught her all the slang and swear words they knew, though it must be said in their defense that she reciprocated, and actually asked them to do so.

After eating the very authentic meal (topped off with the partage [sharing] of a brownie drizzled with fudge sauce), we all then headed over to the apartment of one of the PIFers. Let me tell you, I felt very bourgeoise indeed after viewing Rudy's twenty-first floor furnished flat, complete with modern styling, a doorman, and an absolutely breathtaking view of the Seine and the Paris skyline from the balcony. Its price tag (very high, believe me) is definitely warranted. We then proceeded to sing all the patriotic songs we could think of, including all the hymns of all the branches of the military--and this was before we had any wine! It was a really fun time, with just about all the students in PIF (and then some) present and accounted for. Charley and I stayed until we began to fear that we would miss the last metro, then sat and talked in one of the metro stations before going our separate ways. So, if my fourth of July was devoid of fireworks, it was at least full of American spirit, and one I won't soon forget.

---

Speaking of forgetting, there is one last stop on the Paris-in-a-week-with-Dad saga that I would like to relate, simply because it was so fascinating. If you ever happen to fly over Paris and see a brilliant, golden dome reminiscent of St. Peter's Basilica, you are probably seeing Les Invalides. Orginially created as a hospital for wounded soldiers by Louis XIV, it is now also a museum and mausoleum for France's war heroes. Most notably, it is the burial site of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Now, if anyone has a hankering to see a tomb that is absolutely GAG-ME gaudy and self-laudatory, you must visit this tomb. Oh, don't get me wrong, it is stunning and beautiful, a huge sarcophagus mounted within the crypt so that visitors on the floor above can look down the large circular opening and examine the incredible marble adornment. That is, of course, assuming, that they can take their eyes off of the paintings filling the inside of the dome itself. Down in the circular crypt, visitors can promenade around the sarcophagus and see the multiple representations of a quasi-divine Napoleon: Napoleon is the symbol of justice as he hands his Code to the people, Napoleon is the symbol of prosperity as Hellenic maidens recall the richness of his reign, Napoleon is the symbol of power as he triumphs over his enemies...you get the picture. In all of these representations, of course, he sports a muscled, Herculean figure that almost makes you forget all those unflattering pictures you may have seen of the 5-foot general. The whole construct of the hall is pretty spectacular; so spectacular, in fact, that Dad and I came away thinking, "Is this the same mortal, bloody, prententious, dictatorial Napoleon that we've heard about?" It is almost bordering on cultish, the amount of reverence given to this extraordinary, but very human human being.

But Les Invalides also has a museum, and one of the current exhibitions is dedicated to WWI AND WWII. Sound ambitious? It is, both for the museum and for museum-goers. It took nearly four hours for Dad and I to get through it, and this was with my prompting Dad every so often that it should take less time to read about the war than to fight it.

Nevertheless, it was extremely well done. For the Battle of the Marne, for example, an overhead projector projected moving images representing military units on a large-scale model of continental Europe, while a voice narrated about the course of the conflict. Being in France, the exhibition had legitimate and quality artifacts, including clothing, pictures, medals, weapons, full uniforms, etc., for every facet of the war. Even for D-Day, one could sit and watch film of the Normandy landing while looking at the parachutes the French paratroopers used to penetrate behind enemy lines.

I had very little idea of the role of French troops in the conflict prior to this exhibition. After their occupation in 1941, I assumed that any military role France played was confined to small-scale operations under the control of the Nazis. This exhibition, though, helped clear away that idea faster than you can say French patriotism. It is to be expected, I suppose, but the degree of Franco-centrism in the exhibit was almost comical sometimes. Nearly every paragraph describing D-day, for example, made sure the reader knew that there were indeed French paratroopers there. They may not have stormed stormed the beaches with the Americans, Canadians, and Brits, but they were there! If ever the French army was involved in a particular battle or campaign, the exhibit gave it lengthy curtain time.

Yet I don't want to ignore my own log and sound pretentious or conceited myself. The exhibit was, as I said, fascinating. I particularly enjoyed the section on the Liberation of Paris. The musuem combined actual film footage of the French Resistance with photos, radio broadcasts, and objects in such a way that you really felt like you were getting a well-rounded, accurate depiction of the series of events. It was especially interesting to look at pictures of the conflict and victory parades and recognize monuments that Dad and I had just visited, even the previous day.

And of course, one can never forget any images related to the Shoah (Holocaust). One room, almost black, was dedicated to the liberation of the concentration camps. I will never forget the film showing liberated prisoners dragging their dead comrade to a mounting pile of corpses at Auschwitz, or the awful realisation that a huge hill being pushed by a bulldozer was not composed of dirt, as I originally thought, but decomposing bodies. It is things like this that always make me question how people can believe in the innate goodness of man, and the lack of his need for salvation. And it is then that I echo the line of Horatio Spafford in a radio drama I heard as child. Spafford, after losing first all of his money in the Great Chicago Fire, lost all his daughters as well in a shipwreck, prompting him to write the lyrics to my favorite hymn, "It is Well with my Soul." In the drama, upon visiting the place where his daughters were drowned, Spafford cries out, "Oh, Jesus, come soon, come soon! Or if it not be soon, then give me the strength to bear it."

Thus, while the exhibit was, as I said, quite lengthy, I only wish that I had had the concentration and mental stamina to stay completely engaged throughout the entire thing. It was definitely one of my favorite things in Paris thus far.

Of pastorals and palaces

After investigating the possibility of an extra-Paris excursion on Sunday night, I found that one could get a package deal to visit the château of Fontainebleau; for 22 euros, one can get a round-trip train ticket, entrance to the chateau and grounds, an audio guide, and a little guidebook. What a deal! Plus, all the websites said that Fontainebleau was worth the visit. So, after waking up at a very unvacation-ish hour to get to Gare de Lyon, Dad and I quitted Paris for the country.

There is something very romantic about a train. Maybe it’s a genuine love of history, maybe it’s due to all those American Girl books as a child; I’m not sure. But there is something unescapably beautiful about watching the scenery right beyond your fingertips change from industrial electrical wiring to unsculpted woods and post-card towns, seeing the color transform from placid gray to a mixture of burnished red and forest green, noticing, even approaching at high speed, the very air around you slow its pace. A big city is magical; this is most certainly true of Paris. But until you leave the Eiffel Tower-hawking vendors and the car-packed boulevards, you never realize how much you miss the silence of a walnut lane, the fragrance of a rose bush, the expanse of a sky devoid of buildings, the greeting of a caroling bird that is NOT a pigeon, and the caress of a breeze not created by a metro tunnel, but by the simple breath of God.

I found this to be true in visiting both Chantilly and Fontainebleau. Those who come to France and never outstrip their zones 1 and 2 metro tickets are missing out on one of the beautiful passages (in the literal sense of the word): the realization that the best of man is only a dim reflection of the glory to come. To some this may seem like it would by a dreary, depressing realization. On the contrary, though, I find that these bursts of the country have a purifying, uplifting effect that acts as preparation back into that other, city world.

I must say, though, that Fontainebleau is hardly the antithesis of the best of Parisian achievement. Exactly the opposite, in fact. The stunning architecture, immaculate furnishings, marble sculptures, and roaming gardens impressed me much more than any other palace I have seen, including Versailles. Every time we entered a room, I thought, “Wow, this is beautiful! Surely this is the height of extravagance and taste; the following rooms can only be a disappointment.”

This never happened. Each successive room brought a newly-distended jaw, as the 16th-century castle revealed itself in all its Baroque, Renaissance, and Napoleonic splendor. The castle was begun by François I in 1538, but unlike many other royal residences, it was maintained right up through 19th century. This means that Napoleon’s throne room is only a few rooms away from the blue and gold embroidery of Marie Antoinette’s private sitting room, which looks out onto the Grand Canal begun by Henry IV, which is not far from the gilded marble columns of the chapel begun by François I. Somehow, the castle escaped the ravages of the Revolution, and instead pays homage to the always beautiful, yet inescapably transient periods of French history.

My favorite room was either the throne room, simply because it was so stunning with its gold plumes and scarlet velvet it looked like a movie set, or the chapel, which was covered floor to ceiling in paintings, and featured a magnificent organ in the back of the sanctuary. My favorite artifact was definitely the nearly four-foot, fully-sculpted urn featuring scenes of Leonardo da Vinci painting at the court of François I. The colors were so brilliant and the carving so detailed that I had to block traffic for several minutes in an effort to find the perfect camera setting.

If the gaud of this château, though, is overwhelming for you, you can always do as Dad and I did and have a picnic overlooking the extensive gardens and fountain before heading out into the woods for a stroll. Imagine ancient figures emerging from behind forty-foot chestnut trees as you escape all unnatural noise. And if you get tired, you can always sit on one of the stone benches ensconced in the glade, perhaps watch a Springer Spaniel play in a stream, sigh at an octogenarian couple hobble down the path, or take pictures of a passing horse-drawn carriage.

As I do not have the cord to upload my photos, I am unable to furnish proof of the magnificence of this château and its grounds, but I encourage you to Wikipedia it or go to the official website (which has a really neat virtual tour thing) at http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/. It is the next best thing to actually visiting

...and poison.

Greetings, cyber-readers!


I join you now in that mysterious, incorporeal universe of cyberspace from my post at the consultation desk of the Berlioz Médiathèque in Paris, France. Yes, I have other stuff I could (and perhaps should) be doing, but I have been remiss, I admit, in keeping this blog mis-à-jour (up to date).


The reason for this prolonged inactivity is due to the extensive of amount of touring that my dad and I managed to condense into five days. He was in London for a conference, and since it's quite easy to travel internationally once you are across the "big blue wet thing" (au Gonzo, for any Muppets fans out there), he decided to come visit me. Of course, this limited the amount of time I had access to the internet--or anything that didn't come with a giftshop attached, for that matter. Dad has been to Paris before, but only for a short time; thus, it was my turn to play dutiful tour guide and lead him around Paris. This was completely fine with me, for not only did I get to see a lot of sites inaccessible during non-work-week hours, but my meals were all-expenses paid, in a manner of speaking.


This past Saturday was La Fête de la Musique, a relatively new festival that is rapidly gaining popularity around the world. Designed originally to give the young upstart musicians a chance to display their talents (assuming they exist, which they usually do, in this city), this one-day event has expanded to include even major companies like l'Orchestre de Paris and various opera companies setting up shop en plein air (outside) and giving the citizens and tourists of Paris a chance to experience (for free) the high level of cultural quality for which Paris is known.

It is a great thing, but, like all great things, comes with a cost. Thus, after meeting at Gare du Nord, Dad and I battled for our lives on the Paris metro. Packed closer than Princeton students at the Whitman dining hall on Friday night, we fought for breathing space as the temperature rose above already its finally-summerlike level. Saturday night in Paris on La Fete de la Musique is not the best time to travel.

Immediately after dropping Dad's stuff at the Ramos' appartment (they have been AMAZINGLY helpful and courteous throughout all of this), we stopped for some duck and foie gras at a restaurant and headed over to the Louvre for a free concert of l'Orchestre de Paris. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived, the guards were no longer admitting people (I had thought it would be an outdoor concert, but it wasn't, limiting the amount of available seats), so we contented ourselves with hearing them from outside (Tchaikovsky, we think). Even heard through a glass pyramid, the orchestra was good.

And then it was back home, to sleep before a jam-packed week of sightseeing. Here is the final list (approximately in order): Notre Dame (at night), La Bastille marche, le Jardin de Luxembourg, le Quartier Latin, l'Arc de Triomphe, les Champs-Elysees, Chateau de Fontainebleau (outside Paris), Les Tuileries, les Catacombs, le Musee Carnavalet, le crypte archaeologique, Notre Dame (with mass, during the day), Les Invalides, le Petit Palais, l'Hotel de Ville, la Places des Vosges, la Maison de Victor Hugo, le Musee de Fragonard, Montmartre, Sacre-Coeur, and le Musee d'Orsay. Whew!

It would take way too long to recount all the details of these places, so I will just give you the highlights of the week.

On Sunday night, before going to church at St. Michael's Anglican church , Dad and I decided to walk to l'Arc de Triomphe along the Champs-Elysees. It is an amazing walk. The road starts at La Place de la Concorde, where Napoleon planted an obelisk (now gilded gold, of course--nothing too good for the big man himself) taken from an Egyptian temple. Heading west, one then encounters numerous museums hidden among the trees, hedges, and fountains that compose the parks lining the street. Of course, then comes the shopping district, where historic France and its culture, such as Laduree (famous for its macaroons and confections), meets modern hedonism at its height. Louis Vittan, Gucci, Peugeot (French car manufacturer), boites (nightclubs), McDonald's--all are present on this street, where the world's rich, though present, are superseded in buying power by rich-wanna-bes lulled by the setting into financial euphoria and who have dreamed of buying a Coach bag (to express their own individuality, of course) since the company's inception.

One comes next to l'Arc de Triomphe, France's Tomb of the Unknown soldier, and where Dad and I witnessed some sort of military ceremony occurring (too far away to know what kind). We didn't go any farther, but if one did, one would arrive at La Defense, which one of my Greek friends described as the "New York of Paris." Obviously, she has never been to New York. But let me describe it to you, and those of you who have been can judge for yourselves: I went with some of my Vigie friends on Friday night, around 20h. We were in the middle of the square, surrounded by high-rises and shopping malls. The one shopping mall we explored consisted of four floors, complete with McDonald's, department stores, Starbucks, and even an IMAX theatre. Now, you're probably saying, "Hey, that could be New York." But wait, there's a catch: there was no one there. It was Friday night, all the stores were closed, we were the only ones on the esplanade of the famous La Defense arch, and the pigeons were the only ones making any noise. New York? Not the one that I know.

Anyway, back to les Champs-Elysees. I don't want to sound prudish or uptight; there are lots of good things there, too. Even, for example, Raspberry Meringue Haagen-Daas ice cream and sandwiches on the street. LITERALLY, sandwiches on the street. Dad was looking for a place to throw our empty ice cream dish and, clearly affected by the aura of French eco-amicability, picked up an apparently-empty paper bag to go along with it. The catch? It wasn't empty. Inside was an untouched, innocent-looking baguette sandwich, which, on the Champs-Elysees, would normally cost around 5 euros. It looked like some sort of chicken salad. We sniffed, prodded, and exchanged bemused expressions; the bread was still soft and fresh, and the filling smelled fine.

So we ate it. No effects so far, but if at some point in the future Dad keels over from an internal worm in his digestive system or a latent onset of food poisoning, we all know what it is.

More to come!