...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!