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.