I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 5)

See London, I See France (Pt. 5) "If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"

Dear friends,

I invite you to once again don your flowing white robes, and join me as we frolic in the rose hued fields of memory.

When we last parted, I was stepping onto the train that would take me from Normandy to Paris. Having survived a couple of visits to Paris previously, I hoped that this one would not prove to be my demise. Why the trepidation? There is madness in the world, and that madness is Paris. Frankly speaking, while some cities are a cultural smorgasbord, Paris is a cultural orgy. Whenever approaching Paris, I fear that I may be transformed into some hideously obsessed fiend of the arts, wandering empty side streets, mumbling about post-impressionism when anyone asks me what I want on my baguette.

With a cautious mind, I arrived at Saint Lazare Station, and made my way over to Gare du Nord, where I was going to be meeting Joern's train. Many of you have probably heard me talk about Joern before, but for those who have not the pleasure, a brief introduction is in order: Joern is Germany's foremost expert on the American Civil War. I am allowed to declare him as such, because I have also issued a declaration declaring my right to declare such things... and to speak in something akin to the twisted tongue of Orwellian un-speak, apparently.

Anyway, I arrived at Gare de Nord, and immediately began to indulge in the voyeuristic sport of watching train station reunions. Paris is the perfect place to do this, because as we all know, the French have very few qualms about making out in public... and whatever qualms they may have are immediately sent to their doom at Place de la Concorde when they appear.

I wasn't sure what platform Joern was arriving on, but was drawn to a certain one by a large group of Gendarmes (Translation: "Guys with big guns") gathering there. I figured this must certainly be Joern's train, and indeed, upon closer inspection of the sign, it was. Joern's train was set to arrive in a few minutes... via Belgium. Of course, when Joern arrived a few minutes later, I asked him, "Joern, what's up with the Germans always coming to Paris through Belgium?" Joern, being the knowledgeable guy that he is, knew the answer of course, and explained to me that it's simply a very pleasant route, and it's popularity hasn't waned since World War One. So, there you have it.

Under cloudy skies, we set off to find the street of Pierre Dupont, where Ellie had taken up residence. Yes, in fact, this is the same Ellie that appeared in part one of this travelogue in London. I see Ellie all over the place, because... well, that's how she rolls, right Ellie? In fact, Ellie was going to be spending the semester in Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and just happened to arrive in Paris at the right time to offer lodging to her freeloading American friend, Peter (Thanks, Ellie!).

It began to rain, and we wandered around on La Rue De Strasbourg in the 10th District, asking anybody and everybody if they knew where Pierre Dupont was. We didn't have much luck until we flagged down a businessman who was about to run across the street. I bellowed, "EXCUSEZ MOI, MONSIEUR!" and he came back to respond. The gentleman not only gave us directions, but pulled a map out of his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes explaining them. Very nice. Clearly, since the American media keeps telling me that French people hate us, it must have been the presence of Joern, the German, that prompted this random act of kindness... right Joern : ) ?

We eventually found our way to Ellie and Nick's place (Nick is Ellie's roomate), and discovered they had a trendy little cafe right next door that was stocked with all the libations a good cafe should have.

Ellie's Apartment! Any place where Ellie sets up residence is an intriguing and cool place to hang out, because Ellie's intrigue and coolness wears off on it. Add to this her cool friends, and I never wanted to go bed at night... and often, did not until the early hours of the morning. I think the first night I was up until about 4:30 before finally conceding to my fatigue, despite the fact that I wanted to keep conversing.

Needless to say, when I attempted to get up at 8:30 the next morning, it took several tries. I eventually got to Joern's hotel, and was invigorated by the cheerful good morning of the desk manager, clearly the most peppy man in Paris. When Joern had checked in the day before, he had thought we were checking in together, and had quoted us the price of "Vingt-Neuf Euros!" On seeing that I was leaving, he made sure to inform us excitedly, "Pas vingt-neuf Euros! Juste vingt-cinq Euros!" Joern and I nodded and smiled. "Pas vignt-neuf! Vignt cinq!"

After I took some uppers to get me going, and chased them down with some whiskey, Joern and I headed off to Pere LaChaise cemetary.

Here are some highlights from Paris:

Pere LaChaise: Pere LaChause is the final resting place of most legendary Frenchmen and Frenchwomen except Zola, Rousseau, and the other folks in the Pantheon. Of course, there is also the occasionally rock star, like Jim Morrison. All you have to do to find Jim Morrison's grave is locate the spot in the cemetery where you're surrounded by security guards. Apparently Jim gets all the security because a bust of him that was located at his grave was stolen some years ago; well, that and the fact that Chopin fans, for example, don't tend to get rowdy and destroy stuff as much as Morrison fans... unless of course you play them the second piano concerto, at which point all hell breaks loose. We wandered around the cemetery for hours, and that is to say, we saw about ten percent of it.

La Place de la Bastille: The location of the most famous monument in Paris that doesn't exist now pays homage to its past notoriety in an unusual way; instead of getting imprisoned there for political dissidence, you can imprison yourself in your own vices! The place is filled with trendy bars, restaurants, and S&M chambers erected in memory of the Marquis de Sade.

That guy that yelling in the street: Joern and I were wandering down the street near La Place de la Republique discussing the Republican party's departure from traditional conservatism, as one does, when a man suddenly yelled, "I HATE GEORGE BUSH!". The ensuing conversation went something like this:
PETER: Um, okay.
YELLING MAN: I HATE GEORGE BUSH!
PETER: Okay.
YELLING MAN: Do you have any American cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: That's too bad, because it would be nice thing for you to give me an American cigarette.
PETER: Yes, I suppose it would be.
YELLING MAN: Have you tried French cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: You know what you should do? You should buy some French cigarettes and bring them back to your friends.
PETER: Most of them don't smoke either.
YELLING MAN: Oh. Good day.
PETER: Good day.

The vestiaire at the Louvre: If you're an American and you speak a foreign language, people will be impressed. If you're an American and you speak French, people may just think you're from another planet. The conversations tend to go like this:

PETER: Bonjour, monsieur. J'ai besoin de mon sac a do.
EMPLOYEE: Bonjour. You speak French?
PETER: I try.
EMPLOYEE: But you are not French?
PETER: No.
EMPLOYEE: Are you Quebecois?
PETER: No, I'm American.
EMPLOYEE: American?! Why do you speak French?
PETER: Because it's "la belle langue"; I was born to speak it.

At this point, another couple of museum employees arrive, and hear the other employee and I speaking French. They begin talking amongst themselves

"Ah, he speaks French! Is he Quebecois?"
"No, he's American."
"American?! Why does he speak French?"

Yes, folks, you can be Dutch, speak five languages, and nobody will bat an eye, but if you're an American and you can speak anything besides English, you're some sort of fascinating anomaly : ) .

The vestiaire at Le Musee de Picasso: The collective surprise that I spoke French, and yet, was not from Quebec, also led to an extended conversation at this museum's coat-check. As it turned out, the gentleman working behind the counter had been to Madison! He had liked the city, and asked me to remind him what sort of products our state specilizes in. I told him we make nipple products. Uh...... yeah, there's another one for the books. As you probably guessed, I was trying to say "dairy products". Alas!

Well, that's all for now. Next, we'll be off to the Med!

Peter