Paris, City of…well you know.
11:41 PM, 9-2-06
Paris. Oh, Paris. It doesn’t take an ounce of imagination to see as clear as day why it is known as the city of love. Like a fine wine, it gets better with time, infusing with taste, color, and age. Elegance and romance, modern styles, it’s unlike any other city I’ve visited, which is not to say it is better, but merely that it is in a whole other realm.
Let me begin by continuing where I left off, the death-defying plane landing. Now one problem arises out of taking a budget airline. That problem is the use of low budget airports out in the middle of frickin’ nowhere. So by “Paris,” the Ryanair website actually meant “you have to get a bus for twelve euros and ride an hour to get to Paris.” Anyway, I caught the bus and was deposited in the middle of Paris.
Now this is where things get really interesting. “The middle of Paris” actually means nowhere near anything of important with which I might orient myself and find a hostel. This was my first experience in a place that truly spoke another language. My time in Fiji didn’t really count because everyone there spoke English. To say I was a little intimidated is to put it lightly. Terrified, that might be coming closer. So basically, this bus dropped me off at a parking lot that wasn’t even a real bus station. To make matters more interesting (we won’t go so far as to say worse), I had no map of Paris—nay—no travel guide at all! This, I realized at about that moment, was a biiiiig mistake. I knew all of about two French phrases: “do you speak English” and “I don’t speak French.” This excludes the basic “thank you,” “hello,” “yes” and the more complicated, “no.” I considered myself a master of these difficult phrases and felt obliged to use them even when talking to someone in English. So, for example, I went to a bookstore (an adventure unto itself!), and despite a combination of basic English and gesturing, I still felt authoritative in saying my “Merci!” And it was a damn good “Merci,” which I would perfect over the next two days.
So while in this bookstore, I bought a cheap map and then sat with one of their Lonely Planet Paris guides, trying to decipher where the heck I was. Eventually I accomplished this, ensuring also that I knew where my desired hostel was. Here is where the biggest mistake of the day comes. Now you’re probably thinking, wow, he’s done some pretty dumb things today, what could be worse. Well, I’ll tell you: walking—walking—across Paris. Not the whole city, but enough. I was vaguely near the Arc d’Triumph (a truly magnificent sight), though by the time I reached it (this was only the beginning of my trek), I was already too tired from carrying my backpack to truly appreciate the grandeu of the arch. (I’ll be going back). Tiredness quickly descended into exhaustion as I walked across the city for what I expected would be a long journey, though nowhere near the 2 hours it took! I can attest to the fact that Paris truly does look amazing, even in a state of delirium. And then, even as sweat dripped from my eyelashes, stinging my eyes, I found myself completely unable to locate my hostel.
Eventually I tracked down a tourism office and found someone to help me. The hostel was nice, but overpriced (more on this fact when I get to discussing the bed and breakfast in Bayeux). The hostel also had this ridiculous system of one key, so that when you left, you were supposed to turn in the key for someone else to take in when they returned. I like hostels with a kind of young, communal feel, but this place was just lacking. I was so exhausted though, it could have been a shack with a cot and I would have been content. I immediately took to the biggest priority (no, not sleep, if that’s what you were thinking), but instead, a shower. Oh yes, a shower. Remember I’d slept at an airport the night before. It was a good shower, but not the best. (also more to come when I talk about the bed and breakfast). Feeling clean and refreshed, I sorted through some stuff and then headed out to explore the city unencumbered by my fifty-pound backpack.
It was already late afternoon by this time, so I decided to get a little visit to a museum in. I picked the Musee d’Orsay. The gallery was filled with all kinds of arts, but most especially the impressionist artists. Numerous paintings from greats such as Monet and Van Gough encircled the galleries, making one feel totally overwhelmed by the art and majesty of the works. I’m a real fan of impressionism, especially Monet’s works. Staring into his paintings and those of others, I felt absorbed, as though I could almost step into—or perhaps fall into—the painting. Even though impressionist art is not particularly detailed, something about the depth of the strokes and colors incites my imagination and makes it seem almost real. I felt as though for each painting, I could write a story, and if I’d had more than an hour and a half to see everything, I just might have. Unfortunately, I had to be brief and enjoy things for the memories they gave me.
More to come on the Eiffel Tower…
Tags: Europe, France, language, Musee D'Orsay, Paris, Ryanair, Travel
gregbilsland
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