Getting my feet wet

I arrived in Paris Monday afternoon, and after navigating my way through ever-confusing Charles de Gaulle, with its endless baggage carousels and pushy taxi drivers, I found my way to the train taking me to the city. Once in St-Germain-de-Près, the lovely, student-dominated shopping district in the Latin Quartier, I made my way to my new apartment, at the corner of Rue du Four and Rue Bonaparte, nestled conveniently between MaxMara and Burberry. (The neighbors somewhat belie the, uh, quality, of my apartment). I entered the building code and walked into a poorly lit, tiled hallway to what looked like the building office at the far end. I opened the door on a frizzy-haired Frenchwoman in a room that reeked of cigarette smoke, sitting on a couch with a yappy lap dog watching French soap operas. "Mademoiselle Sullivan?" she asked. "Oui," I replied, and she handed me a key that very well could have been used to lock dungeons in the 14th century. Determinedly trying to interpret her all-French directions, I wandered into the rainy courtyard behind the building, through a rusty door and began climbing the spiral wooden staircase up six flights. On about the fourth floor, I was stopped by a middle aged couple, who began rambling excitedly to me in French. When I didn't appear to understand, they looked at each other and abruptly changed languages. "We are... Jehovah's witnesses... yes? We would like to talk to you about ze... ze hope!" Huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs, I politely explained that I had just arrived and now was not a good time. They promised to come and find me later.
Once on the sixth floor, I realized there were at least ten apartments on the floor and I hadn't been told my number. At first I tried to match my key to the locks on the door, awkwardly running into another American girl as she left her apartment, and finally decided to go back down and ask. A second trip up the stairs, I found number 4 and tried to open the door. No luck. The lock kept moving, but the door wouldn't open. After twenty minutes of body slamming the door and trying every which way to open it, I was about to give up when I heard a bizarre ripping sound as I pushed. I pushed even harder, and it finally opened -- revealing that it had been sealed with duct tape along the edges (to prevent burglary? seriously? duct tape? sigh...). Once I got past the door, I got my first glimpse of the apartment. It is... charmant. The tiniest apartment I have ever seen, it is difficult to turn in a circle with both elbows out without hitting the walls on all sides, and has barely enough floor space for the double mattress that occupies it. It does, however, have hot water, a private bath, a stove, and a television that gets one English station, Sky News. C'est parfait.
After settling down, I decided to go hunting for an internet cafe. It was pouring rain out, so I donned my coat and grabbed an umbrella, and decided to just walk aimlessly through the Latin Quartier, assuming that in a student-dominated neighborhood internet cafes would be abundant. Not so. An hour later, starving, with soaking wet feet, I returned to my apartment exhausted and without having sent a single email. I made a small pot of cheese tortellini that I had picked up at Bon Marché, and concluded it was time to just go to bed.
On Wednesday I woke up refreshed, and renewed my search for an internet cafe, this time with a guide book. Finding Cybercafé Latin, I tried unsuccessfully to get international service for my phone (grr, why didn't I do this before I left?). I then set out to do some more exploring in the neighborhood. I quickly realized I needed something to eat, so I headed for lunch at Les Deux Magots, the quaint restaurant where Ernest Hemingway spent long afternoons overlooking la Rue St Germain de Près and writing A Moveable Feast. Although lunch was delicious (a grilled chicken and cheese sandwich), French food is definitely making me yearn for more fresh vegetables. In the afternoon I grabbed a Metro and made my way to Musée d'Orsay for my first foray into French museuming. Having been before and with the whole afternoon ahead of me, this seemed like the place to start. The museum turned into a voyage of self-discovery, or, more accurately perhaps, discovery of my annoyance with both American tourists and modern art. I spent three hours casually browsing the halls and galleries of d'Orsay with my audioguide, literally getting lost in the five floors of paintings and sculpture. (For the record, this museum is actually really confusing. I don't recommend going unless you really do have all day. On multiple occasions I overheard this conversation between an American tourist and a curator: "Where can I find the (insert artist name here) gallery?"
"It is on the fifth floor."
"But I thought this was the fifth floor."
"No madame, this is the second floor.")
I had to start creating landmarks like "Drunk guy playing flute" and "Bridge with trees" in order to find my way around.
I took away a few important observations: first, I think I am much more interested in artifacts than I am art. I could spend days staring at the altarpiece of Ghent, or the crown jewels in London, but for the most part, paintings just don't do it for me. Second, and probably fairly obviously, I'm not much inclined toward any art post-1800. Being that I in fact majored in early modern European history, this seems not surprising, though I was surprised to find that I am completely unmoved by anything Van Gogh, Monet, or Renoir. This is somewhat fortunate, since these are the galleries that are the most crowded with "checklist" Americans, endeavouring to see only the things that are familiar to them so they can brag in the future that they've "seen Starry Night in person." (I know I sound totally obnoxious, but then, so do they). The Musée d'Orsay, then, is not really the place for me. But I'm glad I figured that out early on so I don't waste much time in Impressionist museums, and can instead focus on La Musée du Moyen Age, which should be right up my alley.
Obviously there are many museums that await in Paris (and the rest of Europe), so I'm trying to space them out so as not to get museum fatigue. Today is a rest day (or maybe a shopping day!).