Paris, je t'aime

On my way over to the internet cafe just now, I passed by a homeless man standing on a street corner, drinking out of an open bottle of champagne. As I walked towards him on the crowded Saturday sidewalk, he opened his arms wide and started pointing at me, crying, "Bella! Bella! Chez toi ou chez moi?"

I fought hard to not let him see how hard I was laughing, and thought as I walked on that this moment was extremely reflective of my entire time in Paris. The homelessness, everywhere, totally in your face at all times, in every corner in this beautiful city. The champagne, equally ubiquitous, dispensed freely by every single (or not) and interested man in the city; a symbol of both French craftsmanship and the national pride that borders on hubris, and a painful inability to interact normally with the rest of the world. The juxtaposition of the two: luxury and extravagance at every turn, contrasted sharply with a mock destitution and urban misery that darkens every block of the city of light if you're not prepared for it. The sketchy aggressiveness and comedic gregariousness of French men, who have no sense of who's in their league or not, who's a likely date and who's not, asking the obvious question to every girl that passes their way. But more than anything, it was the joie de vivre of the homeless man drinking champagne in the street. But of course he was drinking champagne -- he may be homeless, but he's still French for God's sake. He may sleep on park benches and in Metro stations, and smell like a garbage can, and may not have had a decent meal in weeks, but as long as there is champagne in Paris, he will have the self-assuredness to ask any unassuming woman if she wants to rendezvous with him in the middle of the afternoon.

Ahh, Paris. I have so loved my time here. The early morning runs in the Champ de Mars or the Jardin du Luxembourg; the matinée movies shown before noon to crowded audiences of Parisians who never show up to work before 1pm; the long lunches or afternoon teas in neighborhoods full of character and life, with perpetually snobby waiters (never waitresses); the museums and churches and exhibitions, exuding history with every step; the window shopping that's like an open air museum describing the development of French fashion culture over the last three centuries, exposing the secrets of the Parisienne je ne sais quoi; the amazing concerts and shows at theaters that entertained Napoleon and Josephine, Simone de Beauvoir and Francois Mitterand; the nightlife that never ends in wine bars and seedy pubs and everything in between. Every day in Paris has been a treat, full of unexpected moments of total comedy and deep beauty, meeting people in the most random of places with the most unusual of backgrounds, and coming home to fall asleep in my tiny apartment every night with a big smile on my face recounting the bizarre and hilarious moments, the conversations that now I can't remember whether they happened in French or in English...all I know is that I laughed the whole time.

As I prepare to leave tomorrow for my next adventure, I'm filled with many parting thoughts about Paris. I had a laid back week, soaking up the semi-decent weather by walking around town a lot, and spending most of my money at restaurants endeavouring to eat as much French food as I possibly could before I leave. I put aside many of my moral and/or gag reflex related qualms with a lot of traditional French foods, and, at various restaurants, sampled foie gras, beef cheek, veal in white sauce, escargots, pig's nose, lots of different cheeses and all sorts of desserts. I've inadvertently had a great exposure to champagne as well -- if you sit in a French restaurant long enough by yourself as a young woman, eventually someone always buys you a glass. Often it's the waiter, who warms to you after an hour of gazing at him sweetly with a Miss America grin on your face, but sometimes it's someone from across the bar, or sometimes one of the guys sitting at the table next to you. It's a shame I'm not more of a connoiseur of champagne, because I venture to say I've had more glasses of €100 champagne in the last month than David Waller. (The past month, I said...) I like champagne well enough, but I never get served Veuve Clicquot Demi-Sec, the only one I really enjoy -- the French actually think of Veuve Clicquot like we think of André, or maybe even Franzia. ("Yes, I would like a glass of your finest boxed wine please...") Alors, I can't complain, the culinary experience here has been second to none, and I can't get enough of those three secrets to French cooking: butter, butter, and butter.

I spend a lot of time at my new favorite, Café George V, which sounds like it ought to be really posh and swanky, but is actually kind of a dive. There's almost never anybody there, probably because the food is terrible and over priced; but the waitstaff is a riot, and I love to go and sit for a couple hours listening to them hassle each other and talking to them about their latest exploits. The first time I went, I was greeted coldly by the prematurely graying waiter, and seated at a corner table far away from the bar and everyone else in the restaurant. I only meant to stay for a short time to have a tea and go home, but I became totally engrossed watching the staff: Emmanuel, the lanky black bartender who is constantly performing a stand up routine and acting out almost choreographed slapstick moves for anyone who is watching; Alexis, the blocky, Gallic busboy who provides the laughtrack for Emmanuel and is always ready with a one-liner; and Dominic, the quiet waiter with a boyish face who always looks uncomfortable as he's the main target for Emmanuel and Alexis' jokes, which are quite good natured, of course. I sat around and watched, quietly, for an hour, enjoying the scene, until Dominic, the cold waiter, suddenly came over to my table with a complimentary glass of champagne. I was surprised, and thanked him, and he looked at me blankly before asking, in a quiet monotone, "Where are you from?" I replied, "The United States," and he nodded curtly then walked away quickly. Totally bizarre. I started to sip my champagne, and watched as Dominic walked over to the only table still occupied, to talk animatedly to the two drunk middle aged French women sitting there. I couldn't figure out what was going on, and noticed Emmanuel the Bartender surveying the scene, and then, from across the room, began talking to me. He asked me all sorts of questions, awkwardly requiring me to shout back at him to the other side of the restaurant, and all along kept looking over at Dominic as if expecting him to join in. I was totally mystified - the waiter buys me a drink, but refuses to talk to me, and the bartender engages me in a friendly but overly loud conversation that takes up the whole room. Oh wait... I've seen this before... at junior high dances and in fraternity basements... the bartender was wingmaning for his friend the waiter, who was apparently too shy to come over and talk to me himself, so he just holed up and talked to the much less nerve-wracking cougars across the way. Once I figured this out, I had to bite my lip not to laugh, and from that point on the evening was hilarious. I so often think of French men as so confident and aggressive, it was a funny incongruity to see one acting just like I've seen insecure boys act my whole life. I just sat and watched as the waiter occasionally looked over at me, moved like he might come over and talk to me, and then thought better of it. And the bartender continued to ask me every question he could come up with ("Are you a natural redhead?") hoping he could create an opening for the waiter to jump in. But alas, I guess his nerves got the best of him, and eventually it was late and I needed to go home. I began walking out, stopped at the door to say goodbye to the bartender, and left. As I got to the curb, Dominic came running out of the cafe -- breathlessly he handed me a card with his name and number on it, said goodnight and nothing else, and left me standing there. I laughed the whole way home. Les hommes sont les hommes...

I'm becoming something of a connoiseur, however, of a French specialty called moelleux au chocolat, which is really just molten chocolate cake. Of course, I was kind of an expert in the subject before coming to France, since that's normally what I order at any American restaurant, but the French claim to have invented it so naturally it's much better over here. At Le Petit Retro, where I dined on Thursday, the moelleux had a very nice, soft center, if a somewhat crispy exterior. At Cafe Jaures, the flavor was very good, sweeter than usual, but the center was so liquidy it was impossible to eat with a fork. At Cafe George V, the moelleux tastes like meat. No, really. It tastes like a well-seasoned Christmas beef roast. Perhaps they use bay leaves to season it or something, or maybe the chef there is really just abysmal (more likely). Don't get me wrong, I love meat, probably more than most, and certainly I love a good Christmas rib roast. But in chocolate cake form, it was pretty... well, I don't want to say gross, but off-putting. The blue ribbon must of course go to my favorite little cafe, Au Vieux Colombier, which serves the most perfect, hot, gooey, sweet moelleux in France. (In my heart though, the best molten chocolate cake will always be from EBA's - I have too many fond memories of placing 1:30am phone calls to order a cheese pizza and a chocolate cake after a late night studying on Berry 4, or having too many cups of sherbert punch...)

On Tuesday night I finally made it into a performance of Mozart's opera Idomeneo, playing at the Palais Garnier. The venue was, of course, amazing: the painted ceilings, the gilded walls and boxes over the stage, the red velvet seats. The opera was... well, it was terrible, actually. I hated it. Though I haven't seen many operas in my life, the few that I have seen were consistently entertaining, filled with romance and intrigue, fight scenes and dramatic deaths, so that even if you didn't understand the words of the music you were hooked by the story. Idomeneo, by contrast, was positively boring. Lame costumes, a lame story line, a whole bunch of characters singing "Oh my life is so miserable! Oh Gods why have you cursed me!" and then other characters entering the scene to say "Oh my life is more miserable! The Gods have forsaken me!" It was pretty annoying. The main male character was played by a woman, but none of the other characters were gender transposed, so it just looked kind of cheap. In addition to all of this, the theater was excruciatingly hot, with too many spectators and no air conditioning. Everyone, myself included, was fidgeting in their seats and quietly trying to fan themselves with their programs. I'd had enough, and at intermission (which was an hour and forty five minutes in! Dear God...) I just went home. I don't regret this decision -- I was glad to get the experience of seeing a show in the venerable Palais Garnier, but I didn't need to put myself through the misery of seeing the second act.

Thursday night I went to see another concert with my accountant friend Christian, the National Orchestra again performing Stravinsky, Strauss and Ravel. What I truly enjoy about seeing classical concerts in Paris, especially at old theaters like the Chatelet, is picturing these pieces being performed at their Paris debut. Though almost all musical compositions would have been performed first in Vienna, I think, after that the orchestra -- directed by Mozart, or Beethoven, or Stravinsky -- would go to Paris for its worldwide premier. People would come from all over western Europe, certainly from London and Amsterdam and Paris, to see the latest symphony from Beethoven. And sitting in the same seats where I watched these pieces performed, musical afficionados and upper class elite would hear each masterpiece played for the first time, listening carefully to the new styles and themes and instrumentation, and determine whether the composition was a success or failure. The Stravinsky piece on Thursday, for example, was very poorly received when it was first performed, and I couldn't help but think of the young women, my age, dressed to the nines on the arm of a handsome suitor taking her out to the symphony, who helped to form that public opinion.

After the concert Christian and I had coffee in a restaurant in Saint Germain that was founded in 1686. Three hundred years before I was born! The interior was crazy, filled with paintings that had been there since the opening. As usual, Christian asked me many questions about American culture and life, and how Americans view the French, and general political subjects. When we had finished we prepared to part ways, and I thanked him for all the concerts and coffees and the nice time I had. He likewise thanked me for my time; then, with a slightly guilty look and a mischievous grin, confessed to me that I should know he is a Freemason. A Freemason! Which apparently is a very big deal in France (or maybe just the Freemasons think so), but I didn't really understand the implication. He then said "So obviously, as a Freemason, I am very glad for the information you have given me about Americans and their way of life." Whoa... wtf? Did I just get totally gamed? Did I somehow give away important state secrets about America that will help the Freemasons to completely infiltrate us? I guess I don't really care... knowing Christian has meant lots of free dinners and concerts, great travel advice and more glasses of champagne than I can count... if the only thing I had to exchange for it was the honest revelation that I believe all American boys are greedy, care only about money, and have no other interests outside of their jobs, then so be it. I think I got the better end of the deal.

The bigger coup for me was when, on Wednesday, I was able to finally twist Dan's arm enough to come with me and go ice skating at the Hotel de Ville. He bemoaned that it was "boring" and "lame", and in exchange I had to go see a dreadful French spy movie, called Les Espion(s). (Note that they are trying to trick you with the parenthetical: is there one spy, or many?! I don't know! You will have to see the movie to find out!) It was quite bad, but at least the French actor, Guillaume Canet, is quite hot, so it made the movie pallatable. And ice skating was crazy fun, with dozens of French families out enjoying the sunshine and teaching their preschoolers how to skate. By offering to buy the first drink, I also managed to get Dan to agree to go to a bar last night that wasn't renowned for it's crappy beer, and finally got to try the cocktail bar near my apartment called La Rhumerie. And it was awesome. A bar entirely devoted to rum, with a completely Jamaican themed interior, from the decor to the music to the exclusive serving of Appleton Estate Rum in all their mixed drinks. It was great. Naturally Dan hated it, and we spent the evening, as per usual, arguing about everything -- from women's shoes to the European Union to the concept of nannies. I have never met anybody quite like Dan. We disgree on absolutely everything. And not in an interesting Devil's Advocate kind of way, but in a really frustrating and unpredictable way. Maybe he's just very contrary, but I can never predict how Dan will feel about an issue -- except that he will feel the opposite way I do. Full of contradictions, Dan is a counter-culture Bohemian who wears weird, overly-trendy glasses and vintage clothes, but is a strongly devout Catholic who voted for George Bush twice. He bemoans the influence of the American Ivy elite in politics and business, but graduated summa cum laude from Dartmouth and is headed to Harvard Law School in the fall. He told me matter of factly that all genetically Irish people were ugly. When I was affronted, he didn't apologize, but said I had no right to be offended because I wasn't born in Ireland, and therefore couldn't claim to be Irish. I could go on and on. Sometimes I come up with a topic to discuss, knowing that as a vagabond European traveller who loves underground cinema and listens exclusively to unknown grunge bands, he ought to hold a certain view. But no! He never says what I expect! It is a challenge and a fiasco to know him, and I can only hang out with him for short periods of time before he makes me crazy (I'm sure he feels the same about me, and must think I'm just as contrary for never agreeing with him). But it's nevertheless fascinating to know someone like Dan, who is so unpredictable and so unlike me in every way. It can be fun, if frustrating.

While talking to Christian earlier this week, I was discussing my upcoming trip to Africa, and he asked me if I had gotten all of my vaccines to prepare for it. Oh shit, I thought. I had meant to do it in Boston before I left, and then thought maybe I would just do it in Paris, but completely forgot about it. No worries, he said, just go to Air France and they will take care of you. "Air France? The airline, Air France?" I asked. "Yes, the airline. Just go to the ticket desk - there's one by Invalides - and they will give you your shots." I was extremely skeptical of this, and just figured that something had been lost in translation. But just in case, on Friday I walked over to the ticket agency for Air France to investigate the possibility. I walked in and told the customer service agent that I was going to Africa and needed to get vaccinations. Of course, she said. And with a flash of my passport and a mere twenty five minute wait (it was a four week wait to get in to see a doctor in Boston) I was walked back to a clinical room and prepped to be inocculated for yellow fever, typhoid and Hepatitis A. The two-person medical team in the room asked me a series of straightforward medical questions, in French, before administering the shots. I knew they spoke English, because occasionally they would answer my questions that way, and I thought it was sort of dangerous to have any medical work done without completely understanding what was going on. But the questions seemed simple enough:
"Are you allergic to eggs?"
"Do you have any allergies?"
"Are you on any medications?"
and finally, what I heard as "Vous etes en bon santé?" which means, "You are in good health?" I nodded confidently, and to my surprise, the young male doctor looked shocked, and then extremely quizzical. The older, woman doctor looked at me very gravely, and said, "Mademoiselle, I'm sorry but we cannot give you the vaccinations." "Why not?!" I asked. "C'est tres mal pour le bébé," she replied. It was my turn to be quizzical. "Uh... quelle bébé?" I asked. The young doctor leaned forward and asked his question again, but this time I was able to hear what he really said: "Vous etes expectanté?" Oh, oh no, no no no no. I laughed, and tried to explain the miscommunication, which required a fair amount of charades to clear up the confusion. I received my shots in good order, and feel very happy that I finally got that out of the way and don't have to worry about it going forward.

And now, I won't leave you in suspense any longer. I so, so, appreciate everyone who gave me advice and recommendations on where to go next. I can't even tell you how nice it is to receive travel advice from seasoned travellers, it really means a lot to me. So after a lot of thought and shopping around for hotels and train tickets, I finally decided that all advice leads to... Rome. After a two day ski trip to Chamonix Mont Blanc in the alps, I'll be spending the rest of next week in the Eternal City before heading to Ireland. Thanks for the advice, and it was really, really nice to hear from everyone!

Goodbye, Paris. And thank you. I loved every minute.