Paris - Part 10, Innocents in Paris

You don't really know Paris until you decide to just take a map, go out, and wander the streets.  Truly, I would challenge any visitor to just take a city map and meander from point to point using street names or features as some kind of orientation.  This is not the easiest feat, since many street names are a few stories up, but it makes for fantastic adventures. For Mom and me, it was a comedy of errors.  We got hopelessly lost, meandering past landmark stores, chocolate shops, places where luminaries would go.  

Grand Palais

We covered a lot of ground this day, passing the Grand Palais which is another art museum housed in a building dating from the same World’s Fair featuring the Eiffel Tower.  We passed a poignant sculpture of Winston Churchill which looked like a Rodin (but wasn’t) featuring his famous quote: “We will never surrender.”   I paused to look at it and wondered what Winston would make of the modern Paris his tenacity helped to save. 

Pont Alexander Bridge Ornament

View from Pont Alexander

Winston Churchill

Finally, we reached the Champs Elysees which is perhaps one of the longest, widest streets I have ever walked along or across.  It is an amazing street, packed with people, and took us the better part of an hour to span it.  At the very top is the Arc de Triomphe, standing watch over what is effectively the “Times Square” of Paris.  High fashion, trendy shops, chain stores, expensive things line the street.   I mentioned crowds, and it was very much like Shibuya crossing … but in a much larger space.  Shibuya times five, maybe.

Looking back towards the Louvre in the distance

Crowded corner

The Arc de Triomphe was impressive to look at, but we didn’t get too close.  I had this picture in my mind, an old movie from World War II of our GI’s passing beneath this arch and down the street behind me.  It was to be a prophetic first glimpse into our later journey to Normandy.  

Arc from a distance

Arc de Triomphe from the middle of the Elysees

I was on the look out for pickpockets, and my attention was well warranted.  We were approached twice in our journey.  The first time was at the D’Orsay when a harmless little fuzzball of a man passed us by and suddenly stopped, picking up a ring.  He wondered if it belonged to us and offered it out.  Immediately, I knew this was a scam and ordered him to leave.  I honestly thought he was going to take the rings off my mother, when in truth if we’d taken it he would have pestered us to no end. 

Fountain in a park

The second time was on the way back from the Arc.   I passed a very pretty young woman, who of course wanted me to sign her little form and steal my money.  I insisted NO and kept on.  Mom was not two yards behind me and the woman started for her.  As my mom insisted NO the young woman started to click her lips and move in tandem with my mother’s own movements.  Thankfully, she side stepped the girl and continued on.

I will tell you right then and there, I would have tackled that girl to the ground if she’d laid one finger on my mom.  I don’t care if I would have gotten arrested for assault.  I was so sick and bloody tired of people like her and the whole experience of dealing with the complete lack of any care or concern of it.  It did leave a very poor impression of French security, and I hearken back to my original post on that subject.

I really don’t know how the Parisians live there dealing with this 24/7.   It’s really too bad, but probably no worse than any big city anywhere but the fact of these things soured my mood on the city.  These are things Parisians could easily fix. And they probably will, hopefully soon.  When they do they can make their city a true jewel once again if they addressed these things. 

Our day concluded with a wonderful meal purchased from what was essentially a grocery store.  It was a gorgeous little place in which everything looked delicious.  We ate at the hotel breakfast area and managed to drag poor Dad downstairs.  I felt sorry for the hotel employees who looked at us as if we were the strangest people on Earth to be having a “picnic” indoors. 

Tomorrow would be a new day and a new leg of our adventure.  We were leaving Paris behind, to begin the true start of our journey in France.   Beyond, stretched a lot that was unknown when we would leave the city of Paris behind. 

My final thoughts on Paris:  It's beautiful, huge and I want to go back.  Like Tokyo, there's a lot to see, a lot to understand and delve into.  We only brushed the tip of the iceberg.  For all that I harp on the pickpockets, the litter, the graffiti, Paris stands on the world stage.  The problems I witnessed could be fixed, but they are long standing and rooted in a different culture.  Paris has such treasures to behold.  It is where our country came to find its own enlightenment centuries ago and we still have roots there today.   

Paris is a golden jewel, glittering and catching the subtlest light.  As a writer, I dared to walk in the footsteps of Joyce, Scott, and Hemmingway.  As an American, I stood where John Adams and Ben Franklin conversed with kings.   I sat at the foot of Rodin and stared into the fearsome eyes of Van Gogh.  These things will shimmer in my memory, beautiful and seductive as Mona Lisa's smile.

Looking back on the Eiffel

Paris - Part 9, Rodan, Musee D'orsay and the search for a pharmacy

What is on his mind?

In all my years of traveling, I have only been ill once on a trip.  Every other time I’ve been exceedingly lucky and healthy.   My parents are usually the same, but unfortunately this time and this trip to France my Dad and I would not be so (at the time I didn’t know I was getting sick as well).    Mom and I got up and the first thing we did was ask for directions to a pharmacy that would be open on a Sunday.

This was no small feat.  Most everything shutters and closes on Sundays.  Food alone can be hard to find.  Our first chance eluded us, but Mom was persistent and we tried to ask inside a larger Hotel.  Thankfully, they were very gracious and gave us directions to a Pharmacy that did indeed have stuff to help Dad.  

On our way back, we passed through beautiful old neighborhoods very different from everything else we’d seen.  There were little cafes, pleasant shops, and the streets were nice and wide.  Mom pointed out two cafes in particular that were haunts of Hemmingway and other writers.  It just so happened we’d found them, and only because Dad needed medicine.

Once he was situated in his convalescence, Mom and I were on our own.  We decided to not pass up a chance and at least wanted to go see the Musee D'orsay and the Rodan Museum.  Looking over the map it didnt look to far to walk.  If we felt ambitious, we might even head up past the Grand Palais and to the Champs Elysees before landing at the Arc De Triumph.  

On paper it made sense, and we could turn around and head back any time so long as we stuck to the main streets.   Mom thought it was a good idea, so with the map firmly in my hand, armed only with a vague knowledge of everything around us, the two of us headed out into the "wild" unknown of Paris.

To be honest I was rather scared.  I was in charge not only of finding our way, but keeping Mom safe.  Our experiences so far with French security and Police presence made me honestly fear we’d get mugged and no one would bat an eye.  I had to put these concerns aside, and kept mom close as we headed first to the Musee D’orsay.  I apologize for a lack of pictures inside, but they didn't allow photography.  

I have to admit right now, everything I knew about the D’orsay I learned from watching one episode of Doctor Who, when The Doctor met Vincent Van Gogh.  Indeed the Museum houses his work, along with hundreds of other works of painters, sculptors, furniture makers etc.  From the outside it’s a huge and gracious building, and inside its monumentally cavernous.  

The whole place is a former train station, complete with huge clocks on the outside and inside.  There is no photography allowed inside, and at first I was relieved.   This, I thought, would solve my problem at the Louvre where people would not actually pause to appreciate the art.   Unfortunately, I was wrong.   

There was plenty of splendid art on the inside of the D’orsay, including a whole wing of Impressionists.  Mom especially liked the Renoirs, while I was more taken with the Monets.  The real thing I came for though, was the Van Gogh.  I thought there was a whole wing dedicated to all of his paintings.  In truth, it was just a small room and maybe about six paintings.   I didn’t mind the smallness, but again, I was going off of Doctor Who which had a huge room with everything in it.  Obviously theirs was an embellishment.

There was no “Starry Night” and no “Sunflowers” but there was his Self Portrait, which was the one painting among all of them that struck me the most.  Van Gogh had a wonderful way of looking at the world for as tortured a man as he was.  He globbed color onto everything, and is considered a Post-impressionist, and I could see why.  His art lacks the subtle softness of Monet, but the colors are far more impressive.  

The portrait of Van Gogh was best viewed in three stations.  First from far away: Van Gogh seems soft, muted, almost smiling.  The tone is pleasant and the globs not so obvious.  Next was halfway: Van Gogh became more intense, focused, stern and the globs of paint more obvious, giving texture.  Finally was up close, right at the cusp of the wall.   Here, the intensity of his stare is hypnotic.  The artist stares into your soul and you feel his presence in the painting.   It was truly wonderful to see. 

I mentioned before there was no photography, well, people were taking photos … right in front of museum staff.  It wasn’t as bad as the Louvre, but it was still distracting.  At one point, I watched a man reach out and physically TOUCH one of the paintings.  Thankfully it was under glass, but the woman curator next to it didn’t bat an eye.  I stared at my mother and asked, “What is with these people?  Don’t they –care- about anything?”

I was honestly underwhelmed by the D’orsay, but our next destination of Rodan was much more to my liking.  I was tired of crowds, and insisted we be relegated to the garden where his larger sculptures are housed.  

Rodan Museum with the Invalides building int he background

They were all very impressive, huge and imposing bronze statues.  All Rodans seem to be in motion, though they are quite still.  There is movement in their faces, in their clothes, in their bodies, even “The Thinker.” While he sits in repose, has his mind in movement. 

Repose

Such a strange angle of the neck

Wrestlers

A portrait of an artist friend of Rodan.  I like the reclining angle of the main figure.

There is an almost wraithlike quality to this statue.

I took this because I couldn't help but make the "butt of a joke" reference.

The gardens were very lovely, but the most impressive sculpture by far is the “Gates of Hell.”  It incorporated several other statues, including “The Thinker” in its design.  He sits on the precipice of the gate, and above him are three other figures standing atop the gate. 

Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

I couldn’t help but wonder if “The Thinker’s” meditations were upon these images.  He sat upon one section with the worries and wars of the world behind him, while below was only torment and despair.  It’s a startling, very moving scene and I was all too happy that this particular portal was closed.    If "The Thinker" is Rodan's most recognized piece, the "Gates of Hell" is his masterpiece.  It contained many small representations of many sculptures did, most of them in the garden.

The Thinker on the Gates of hell

Figures in agony

It was a foreboding interlude to what would turn out to be a very interesting tour of the heart of Paris.  (To be continued!)

Close up of a portrait of several artists, I found it interesting this man was gazing behind the others in his group.  These are also on the gates of hell.

Paris - Part 8, Play on Light

Vacations are never easy, no matter how hard we try.  I could have been very satisfied with my trip to France just in seeing Versailles, but despite how tired we were the three of us decided to continue on.   We caught the train back to Paris, and headed to the church of Saint Chapelle which is inside what is essentially the French Supreme court. 

The building itself used to be a royal palace, and it’s nicely sized and not so imposing as the Louvre, though I imagine it used to be back in the day.  Inside we saw magnificent stained glass on the second floor.   It was a symphony of light that exceeded even Notre Dame and in a much smaller space.  Its certainly impressive despite the size of the church itself.

Supposedly this church houses the holy relic known as the Crown of Thorns.   The legend goes that the crown was the same one used to mock Jesus on the cross, and that it was brought back to France during the crusades.   The crown is only on display twice a year, but the church alone is worth seeing.

It’s another flight up narrow steps to reach the sanctuary, which rests above a small and far less impressive medieval space, but I felt it was well worth it.  There was some reconstruction, but I could take in each window without too much disruption. 

After this I suggested we walk over to Shakespeare and Company, a writing landmark that dates back to the 20’s and which housed such legends as James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway and other luminaries of their day.   The original building was lost in the war, and this one re-opened to try to capture the essence of the original.  I thought it would be a very cool little place, and that I could buy a book there.

What I found was a tiny bookstore that was more tourist trap than actual store.  There was no real charm, no place to sit and talk.  There were tons of people there simply to see it and it really was no Rhyme or reason to any of the books.  Hemingway, Joyce etc would be ashamed to see this place.   The title, “Shakespeare and Company” seems just a formality.   Maybe I was just tired and cranky, and maybe without crowds it would have been better, but it disappointed me as a writer who looks to such legendary predecessors.  

Upon returning to the hotel we decided to ask for a new recommendation.  After all, we'd had luck the previous day. This time we were sent in the opposite direction of “Le Bonne Excuse” almost literally.  It was a very traditional, very French restaurant much larger and with far more employees. The hostess INSISTED on a tip….something we had never experienced before and would never experience after in all of France.  Tipping is already included customarily, I think she was just looking to get more money.  We just paid to get out of there. 

The host was a “charming” man, whose warm and gracious smile could vanish in an instant turning away from you.  We certainly excused a problem with communication, but he brought us the wrong drinks, the wrong food, the wrong everything.  It was expensive too, and at two hours long it was just an ordeal.   At least it put perspective to our wonderful time at “Le Bonne Excuse.” 

The owners of that restaurant may have been on a quieter street, with a smaller restaurant, but they left no detail to chance.  They were there, they were friendly, and they were genuinely appreciative.  The food was so good, the atmosphere so warm.    

It wasn't the worst food we had by far, but it wouldn't be a trip to a foreign country without such an experience.  Unfortunately, it would be the harbinger of some things to come.  My Dad had a tickle in his throat, and he ordered whiskey to try to help.  Both my Mom and I looked to one another with dread.  Dad was getting sick on our vacation.  

We, the writers who are about to die, salute you

I have stepped on this battlefield before.  These sands dark with the blood of those who came before me.  The air is still fresh with sweat and toil- sounds of anguish, despair, triumph rise around me.  A crowd of thousands, eyes watching, eager for their bloodsport.  I stand tall, defiant, eyeing the emperors in their box- the senators in their stands, the common folk rabble rousing all around.  I lift my sword and speak.  "We, the writers who are about to die, salute you!"

So it feels today in the world of publishing, of writing, but then again, how has it been any different to those who came before or will come after?  We are here not by our own choice, but by a passion, that insatiable hunger.  Gladiators might have sought glory, and so do writers and we face very similar, almost insurmountable challenges.   Winning favor with those publishers (emperors) in the box, or those agents (Senators) in the stands and especially the crowd (readers) is no easy feat.  We have to know how to walk, how to talk, how to wield our weapon of writing.  Strike hard, strike the heart, draw the blood, quick decisive- yielding only to their desire.

Our enemies of course, are fellow gladiator writers   We spar, one against the other, vying for attention, for affection. Our criticism is our sword, our self-worth a shield.  We clothe ourselves in the armor of words and wield them just the same as weapons.

 If it is not the writers, then it is the beasts of the arena, our own writing that we must face.  These are wild untameable forces that are unleashed upon us to the joy of fellow gladiators and the crowd.  Those beasts can maul and tear just as much as the sword can, our armor of paper and ink easily yields to the doubt of our own words.

The history says, that once in a while, a gladiator was given a wooden sword by an emperor, in due diligence of service and honor of worth.  This signified and end to their servitude, a release from the bloody arena.  Writers don't have this proverbial weapon or way out.  While we may withdraw from writing, it remains like a fire in our veins that can't be put out.  We are proverbial slaves to the craft, chained to the arena.

It is a very bloody business, this writing, and like gladiators, you see very few who succeed. Our bodies usually are bruised and broken long before that, we are slain, or we fight on.  Once in a great while though, one gladiator bests the odds, bests the rest, and oh how the crowd swells in his or her presence.  The rumbling roar, that trembling earth, it shakes the foundations of the soul! How can others, waiting in the pits for their chance in the arena deny it?  They have a chance, surely, for the same glory!

Perhaps they do, perhaps they don't.  Only the crowd, the gods, can say.