The second day of the Trip to Paris dawned bitterly cold, but at least with some sun. The hotel provided a typical continental breakfast and making my first Café Au Lait with real French coffee, proved to be an “eye opening” experience. Meeting some of the others who were at the hotel as well, equally eye opening, since none of us could actually talk to each other….
A copy of the French Metro map provided the first obstacle of the day, I would need a Carte Visite for my stay in Paris, and the only place to buy one was at the nearby Metro station.
It went like this: “Pardon Monsieur? Parlez-Vouz Anglais?”
“Uh non Madame”
hmmm okay……He doesn’t speak English. With a combination of my broken French and hand gestures I managed to get across that I wanted a Carte Visite for five days, so that I Can use the Metro, the Trains and the Busses in Paris on an Unlimited basis.
Then I ask him how to get to the Louvre. He says something, sounds like grreee-eh-grrrr. I don’t get it. I smile, thank him anyway and walk away from the counter, figuring it’s the Louvre, how hard can it be to find? Then it hits. RER!(That's the above ground train system, as opposed to the metro which runs underground mostly, like a subway) Like a bolt of lightening, his pronunciation takes hold. He’s saying RER. I turn; I visit him with a blinding smile.
“You mean RER?! You meant RER!” There is excitement in my voice, I GET IT, I understand him! Unfortunately my communications high is soon dissipated because he doesn’t think it’s a big deal that I Can pick out three French letters from his conversation with me. Besides, I’m now looking at the map, and the RER makes no sense at all, better to take the Metro. Lord knows where he was sending me.
The Metro.
Beautiful, clean, shiny, easy to find your way around, I board a train go to Nation station, which is a central hub and there in even I can read French, Louvre.
The Metro brings you directly into the museum itself, a huge HUGE cavern of a place, but I’ve studied, I know what I want to see first.
Approaching the ticket kiosk hesitantly, I ask “Parlez-vous Anglais?”
“Mais Oui!” says she. Somehow, I don’t think an answer in French to my question of “do you speak English” is a particularly auspicious start. But I dive in anyway, asking about the ticket price and do I need separate tickets to see only the SULLY galleries or does one admission cover all?
She looks perplexed, and then points to another kiosk. An Information booth. Apparently, it’s okay for her to talk to me in English, but not to answer a question.
I make my way thru the now enlarging crowd to the info booth, ask my question and get told, “nope, one ticket, whole museum all day. Have a wonderful visit!”
Grrr Back to the ticket lady. Why couldn’t she have told me that?! Grrr again. I buy a ticket. 49 Francs, a bargin as far as I’m concerned, I have waited all my life to see some of the things contained in this place.
First stop, before the crowds get too heavy is the Mona Lisa. I breeze past centuries of art in order to beat the rush, fully planning to come back and see things properly. Mona is smaller than I thought it was and already only minutes after the gallery opening surrounded by a troop of Japanese tourists. About a hundred of them, each one intent on standing in the one spot where you can get a decent photo of Mona and having their own picture taken. I wait, I bide my time and then zip in snap a picture, which includes of course, a Japanese tourist…Grrrrr.
Five tries later, I finally have a clear view of Mona. On the up side, I have four other photos of the Japanese paying homage to Mona. :sigh:
Now, it’s off to see the Venus DeMilo. You know she of no arms, and on the way to get to her, I am stopped literally in my tracks as I make my way up yet another set of stairs to be confronted with Winged Victory of Samothrace, from Greece, about 190BC. You’ve seen her a thousand thousand times, but to see her, there are simply no words. I am spell bound, awestruck and for the first time I begin to take a serious look around me.
Centuries of art surround me, and the whispers of things so long past that they are inconceivable to me begin to intrude on my thoughts. Who looked at her while she was being built? Who touched her? Who watched this block of marble find it’s features …oh I am swept away. And find, suddenly tears on my own cheeks. I have heard of this happening to others, being so moved by beauty and I have seen some beautiful things in my life, but never, never have I been moved to tears. Today I am. Room after room I explore, the Egyptian exhibits, Greek, French court painters, in each room seeing some work that I know from pictures, have seen a thousand times on internet screens or books, and each one takes my breath away.
I spend hours there, wandering, then back for a final walk through the Egyptian exhibits, a personal hobby. It is now two in the afternoon, my feet hurt, and I tear myself away from the Louvre, find the food court, (very American by the way) and gobble some lunch. I think it was Moroccan, I just remember telling the girl to surprise me in my halting French. Lunch at the Louvre exceeds the ticket price, but I happily hand over 127 francs and settle in to a chair with my metro map trying to decide where to go next.
I manage to finish lunch and get outside the Louvre complex to what I hope is an Opentour Bus. Now Opentour Busses are a lot of fun, they go round and round the major sites of the city, are usually double decker buses and provide narrative. In fact, an Opentour bus was how I learned my way around London. They make the same loop over and over and you can jump on and jump off at will. My Carte Visite extends me a discount. And I manage to board the bus just as the bitter cold rain begins.
Ten minutes later I realize that I Can not hear the commentary thru the headsets, it comes first in French then in English and the sound quality is so bad, that I’m better off just reading the street signs. Fifteen minutes later, I realize that I am cold. Damn cold. Then it hits me, the top of the bus is open, there is a spiral staircase that goes up to the top of the bus, there ain’t no way in hell they can warm this thing up and it’s getting colder by the minute.
Hmm, okay, we pass the shopping district, (well one of them anyway), housing Printemps, a very large Paris department store. An idea strikes. They will have gloves, they will have hats. I have neither with me. I hop off the Opentour bus. I hop into Printemps.
Oh Dear LORD I have completely forgotten that it is Christmas Eve day and ALL of Paris is out shopping. All of Paris and half of England are in Printemps, I push my way towards where there appear to be gloves and hats, fight off an old lady for a very chic pair of soft leather gloves and grab the first hat that will work with my Trendy Presidential Coat, and my Laura Ashley scarf and bag.(which I got for a literal song at a preclearance Christmas sale in London
) I get in line, I wait patiently, I finally get to the checkout and hand the clerk my Credit card. She slides a little machine towards me, I don’t get it. I look puzzled, she slides it closer to me, people begin to make little huffing noises of impatience in line behind me.
I stutter out “j’ne comprend pas” (I don’t understand). She rolls her eyes heavenwards and says something in rapid fire French, out of which I manage to pick up “numero securitie” . Number security,,,number security,,,a frown appears, then once again the lightening hits. PIN NUMBER. Hooray! I am delighted that I have figured out what she wants and quickly enter it to complete the sale. More delighted with the fact that once again, I actually figured out something spoken in French than anything else I make my way out of the crowd, and outside the store, rip the tags off my new gloves and hat and put them on. I make my way to the Opentour bus stop very near to Printemps and jump back on the next bus showing my ticket and still frighteningly cold.
It is now 4:30 and I have never been colder in my life, and people are looking at me strangely but I can’t figure out why. Finally I realize that the cold is going to win this one and since the Opentour goes close to my hotel, I figure I’ll get off at the stop for the Bastille, and walk back. I wait, we make the loop, and nothing looks familiar. I finally muster up my courage and walk to the front to ask the driver who thankfully speaks English.
“uh when do we get to the Bastille?”
“We don’t”
“But, But, it’s right here on the map”
“oh NON Madame, that is ze blue line. ZHIS is ZE red line” he says in nasal English.
“oh, Okay, then, I need to get to the BLUE line, “ egad I’m on the wrong bus again, okay no worries I’ll get the other bus, except for one pesky detail, they are closing early because it’s Christmas eve. The closest THIS bus is gonna take me to my hotel is the Eiffel tower. I check the map, that’s a looong way, but surely I can get a cab from such a popular tourist attraction, which I haven’t really seen except driving by yet anyway….
I disembark at the Eiffel Tower. I don’t even look up at the thing really, I just hail the first available cab and get into it grateful for the warmth. The driver speaks very good English however, so I give him my hotel name and we start off, now firmly mired in French Rush hour combined with Christmas Eve madness. We chat a bit, it’s nice not to have to think too hard.
The driver says suddenly, “Madame, pardon moi for asking, but to who would have a funeral on Christmas Eve?”
“Huh?” I stare at him blankly, not understanding. He repeats the question and in the totally grid locked traffic turns and makes a kind of a wave in the general direction of my now on the car seat very cool, black hat.
“Did you not come from a how do you say, funeral?”
I look from the hat to the cab driver, and from the cab driver to the hat again and back again to the cab driver. It’s a black hat with a bit of ribbon, very chic I thought, looked great with my coat and Laura Ashley scarf and bag, small brim, rather expensive in comparison to a couple of the other hats I looked at.
“I’m sorry I don’t get it Eric,” (that’s how chatty he was, he gave me his name) why would you think that?”
“ze hat Madame, it is one which is worn to a ze funeral, with ze ribbon just so like zhat one is”
Oh dear Lord, that explains the looks. :sigh: Several hundred French people wondering why a grieving widow would be on the Opentour bus right after a funeral.
For Sale: One hat, black, very chic. Not to be worn in France unless death has occurred.
To be continued…..
