Part 5: I Love Paris in the Summer...
Oh Paris. Je t'aime Paris. The City of Lights and Love has been the subject of more movies, books, and imagined stories than I could possibly know. Simply hearing "Paris" would instantly conjure mental images galore in the minds of nearly all people living on this giant bouncy ball - whether or not they have ever stepped their homebody feet off of their native land. See? You're already licking your lips at the thought of buttery croissants, looking out the window and squinting at that tree you've always thought resembled the Eiffel Tower, and wondering if you still have that flamboyant beret in your attic. I knew it. When you're standing on the streets of this fine city, however, many nonstereotypical experiences wrap themselves around you and refuse to let go.
We arrived in Paris a bit bewildered by those streets. After climbing many steps out of the metro system, we scrutinized a giant map of Paris placed there for tourists such as ourselves. We were loaded down with (mainly my) luggage, struggling to spot a street sign and not having a vague idea of which direction we needed to walk, even if we could catch sight of the elusive marker. Later, Ben's cousin, Josh, would set our minds at ease by showing us that finding most street signs in Paris is like looking for that striped and constantly lost Waldo (or Wally for those of you who grew up on the east side of the Pond). Kindness, it seems, is an easier find in Paris. Two incredibly helpful older women outside of a little cafe nearby revealed the street and our needed path. Stereotype number one of the French being rude was smashed like a blissfully oblivious mussel released from the claws of a bloodthirsty seagull licking its bill in anticipation as its beady eyes stare at the juicy bivalve speck approaching the rocks below at lightning, fatal speed. Eventually, we made it to the apartment, dodging crazy traffic and a constant flow of pedestrians. Josh and his lovely girlfriend Lola live above the noise and teeming life below and have multiple sets of old, beautiful wooden spiral steps to reach that peaceful space. Of course, by the time I climbed the thousandth step, I cared only for a giant glass of water and a heart monitor. Ben and I had a perfect holiday with Josh and Lola, with Josh performing wonderfully as tour guide extraordinaire and Lola giving us directions to off-the-beaten-path shopping areas and quaint cafes aplenty. We explored Père Lachaise - the French National Cemetery - with admiration of the tombs and graves that were more works of art than death markers. The cemetery resembled a small city, since the stone tombs lining the brick-paved, pedestrian-only streets were built like miniature churches, many with macabre skeletons and crossbones skillfully chiseled into the walls. We saw the lipstick-stained grave of Oscar Wilde, where I guiltily read love letters scribbled on bits of paper or scrawled around the "do not deface" warning and vowed to read more of his work. We were slightly underwhelmed by Jim Morrison's simple gravestone, squished between the graves of other poor souls putting up with the flocks of tourists clicking away at the musician's grave with cameras never directed toward them. Chopin's tomb was much more impressive and touching, with a sculpture of a beautiful, weeping woman, (the muse of music, I have since found out), gracefully sitting above his name and fresh flowers bedecking the much-visited site. Our most exciting grave visit (and Josh's favorite) was that of famous French journalist Victor Noir, who was apparently just as well-known for his reputation as a lover. His grave consists of a bronze cast of his entire body, with the tips of his shoes, the area of his heart, his lips, and the conspicuous bulge of his trousers all shiny from years of visitors' hopeful rubbing. Legend states that touching these areas on the murdered man's form will lead to fertility and a tremendous sex life. While we were laughing at the grave (irreverent, I know!), three Spanish women nearly sprinted to the grave to follow the legend's demands. They encouraged me to do the same if I wanted many babies and, struggling for English interpretation, told me I would also benefit in other ways. My lack of superstition aside, I did find the hilarity in the whole experience.
On another day, Josh led us to a hidden, tourist-free park, weaving through gates and pointing out obstacles to avoid crashing through or stepping into. Here, I must admit I found Paris to be a cluttered and sometimes dirty city in some areas, with people leaving broken television sets, discarded mattresses, and random trash on sidewalks or streets. I even gasped in horror and outrage as a young man relieved himself on the wall of a river walk along the Seine and proceeded to pull out a can of spray paint and splash graffiti on that same poor wall. Not only did I find myself dodging reeking puddles of that nature on quite a few occasions, but the graffiti I was forced to stare at wasn't even good! Seriously, if you're going to go through the trouble of stuffing a paint can into your trouser pocket, the least you can do is come up with some decent artwork. Returning to the park Josh brought us to, however, I must tell you that the view was spectacular. I gasped at the tiny Eiffel Tower and breathtaking city panorama, all gleaming in the golden blanket of the setting evening sun. After we found ourselves back at the apartment, pleasantly exhausted from thorough sightseeing, we sat on Josh and Lola's balcony, (which also had a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower), and I gushed as the lights on the famous structure sparkled on every evening hour. In my opinion, the Parisians have discovered a species of tiny, punctual fairies that they have captured and brought to the Eiffel Tower, enticing them to cling to the iron and sparkle their little hearts out. Perhaps they even bribe them with pain au chocolat or brioche pastry. How else that tower could look so magical, I do not know.
