The last day

Last night we went to a place known as “The Jesus Bar.” Its real name is Le Lèche-Vin, and it’s near the Bastille, it’s decorated with religious iconography – from the Bible on the cash register, to the wall-size tapestry in the back. It’s certainly not supposed to make you think about what you’re doing there… since with that logic, why would there be porn plastering the tiles of the hole-in-the-floor bathroom?

A good time was had by all, and the night ended appropriately with crepes. Or at least, it should have ended then… not at 5:00 in the morning finishing off the last of Freaks and Geeks.

Maybe, I don’t want to think about leaving just yet.

I woke up today and finished my paper in Paul’s room, while he started to work on his. Then I made myself go to the Louvre, because it would only be like half-cool to say that I didn’t even see That Famous Musée.

It was a nice Saturday, not too cold and even sunny out. The Louvre had just enough people to make one feel snug. I bravely headed in the direction of Mona and Venus, and was not disappointed at all to see Winged Victory on the way. They really light the sculptures beautifully, here.

The crowd around the Mona Lisa was only comical by the relative size of the painting itself. Every other painting in the Louvre could fit at least 50 Mona Lisa’s in it. They won’t even let you get close, so after taking the mandatory shot, I took pictures of the crowd instead.

Venus de Milo was also stunning, clad in… well. Stunning.

I wandering past the Ancient Greek and Etruscan sculptures, through the Egyptian gallery, up the stairs to 17th century French Painters, and looped around the Flemmish, Germans, and other Nord-artists until closing. I was proud of myself when I was drawn to a Francis Bacon-esque side of cow…

And it was Rembrant.

I packed my Parisian life into a suitcase and a shoulder bag. The flight tomorrow is eight hours, but apparently, I only lose two. Time is funny.

Like how I’m glad I kept this blog, because any time I start to feel that these 10 weeks went too fast, I only need to look up some memories from the beginning and remember how long ago they were. I stumbled off the plane, jet lagged and culture shocked, and now, while I’m certainly not going to pass for a native, I’ve gotten comfortable enough to appreciate the city.

It’s so beautiful, and larger than life in its monuments, and squares, and museums. Far from getting smaller, Paris kept expanding the more I lived here. It grew more tiny cobblestoned streets between buildings, alleyways opened up into markets, and from the top of the Arch de Triumph to deep down in the catacombs, every single French molecule in the air took a deep breath into its puffed out belly and held it for this whole last week. I am exhausted and exhaling. I feel winded, but full of energy and excitement. These memories are in reserve for the times I feel like crying.

Coming out of the Louvre, it was hard to breath for a moment, thinking that this was the last Thing I’d do in Paris besides board a plane. The building was lit up and shining like liquid gold against the smoothest sky I’ve seen. This is the last picture I’ll take on the ground.

Catacombs and the Pomidou-dou-dou

Went to the catacombs after school on Tuesday. I tried to go over the weekend, but the line was around the block. This time, there was no one there. It was an hour before closing. Winding down the spiral staircase, it got humid and warmer. 20 meters underground, underneath the sewers. My ears popped.

I was a little scared, wandering around the dark tunnels, half expecting to run into a wall of skulls any second. There were dark corridors, blocked off passages, a shaft that showed how close you were to the water level. I was completely alone: although there were footsteps ahead of me, or behind me, they were far away. And my own echoed louder and fell mute. I could hear my heart beat in my ears. Slightly terrifying.

Luckily there’s a sign warning you when you’re about to enter the ossuary.

"Arrête. C'est ici l'empire de la mort."
Stop. This here is the empire of death.

Cheery. At this point the temperature drops considerably.

There are literally 500 meters of hallways of bones. Arranged bones. It’s Brutal. Skulls sandwiched between femurs and ribs cages. Stacked to the ceiling, which granted wasn’t too high. There’s nothing between the bones and you. You can touch them, you could crawl into the narrow space between the tiny unidentifiable pieces and the ceiling. One can get a little claustrophobic. It’s not depressing though, it’s exhilarating… if, after awhile, a bit repetitive. There are signs marking what cemetery the bones are from, and what year: 1834, 1816, 1786. I think Rabelais is buried here
It’s a long and lonely trek, but I think I was grinning from ear to ear for most of it. They didn’t check my bag on the way out, so I could have taken a souvenir. Gross.

From the bottom, to the top; on Wednesday, I went to the heights of Paris. To the top of the George Pompidou museum again, this time to see the Futurism exhibit and have dinner at the French-Asian-fusion-cocktail-lounge-bar-space-station-restaurant there.

The Futurism exhibit was amazing. I heard their Manifesto read aloud while looking at the front page of Le Figaro, where it was printed in 1909. These distorted images range from spontaneous swirls of color that create an image as though it were rising from the depths of a primitive emotion, to pictures of the real world reflected in a broken mirror, a dialogue with cubism. There was so much to this movement: from the darkest colors still possible to discern a scene from, to explosions that shivered with an intangible electricity. It made me want to be an art history major. Until I heard an art history major loudly dictating his opinions to a group, standing erect on an imaginary pedestal.

The avant-garde.

For dinner at Georges, I had a glass of absinthe and an omelet. Pretty good omelet. Fluffy. Ham and Cheese. Mushrooms.

Afterward, I rushed through the other exhibition they had on Jacques Villeglé. He spent a few years making faux-collages by ripping apart billboards, an interesting interpretation of Paris’s subconscious. His more accessible contributions use the socio-political alphabet.

The bad news about Wednesday night was that Theo showed me where to find all the episodes of Freaks and Geeks on Youtube and now, I have watched almost the entire season. I do nothing else.

Not true. Thursday was French test day. For Phonetics, Paul and I read an excerpt from Exercises de conversation et de diction françaises pour étudiants américains. It’s by Eugène Ionesco. The test took forever; we got out at 5, headed to Belleville to have a drink before meeting with our conversation assistant for the last time. She was taking us to an authentic Chinese restaurant.

It was mostly Thai-inspired. I had some decently spiced chicken on top of lettuce, on top of vermicelli. With some egg rolls on top. Not chinese, but definitely tasty. It's a small place that gets crowded quickly, called Le Rouleau de Printemps (also the name of their signature spring roll).

Upon returning to the Cité Universitaire, we celebrated. We celebrated the end of classes, and the beginning of paper writing. We stayed up until 4 in the morning, at which point, on Skype, my sister played keyboard and sang Sara Bareilles’s “I’m not Going to Write You a Love Song.” She is very talented and is definitely going to make it one day. Caroline, not Ms. Bareilles.

I woke up early, this afternoon, and found pasta in my fridge that I vaguely remember making. I exercised and watched more Freaks and Geeks. I’m saving the Louvre for my last day in Paris.

My paper, too.

More Museums!

On Saturday I went to the Rodin museum. I had to wait 3 hours for my laundry to dry, so I was a little rushed towards closing, but I ran outside since the grounds close later than the museum. Inside there was a hideous temporary exhibit by Mr. Contemporary who put molds of plastic chairs together in the shape of gigantic worms. Rodin’s work was beautiful, but not as well spaced as the Picasso museum. Here, you feel more as though you’re in the home of a private collector. The walls are a rich wood and decorated with paintings relating to Rodin’s sculpture.

The real prize is the garden. Much of his more famous works are show in their various developmental stages inside, but outside they stand free against nature’s simple backdrop. The Gates of Hell, The Shadows, Balzac, and The Thinker are all here, and they are given as much space as they need. Inside, Rodin’s smaller “sketches” pack just as much intensity as their final forms do, and it can feel a little claustrophobic trying to appreciate them in such a small space. These sculptures command the space they occupy; in a garden, tucked behind a tree or amidst some low bushes, they realize their human potential.

Saturday night our class went to see The Magic Flute at L’Opéra Bastille, that is, Paris’s modern opera house. The music was unaltered and magnificent, but the set was outrageous. Dozens of gigantic plastic air mattresses lumbered across the stage, clumsily erecting walls and stairs. Actors clothed in leather and sequins scrambled across them while the choir struggled to maneuver them with a complicated rope and pulley system. French words slithered across the stage and the background was a digital projection of various Windows Media Player-esque effects. All in all, Mozart was the most accessible part of the performance.
I met up with Elyssa afterwards and borrowed a t-shirt to wear under my “opera-ho” dress. We struggled into Pop-in, danced to incredibly catchy music in a basement that I remember being upstairs. We chatted with some of her friends from BU and it began to snow. The snowflakes were so large, they must have been genetically engineered.

Sunday was an awful paper-writing day of Pascal, Voltaire, and Diderot. And what they think about philosophy.

So, in return, I decided not to go to class today to catch up on some museum-going. It started out crappy… at the Musée des Egouts! Get it?

No? It’s the sewer museum!

Amidst the deafening roar of horrendously smelling water, I learned about the different levels of water purification and the history of Paris’s sewers. I had to stop after the Napoleon 1st though, since I was feeling a little nauseous.

Never before has Paris smelled so sweet as when returned to the surface. I wanted to see the Louvre, but wasn’t so ready to go underground again, so I took a long walk along the Seine. I was distracted by L’Orangerie at the gates of Les Tuileries gardens.

This is where they house Monet’s paintings of water lillies. They are immense canvases that are displayed in white circlular rooms so that his colors literally surround you. It’s really stunning… luckily there are benches on which to contemplate.

In the basement, I saw the private collection of Jean Walter and Paul Guillame. There are tiny models of a rooms in their houses. You can see how they hung the masterpieces of Picasso, Gaugin, Cézanne, and Renoir in their study, in the hallways, and in their dinning room. It’s one thing to see these paintings in a museum, but entirely different to imagine that someone had the taste (and the funds) to buy them and put them up in their home!

I can dream, can’t I?

I made some important discoveries in that exhibit, my favorite being the Jewish painter Chaïm Soutine. Halfway between Chagall and Van Gough, his paintings sway as though they were in heat or under the influence. I think it would go well above the piano…

I meandered around the entrance to Les Tuileries for a while longer before deciding that my hunger was not a thing to be ignored. Putting off the Louvre, I headed into Angelina, where I ordered an incredibly thick, incredibly decent hot chocolate called L’Africaine, and a REAL mont blanc- meringue, whipped cream, and tiny noodles of chestnut cream. I sipped it as slowly as I could, but everything was really too delicious. I did manage to write out the last of the postcards for my friends back home before my hand started to shake from all the sugar.

I shimmied over to a post office to mail them and then went back towards the Louvre to meet my conversation group. On the way, I bounced like a pinball from side to side of Les Tuileries, drawn by statues and anything else that caught my eye.

Léa, our friendly real French person, couldn’t make it to our Thanksgiving party, so we had to reschedule our conversation meeting to today. We went to Le Fumoir; full of character and mood lighting, it’s like walking into the 1920s, mais sans le fumer. We sipped our caffeine underneath an enormous painting of two willowy women and a rhinoceros.