I Love Paris in the Springtime

Because it's damn cold in the winter. Seriously. It was 30 degrees the entire time I swear. It did, however, have the magnificent duo of Julia and Nicole, who were flying thru on their way to a wedding in India (yeah, I know) and decided to stay the weekend in Paris to see me. Yey!! Julia and I went to grad school together and then she broke the pact of moving to Europe together in favor of moving to Santa Barbara and buying a piano. Whatever... this would be a whole lot more fun with her here. Nicole is a friend of Julia's from the Florida days (those hazy pre-grad school days) and is really very cool. We've met before, but this is the most time we've spent together in one go and it was good. I spoke Italian at every opportunity. It seems to be my default language when in a foreign country. Even those countries that aren’t Italy. The good news is, most of the waiters/cafe owners/hotel clerks were actually Italian, which worked in my favor.

Julia was in charge of the weekend, having spent a summer semester in Paris, we felt she was more than qualified for the task. (As opposed to my one drunken weekend in Paris which makes me qualified but for a whole different set of tasks) Our hotel was absolutely brilliant. When I emerged from the RER (subway) the first thing I saw was Notre Dame. Our hotel was a 4 minute walk from there, during which I declared Julia genius. Not the first time I've done so, but a first for this particular reason. I was the first to check in and took myself for a glass of wine. The hotel clerk helpfully drew a map to the Petit Pont Café for me so I wouldn't get lost. I walked out the door, turned left and saw it before I took a step; it’s half a block from the hotel at the end of the street. Still, helpful to have a map for the trip home should I drink too much wine. Not that I would. It is France after all; French wine gives me a headache. Italian does too but I can drink so much more before the headache arrives that it’s worth it. I was only a few sips into my wine when Julia found me. Much to the dismay of every Frenchman in the imminent area, much hugging, laughing, and girly squealing ensued. Loudly I might add. We settled into wait for Nicole and caught up. It’s been a year and some change since I’ve seen Julia. The last time she was in Dallas and I ended up so hung-over I could barely stand. (sorry Mom) Evil Julia. I was determined not to end up as such on this trip. I’ve been in training here in Ireland, I should be able to hold my liquor by now.

After Nicole joined us we went for an early dinner, again, much to the dismay of every Frenchman in the imminent area, and proceeded to mock every song they played. Not difficult when the roster is ‘Sad Songs from the easy listening 80’s’. Then, We Are The World came on the air and for some reason, still unclear to both Nicole and I, Julia decided it was in French. Um… more wine there? Jet lag and wine are a terrible combination. But you know what’s worse than that? Jet lag, wine and Chimay; lots of it. Especially if you don’t drink beer normally. Chimay is a Belgian Ale, perhaps my favorite beer ever, and it’s rather strong, something I neglected to tell the girls when they ordered bottles for themselves. It’s not that I neglected to tell them, per se, it’s that I live in the land of Guinness and it’s been awhile since I’ve even seen Chimay, so really, I just forgot. We had the beer. Much beer. And they had jet lag. Julia disappeared at some point in the evening to go pass out in a dignified manner (not in public, say) leaving Nicole and I to push thru to midnight with Jean Jacques and Nicholas, two unfortunate Frenchman who chose the table next to ours. Evidently not all French are intimidated by loud Americans. Nicholas, whom I've named Frenchy McFrench, walked us to the hotel at the end of the night (our night any way) and promised to be there the next morning. Um, excuse me? Somewhere along the way, I cannot tell you when it happened, the girls convinced Nicholas to guide us around Paris, which he agreed to do. And, true to his word, he was outside the hotel the next morning at 11:00. Except that the girls remembered telling him 12:00 so when Nicole and I went down at 11:40 for breakfast for Julia (who may or may not have been moaning ‘kill me’ in her sleep) there he was, standing in a doorway, looking very cold. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, I’ll admit. We managed to rouse Julia (ok, she did most of the work) and our day finally began at 2pm. While Julia was eating and pulling herself together (and I suspect, making a voodoo doll of moi) FMcF and I wandered over to Notre Dame and had a look. He’d been there before but had never been inside. So we went in. And it’s huge. And dark. And rather dismal, but that may just have been because it was overcast that day.

I do have to say, it’s been quite a year for me and landmark churches. In on calendar year, I’ve seen St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, St. Peter’s in Rome, St. Patrick’s in Dublin, The Duomo in Florence, and now St. Chappelle and Notre Dame both in Paris. I think I’m done with big religious statements for awhile.

Back to the trip… We wandered around, I lit a candle for my mother which I then had to explain to FMcF because evidently, his family isn’t religious in the least bit. I did a lot of explaining in retrospect, but more on that later. What I remember of Notre Dame most is the back side of the alterpiece, where the confessionals are located. Little typical wooden confessionals but housed in great stone carvings with the stations of the cross located between them. It was rather well done, I thought. And the ceiling mosaics were pretty, well, large springs to mind. Except that’s actually Sacre Cour, which is another church. Ok, so I might not have been paying strict attention to Notre Dame. It was dark, there was a candle, leave me alone.

When we picked up Julia and Nichole we sped off (as speedy as you can go in the subway) to Montmartre which is where Sacre Coeur is located. After the Effiel Tower, this is the area I think of when I hear Paris. It’s really quaint and really, really steep. I have no idea how they don’t have more fatalities there. It reminded me of the Buckhorn Roll, Dan. And no, I didn’t fall. So we stomped around Montmartre, took in the church and then gazed out at Paris below us. Even in the fog the city was vast. We could see the various landmarks but not the edge of the city. Some photos were taken, probably with me pointing at something obvious. Like Nichole. Julia and I have this thing about people pointing in photographs. We discussed it one year when we ran away to Seattle for Valentine’s Day because I’d gotten dumped again. Why is it when people stand in front of famous landmarks, they invariabily point at them? As if we wouldn’t notice the Pyramids behind you? Or we were unclear that those are not the ghosts of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln over your shoulder? So we started pointing at things. Julias favourite is me standing on top of the Space Needle pointing at it. My favorite is where I’m pointing at a cup of non-Starbucks coffee yet the monorail is right above me. Anyway, it sort of spawned a pointing spree, which you can witness here and here and then read about Julia and Nichole in India. And see the first of the Paris pictures; red eye and all. The fun never ends. We had dinner, which horrified FMcF and spawned a converstation about how the French only eat on a particular schedule and American heathens eat whenever their hangover will allow them. Doing my part for World Culture. We then walked to see the Moulin Rouge, all lit up and spinning. I’m rather glad it was dark by then because it’s a rather seedy part of town: porn shops, strip clubs, peep shows, and alternative clothing shops all line the street. I don’t know why I was surprised, given the history of the Moulin Rouge. I guess I figured it had been Disney-fied like everything else in the world. Evidently not. We took our photos and then did something I’ve been waiting several years to do with Julia: we went to the Academie du Bierre. Ahh… It’s a beer house that Julia and co. drank in, rather a lot from what I gather, when they did their summer exchange program at USC. (you’re welcome by the way) She promised me there was one beer in the world that she liked and it was at this bar and she’d drink it to prove it to me when we met in Paris. And there we were, with Julia so hung over she couldn’t fathom anything other than water. I had a Maredsous, Nichole has something frothy and juicelike, and Julia had the best line of the trip:
J- What are you drinking?
FMcF- Hoegartten
J- Well, they’ve gotta grow somewhere
Which I then tried to explain to our very confused tour guide. FYI, that doesn’t translate. What does translate is everything the Inappropriate American next to us uttered. There were 4 people beside us, co-workers from what we gathered, talking and having beers. Not that we were eavesdropping, but we’re good at it, so… they proceeded to talk about some rather distasteful topics, which we laughed about. And then. IA there started talking about how he finds a bitch slap helpful every now and then. And how when he raises his arm, his wife knows to snap back into her place. We left before Nicole bitch slapped him with a wooden bench. Try and explain that in French. It’s remarkably easy as it turns out. Paying the tab, however is not. It took us 15 minutes to get out of there and seemed to require all 4 of us standing in between the kitchen window and the dining area.

As we walked home we saw the Effiel Tower lit up for the night. During the winter, from 10 to 11 they have twinkling lights on it, which none of us knew. (FMcF? Not such a knowledgeable tour guide, especially for having been there for 6 years.) Surprisingly, it was pretty. Even though we made cracks about Vegas showgirls, we all commented on how we liked it. Those of us that have been to Vegas at any rate.

The girls went to bed, I said good bye to French McFrench, he promised to come visit me in Dublin, and Julia went to bed saying her usual: Lady Crippler… Cripplin’ Laaaadeee….