A Miracle in Lourdes

Lourdes became a destination of pilgrimages in the mid 19th century after a 14 year old girl, Bernadette Soubirous, had a series of visions of the Virgin Mary in a cave just out side of town (and I mean just outside, it can't be more than a few hundred meters from where the town actually ended back then; it's well in the town now).  And after a, no doubt, exhaustive study into the validity of her visions, the Catholic Church declared them truly miraculous and the poor girl was promptly made the patron saint of all sick people.  Bernadette spent the rest of her life hiding in a convent about 100 miles away and died at the age of 34.

 

Because of this, Lourdes is a very odd town indeed.  When I was there, I stayed in a  little room at a hotel a few blocks from the train station, just off Avenue Gen. Baron Maransin.  Up by the hotel the town looks quite normal, in a 1950s-ugly-architecture-pizzerias-and-cheap-brasseries sort of way. The main square of town looks quite a bit like any normal French town, in my limited experience, with a fountain, a market, and the skyline dominated by a medieval castle on the hill in the center of town.  Nothing much to write home about, except perhaps the unusual number of hospitals (understandable due to the patronage of St. Bernadette).  But once one drops down onto the Boulevard Remi Sempe, which runs at the lowest level through the town, Lourdes becomes something else entirely.  The little street is completely crowded with souvenir shops of a religious bent, hotels, hotels with souvenir shops in the lobby, restaurants, and restaurants that do a side business as souvenir shops.  "Tacky" might not be a word that can fully describe what one finds in the lower depths of Lourdes.

 

But I am sure you can just imagine all the odd and awful things being sold.  Of course there was the normal range of crap: lighters, key chains, coffee cups, wallets, soccer jerseys, watches, medallions and crosses.  But some of the stuff tended more toward the obscure; clearly quite a bit of Catholicism remains a mystery to me and I stood and tried to understand the religious significance of: cuckoo clocks, little sno-globes with St. Bernadette standing in a blizzard, egg cups, shot glasses (get drunk with St. Bernadette?), ash trays and bottle openers (ruin your body with St. Bernadette and then she will heal you?), breath mints (I kid you not: "The Holy Water Lozenge." Of course I bought some of those!), hookah pipes (what the? and was that a little bong I saw in the corner?), a Menorah (granted the Menorah was in the shop called "Jerusalem in Lourdes" that also sold little rocks from Jerusalem and water from the river Jordan), pre-blessed wedding wine, chocolates (I guess chocolates really are for every occasion), and pill boxes (there certainly were a lot of ill people stumbling about so pill boxes just makes good sense).  And every shop was selling Swiss Army knives for some reason (granted they do have little crosses on them).  Oh, one interesting item to note: the man in the shop where I bought  the holy mints only had one arm. (It seems I have fallen into a Fellini film)

 

Walking into one anonymously awful shop, a little stuffed beaver (why?) announced my arrival with an off key wolf whistle, which I must say was more than a bit creepy, especially since I was ogling the pleasant looking sales clerk at the time (God is watching!).  There were also lots and lots of rosary beads on sale, in every shop.  Rosary beads of every shape, size and composition, from the awful miniature plastic 4-bead strings, with beads the size of stunted peas, to the awful plastic jumbo-sized-2-meter long strings with beads the size of my thumb (if perhaps my thumb was wildly swollen from being whacked with a large hammer) -- I guess there are different sizes of sins that call for different sizes of rosary beads.

 

At the "Palais du Rosaire" I browsed the wonderful collection of bottles that one could fill with holy water from the "La Grotte" (is this from where the word "grotty" is derived?).  The bottles came in all sizes, from thimble sized, through shot-glass sized and the half liter "hiking canteen" sized (they even had little straps so one could carry them comfortably on a long hike), up to the large two liter sized "gallon jug."  There was a cute little bottle shaped like a saintly looking Bernadette (of course) with her head doubling as the cap of the bottle (the bottle was all white, her head blue, I guess to keep one from trying to unscrew the wrong part of her anatomy).  There was a soccer ball shaped bottle for the football enthusiasts. I noticed as I walked down the street closer and closer to the Grotto, the prices of the souvenirs in the shops went up dramatically with every step I took (I guess the shop keepers were counting on the pilgrims being in a religious delirium and not able to walk back up the street 10 feet to buy the same thing at a 30% discount).

 

The main street, only about 300 meters long, was crowded with pilgrims, people from all over the world, if the over-heard languages is any guide.  I heard: French, Italian, Spanish, German, English, Korean, Russian, and several unidentified languages (one might have been Swahili perhaps?).  There were also women in sarongs with that little third eye in the middle of their forehead (now I am no theologian, but isn't that third eye thingy a completely different religion, altogether?).  Of course there is also an impressive number of invalids in wheel chairs and little rickshaw like contraptions, and more nuns than one could shake a papal miter at.  The crowd seems to be mostly pilgrims (90% or so) with a few tourists thrown in,  What is with the religious boy scouts?  They were everywhere, dressed in shorts and red scouting shirts, replete with merit badges and scarves.

 

It's a pretty odd and surreal place, but once you get to the gates of Porte de St. Michel, the entrance of the Esplanade of the Processions, the Basilica and the Grotto itself, it becomes something else entirely.  Inside those gates, it is hard to make fun of the people.  It's sort of depressing.  Not depressing because the people believe so strongly in St. Bernadette and the miracles she offers.  That's ok. Everyone has to believe in something.  Even those who believe in nothing, believe strongly in that nothing (and thus nothing becomes something (I guess the only ones who don't really believe in anything are those perpetual wafflers, the agnostics)).  But what is so depressing is the sheer and overwhelming concentration of desperation found around the Grotto.  It is hard to imagine that there are so many people in the world who are so utterly hopeless that there will spend all their money and travel half way around the globe to seek some consolation (well I guess not that hard to imagine that they exist, but hard to imagine them all in the same place).  

 

A Basilica has been built on the hill above the grotto, where regular masses are held.  There are of course several hospitals on the grounds and a industrial sized confessional complex.  But the main attraction is the fabled Grotto.

 

Just before one gets to the grotto, there is a long arc of water fountains supplied with holy water coming directly from the Grotto.  People line up to drink, wash, and fill up bottles with the water.  I found the water quite refreshing, cool and crisp, a hint of a mineral aftertaste, like water from a mountain stream.  All in all quite nice.  Good water.

 

Then: The Grotto.  There was a fast moving queue, but it was interesting to note that people in wheel chairs and rickshaws get to cut to the front of the line.  The Grotto is not really a cave, more like a deep overhang on the cliff face.  The rock walls inside are smooth from people's hands rubbing against it (like mine).  And it is indeed is a nice little hide-away, a stream running through it;  I can understand why shy Bernadette spent some of her teenaged angst time here -- but I wonder what really happened here on those lonely spring nights: what did she see?  Outside the Grotto people sit in rows, quietly contemplating the statue of the Virgin Mary, strategically placed in the cliff face where Bernadette first saw her hovering.

 

After the Grotto is the candleria, ciegeria?  Candle place?  Where one can light a candle and say a prayer.  There is a booth where candles can be obtained:  a slim 2 foot candle for the bargain price of 2.50; a bigger 2 foot candle for 5.50, a beefy 3 footer for 10; and of course there is a 2 kg monster for 20, and the gargantuan 20 kg, 6 footer for 150.  But what is wonderful about the Catholic Church is that all these prices are just "suggested donations."  There is no one there to take the money, just a little slot to drop the cash in (Scientologists take note!)

 

Above where people light the candles a little sign reads: "The flame continues your prayer."  But what happens if the candle goes out, does the prayer also die?  With this thought I try to relight as many of the candles that have gone out as I can while standing there, feeling a bit like an alter boy (although I wouldn't really know, never having been an alter boy, but as I imagine an alter boy must feel).  Lighting my candle, I try to think good thoughts about friends, family and hope my candle does not blow out soon.

 

Between the candleria and the baths (yes one can bathe in the water from the Grotto) is a large bathroom.  Inside I found a distraught retarded boy/man who kept walking from stall to stall trying to find one that actually held a toilet, and not just one of those awful holes in the ground (that the French xenophobically call "Turkish toilets" --  as if the Turks have anything to do with them), but every stall was the same, toilet-less.  He pointed inside for me to look at the abomination that was wrought within.  At the opening of each new door, he looked more and more disturbed.  As I peed, he waited by the one last closed stall door, waiting for it to become vacant, hoping beyond hope for a small miracle. I finished quickly and I hoped his guardian or family member would come in to help him.

 

I next turned toward the bath: thinking maybe I would rinse off my sins and the grit and grim of the road, but alas, I could not stay to purge as the holy water I had drunk was starting to take effect: and I like the retarded boy in the bathrooms I like to have a real toilet to perch upon.  So I hurried back to the hotel.  The Holy Water has an effect after all.

                                                            

The Search for the Holy Grail

Bretagne, France.  A great part of the world, even besides the crêpes.  And the place to being a search for the Holy Grail. I drove down to Paimpont Forest (né Brocéliande) in a hunt for Merlin and the Holy Grail.  My quest started in the rather dull, modern town of Moron (actually Mauron –apparently the sister city of Newmarket England (but I think it should be the sister city of Taft, CA (né Moron))) in search for lunch, but I failed in that my first little mini quest, and had to make due with an apple (but it was a magical apple, so that was ok). 

Next stop was the Chateau de Comper, the mythical home of Viviane (the Lady of the Lake) and the childhood home of Lancelot.  Turning into the car park, just past a field with a cow baying at the moon (it really looked like it was baying at the moon, sitting on its haunches, head thrown back in classic wolf pose – perhaps it was just trying to stand up or perhaps these Breton cows are a special breed), I was greeted by a  woman in polyester Gwenevere costume, backpack on one shoulder, munching on a sandwich … clearly I had now entered the realm of King Arthur!

Inside the castle, a rather dull exhibition of Arthurian lore, mannequins dressed renaissance costume (?!) and bus loads of French school children all in capes and with magic wands running about the chateau casting spells on walls, potted plants and whatever else they happened to pass.  I guess it was some sort of Harry Potter convention (although, since this is France, they were Henri Podders).  I took a quick look into the lake out back (no ladies in evidence under the water) and got the hell out of there.

Next stop: Le Tombeau de Merlin and Le Fontaine de Jouvence.  After driving through some lovely woods and fields, imagining the crazed old Druid shaman, Merlin, sitting on a stump all hairy and ragged, gnawing on some half cooked chunk of meat, wondering when some sucker would come along who he could dupe into some steady business,  I came to the “Tomb of Merlin” … really a druid religious site, a little circle of stones covered with notes, flowers and prayers for Merlin.  While I was there contemplating the meeting of Merlin and the naïve young Arthur, three French guys, avec rottweiler, wandered up, wrote pithy little notes on scraps of paper, and tucked them into the rocks around the tomb.  Someone had actually left flowers for Merlin, a yellow rose, with a note saying “Merci Merlin” in a flowery feminine hand – I wonder what the old rogue did for her?

I followed the French guys and their dog back into the woods to the Fountain of Youth – a rather drab dirty little hole in the ground with some water trickling out – no reason why the Fountain of Youth should look especially flashy I guess.  Apparently this site was an ancient Druid fountain where at a nighttime ceremony the priests (or Merlin) would essentially baptize dirty little baby druids … but it is now surrounded by little cairns of rock left by escapees of the Renaissance Fairs from around the world in remembrance of something or another.  After the French guys has tromped back off into the woods, I knelt down and had a sip from the fountain … one cannot come all this distance to find the fountain of youth and not take a sip!  (and I guess catching some sort of bacterial infection and spending the rest of the day shitting myself will be the closest I come to regaining my infancy).  Then it started to rain.

Time for real lunch.  I made my way through the heart of Paimpont Forest to the village of Paimpont.  After a leisurely stroll down the main street (the only street if truth be told), looking at the souvenir shops mostly plastic swords and little gnomish figurines that could be found at any local Renaissance Fair, I found a likely looking little restaurant, “Le Bar de L'Abbaye,” with a nice terrace where I could sit quietly in the rain and have some lunch.  From the full menu, I opted against the “Salade de Viviane” (with tuna) and the “Salade de Morgan” (Salmon) for the “Salade de Merlin” (ham) – somewhere Merlin is no doubt howling in outrage that a stinking salad is named after him, and not a hearty meal of BBQ pork or something.  The salad was fine, but apparently in this part of France “sans sauce” means “smothered in oily salad dressing” … in Paris it means something else entirely.

I decided to forgo dessert, the Germans at next table had a rather impressive looking towers of flaming ice cream (the “Flambé Merlin perhaps?) and I headed back out on the quest.  Next stop: La Fontaine de Barenton.  This Fountain was where the nephew of King Arthur, Yvain, supposedly defeated the dreaded Black Knight and married his widow (he then left her for a year, came back to find her a bit annoyed. He was thus banished. Then he met a lion (apparently lions wandered the Brocéliande back then), and with the lion’s help won back his wife).  It’s another lovely drive through the forest, passing through the quant hamlet of Folle-Pensée (Madness Cured – I kid you not) and then and a misty, rainy 30 min walk though some lovely fern filled woods to reach the fabled and magical Fontaine de Barenton, only to find that the bus load of Henri Podders had beaten me there (perhaps they really did have some magical powers).  The clutch of them was sitting in a ragged circle around the small stone wall that surrounded the spring; they were having an impromptu lesson on druid culture or some such from a teacher dressed as Gandalf, fake beard and all.  Le Fontaine de Barenton was supposed to be enchanted; as the story goes if one with strong magical powers (like Merlin, for instance) would take the water from the spring, say some incantations and then pour the water on the alter stone next to the well, they could create terrible storms.  From the look of the weather, I think a few of the Henri Podders had already been mucking about with that spring water. 

My last stop on the search for Merlin and the Holy Grail was the “Val Sans Retour” (Valley of no Return), which is nestled just outside the village of Tréhorenteuc (the name just glides off the tongue, doesn’t it?).  I had high hopes for this valley, with such a sinister sounding name, but clearly, since I am writing this, it is a bit of a misnomer.  However the valley is indeed dark and deep and vaguely sinister … the place where King Arthur’s bitchy half sister, Morgan, turned her unfaithful lovers into stones (the rock formations called the Faux-Amants ) and imprisoned others by bewitching them.  It seemed a reasonable good place for Joseph of Arimathea, Jesus’s uncle, to steal off with the cup from the last supper and hide it this the farthest frontier of the Roman Empire.  But where would he hide it in this deep spooky valley?  The mist lay heavy over the hills and the only sound was the distant cawing of some crows.  Perhaps under that flat rock?  I turned over the rock, just bugs.  Maybe under that ancient looking bush?  Nothing, but a likely spot for a pee. 

I gave up.  Yet another in a long line of failed pilgrims hunting for the grail.  Back to the hotel. Nothing worth hunting for ends without a large measure of anticlimax.

A Weekend Trip To Normandy

After driving out from Paris, my first stop was the famous tapestry of Bayeax (1,000 years old and tells the story of William the Conqueror).  It’s sort of interesting but 100s of British school children underfoot make it sort of hard to take.  The tapestry itself is 250 feet long, with little embroidered cartoons telling the tale, embroidered Latin footnotes help those who cannot understand the pictures (French and English signs outside the display case help those who cannot read Latin nor understand the pictures).  But honestly, it’s a big rug.  Hard to get too excited.

After, I drove up to Arromanches-les-Bains (to see the British prefab harbor of Mulberry Harbors – or what is left of it – quite amazing project – the Allies dragged these giant pontoons across the English Channel to create the man-made harbor) and Longues-sur-Mer (to see 152mm German guns that were part of the Atlantic Wall – they are still there – fascinating).  But I found Omaha and Utah Beaches a bit anti-climactic, as I have found all famous battle sites I have ever visited.  Most battles, apparently, take place on rather random ground which holds no inherent interest and thus years after the battle that ground reverts to its boring origins.  Omaha Beach just looks like a sort of normal holiday resort (Waterloo is just a field, as is Austerlitz, etc.)

The next day, I visited the north coast of Bretagne.  In a word: Fabulous.  Le Mont St. Michel is an amazing little island and St. Malo is a really cool walled city.

But the highlight of the day: a real traditional crepe.  It was all it was cracked up to be.  I had been told by a native Breton I met in Paris that he hated the Parisian crepes because they were always too thick.  I thought he was a bit daft, as crepes are pretty damned thin (they are crepes afterall). But having just had a real crepe, I can understand what he meant.  The thing was paper thin, if even that.  So thin that there is no way one could eat it in your hand.  It was folded delicately on a plate.  I had a traditional one of just butter and sugar, and it tasted not unlike ambrosia.  Really splendid.  If you ever get to St. Malo, you must stop at Ti Nevez Creperie at 12, rue Broussais .

On the drive out to Normandy I bought a few CDs from a Auto Route rest stop: Dalida (the chanteuse and comedienne) and Johnny Halliday.  And I must say I just don’t get it.  Either of them … pretty awful stuff.  I might have to donate them to the Rental Car gods as a sacrifice.  I can think of no reason for Dalida's fame, except for her great lungs (on display in the CD jacket photo).  I guess she might have been quite funny, and it occurs to me that her singing could be a big joke too (perhaps one that no one really understood -- they thought she was being serious).  Johnny Halliday is awful.  No other word to describe it.

For the drive back to Paris, I have bought another CD, a "Summer 2006" mix of what is hot this summer ... I am sure I will hate it (although it did have one promising song by a frog on it).

Paris Women, Redux

Paris Women, Redux: I am starting (well, not really starting, but continuing) to find all the women of Paris exquisite torture.  Every time I venture out of my apartment I know I will be tantalized, teased and tormented, without mercy.  It’s starting to get to me.  I might have to start spending more time inside as the weather continues to warm up.  Actually I am thinking of giving up on the whole “chercher la femme” stuff.  It’s too frustrating.

I saw the perfect bikini model (in French “mannequin”) walking back to my apartment this afternoon.  She was crossing in front of me as I made my way into the Boulangerie.  She was breathtaking … painfully lovely … about 25, 5’6”, long brown hair, curvy in all the right ways … and she even smiled shyly at me (perhaps she has some odd fetish for shy middle aged men?) … oh my … I tripped on the curb.  And then she was gone.  I will have to try to find her again. 

But why did I let her go?  And if I did find her again, what am I supposed to do?  Lob her over my shoulder and lug her home like some prehistoric Don Juan?  Or more likely, try to start a conversation with her? … “Alors!  Oh la la!  Vous êtes très jolie. Très … um … er … Vous voulez aller … er … coucher … non non …”   and then it would degenerate into grunts and unintentionally crude hand gestures.  A bit sad really. 

I always thought a well seasoned traveler always comes prepared.  Would one travel with a spare bikini model in one’s valise?

Paris Nightlife

Some notes on the “nightlife” of Paris.  I walked past the Moulin Rouge (The Red Windmill) along the Boulevard de Clinchy (nestled in with row after row of sex shops).  I have also located Crazy Horse, Lido, and Foliee Bérgere (if one wants a choice in entertainment, or conversely, if one wants to make a full night of it).  On the other end of the entertainment spectrum, I found where most of the … er … les femmes de travaille … shall we say … spend their time, up along rue St.-Denis.  A rather grim and hard looking bunch over all. 

For a special night out in Paris, a friend and I had dinner at this famous old restaurant in Les Halles (a central neighborhood of Paris) called Au Pied de Cochon (The Pigs Feet – there were little pig feet door knobs).  Lots of pig on the menu and of course, pigs’ feet.  We opted for pork chops and steak.  After dinner we went to a show at Crazy Horse.  It a nice show.  Although it is hard not to enjoy beautiful naked women dancing and jiggling about on stage.

After dinner, the taxi driver asked us if we were interested in a brothel.  We declined his offer to show us one.  Although in retrospect, it could have been an experience to spend an evening in a Parisian brothel.

 

Café life in Paris

Finding the perfect café in my neighborhood is a difficult task, but I have my eye on one at the end of the block, Café Rousseau, that looks quite nice from the outside (so many variables, some cafes are too crowded and cramped, some have really uncomfortable seats, others focus more on being brasseries or bistros, some just look like Starbucks and others are full of tourists (Café La Flore was full of tourists, but it does have a great quiet upstairs – although the prices!)).  A full exploration of the Café Rousseau will be needed, over tea will be on the agenda (tomorrow afternoon, after French class?).

A great discovery right around the corner from my apartment -- lovely little bakery, which is apparently quite famous, called Poilâne, Catherine Deneuve apparently shops there.  (I bought a yummy brioche).  I also went over to the 8th to an amazing food store called Fauchon.  It carries all sorts of caviars, foie gras, confiture, teas.  I contemplated a $400 an ounce caviar or a $300 a kilo pate, but got instead some blueberry jam and country pâté. Over the next week or so, I want to find a really good cheese shop (I have the name of a potential one in the 14th , called Androuet), a patisserie and chocolate shop (perhaps Tartine et Chocolat in the 7th?).  

On Learning French, in Paris

I have dedicated my meager mental energies to learning some French.  I am planning on taking a month of classes.  But I am getting so that I can mostly understand what people say to me in shops (or at least the main ideas) and can for the most part can ask for what I need (or don’t really need in the case of evil little pastries, but certainly want). I even went and got a hair cut a few days ago and could follow the elaborate story the somewhat flamboyant hairdresser told about his recent trip to Cuba.

I had a very nice dinner a few nights ago with a friend of a friend (Roxanne) and her friend (Elishéva).  Two very nice women and a very nice evening.  It is odd, over the first month here, I felt like my French was improving very fast and I was actually making progress, but in the past few days I think I am regressing.  I think a good deal of my problem is my atrocious accent.  I can be saying the correct word but no one  has any idea what I am actually saying.  With Roxanne, at one point I was describing something about the church of Ste Marie Madeleine and Roxanne had no idea what I was talking about.  I apparently could not say the word "Madeleine" close enough to a French accent for her to understand.  She also could not understand when I said "Marie Antoinette" (even though when she finally understood and said it in 'French', it didn't sound all that different to me - it was a bit surreal "Who?" "Marie Antoinette."  "Who is that?" "Marie Antoinette, she was the queen." "The queen of what?"  "Of France."  "Who?"  "Marie Antoinette.  She was the wife of Louis XVI."  "Oh, you mean Marie Antoinette!").  I must sound like the most awful and boorish American imaginable.  Probably best to just keep my mouth shut most of the time, as I have little or no aptitude for foreign languages.

 Another evening, I attended a dinner party with Roxanne at the apartment of one Delphine (mid twenties, student, from Reunion Island – who knew there were actually people from Reunion Island out there?).  And it was indeed me and eight other francophone.  Of the eight, four spoke ok English, two spoke rudimentary English, and two none at all.  Rozanne made a point of telling every one that I was learning French and that everyone should speak French to give me practice.  So speak French they did. There were about three different conversations going on at all time, fast and full of slang.  I could follow what was being said about 50% of the time, sometimes more, but never enough to actually join in any of the conversations.  Every so often, someone would stop to ask me if I was understanding, and then they jumped back into the conversational torrent.  It was lots of fun.

It is much much easier speaking with non-native speakers, and it is partly that one does not worry about mistakes as much, but it is also that the non-native speakers speak much more slowly.  That helps a lot.

I really do think that at some point confidence in one’s language abilities is more important that actual knowledge.  If one is willing to just say “what the hell” and jump in there, not worrying about mistakes and willing to keep trying, that will yield better communication.  As I have noticed when I am hesitant, even when I know the words I am saying are correct, I often times say them quietly or mumbled, so I am not really understood.  I need to just say them, damn the consequences.  I think this is an attitude that helps one get many of life’s rewards – too bad I cannot adopt it full time.

Oh, I forgot, I went for another hair cut.  This time to a very traditional looking barber shop on the rue du Four.  Cute looking place with an old guy inside.  I was able to get through the whole cut without him realizing I didn’t speak much French.  I faked it well I guess … he chatted away about the World Cup and I grunted at the appropriate places.

He actually did the whole hair cut with just a straight razor, sort of scary … and the end result is … well … not good.  When I got home, I realized that he made the top really short and hide the fact by combing over longer hair from the side.  Very weird.  I might have to go get another cut to fix it, but that would entail a very short cut indeed.  I guess the barber was a bit too old (or he was wondering why I was insisting, in really bad French, on this awful cut).

The Women of Paris

A few thoughts on the Parisian women.  Before I came, I sort of thought I could find my own Brigitte (Yvette, Genevieve), a little amorous adventure to fill my time in the City of Lights.  But after a few weeks, I feel a bit like I am perpetually standing with my nose pressed up against the window of a marvelous boulangerie, a elegant patisserie (or chocolaterie) where all types of lovely desserts are being paraded, cherry topped, chocolate bon bons, an ample Crocumbuche, a friendly Pain au Chocolat, a well aged Gateau Citron – my breath leaving steamy streaks on the window pane – but alas the door to the shop is locked, the shop hours posted in a different language, I hold no local currency.  I fear that the frustration will become such that I will simply stampede through the window, a frustrated American bull stomping and clumping his vulgar way about the shop.  But at least the weather is turning rainy here, so perhaps the shop windows’ shades will be drawn for the next few days … a brief respite before I continue my search for the elusive shop key.

One of my classmates in French class (Marco, and Italian working in Paris) had a very astute comment about French women.  He said, “French women are beautiful, even the ugly French women are beautiful.  They are better looking than the ugly women anywhere else.”  And oddly, it’s true.

Some Time in Paris Being a Tourist

Life in Paris is good.  I decided to spend an extended amount of time in Paris, to get to know the city.  I rented a nice little apartment (quite little: a bedroom that is mostly bed and very little room, and a small kitchen / living room) in the 6th arrondissement, very near St.-Germain des Pres (a great neighborhood on the Left Bank).  I signed up for some French language classes (an easy Metro ride away), and I then dedicated myself to walking all around the rest of the city, exploring.  I also dedicated just a little too much time to the wonderful patisseries, boucheries, boulangeries, charcuteries, brasseries, cafes, bistros, traiteurs, chocolateries, etc.  Not to mention the evil creperies.  Thank god I walk so much.

One of my first sights was the Catacombs, miles and miles of bones buried under the city.  I am a bit of a sucker for an ossuary (how can one not be?).  There are literally millions of people buried down there in miles and miles of tunnels.  Apparently as Paris grew and grew, cemeteries were moved to make room for the new buildings (or more specifically the bodies were moved – and then re-interred here in bony piles.  Each piles with a sign telling where the cemetery was and when the bones were moved.  Over the archway leading to the main part of the ossuary, it reads: Arrète! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.  Rumor has it that in other (non-bony) areas of the Catacombs there are under ground cafes, restaurants and cinemas – a whole underground world hidden under the feet of city.  That same day, after the Catacombs, I also went over to the Pantheon and saw Foucault’s pendulum, worth the trip (and more dead people buried under it too – over the door of the necropolis (what a great word) is the inscription: Aux Grand Hommes la Patrie Reconnaissant (To the Great Men of the Grateful Homeland); buried there are: Voltaire, Rousseau, Alexander Dumas, Marat, Marie Curie.

 As  a side note, I also took a tour of the Paris Sewers (Musée des égouts de Paris, located in the sewers beneath the Quai d’Orsay).  I’m not really a fan of Les Mis, but I do like odd tourist attractions.  This was, in a word, stinky.

 A long walk down into the 14e Arrondissement to check out a weekly book market at 87, rue Brancion (just outside Parc Georges Brassens) – a nice little market where local used and rare book dealers set up in an outside market, about 50 dealers in all.  A lot of odd and strangely French books, although I did see some nice 18th & 19th century books (mostly Hugo, Dumas, Rabelais – the usual suspects) but even a few incunabula.  After that I explored the Marché aux Puces down by Porte de Vanves.

 Paris is a tourist city and there are indeed tourists everywhere; it is Paris after all.  I did go into St. Sulpice (I walk by on an almost daily basis, so I finally stepped in).  There was a funny little sign by the ‘Rose Line” that said in part:  “Contrary to fanciful allegations in a recent best selling novel, this is not a vestige of a  pagan temple.  No such temple ever existed in this place.”  Hehe.   “The Da Vinci Code” opened the next week; I saw it at a theater two blocks away.  Fun to see for the locations, but the movie itself was pretty silly.  I also went on a little walking tour of the locations of the film Amelie.  A nice little neighborhood up on Montmartre.  Another tourist spot that should be visited is Pere Lachaise Cemetery, if for no other reason than to visit the grave of Edith Piaf (or Jim Morrison, depending on one’s musical tastes).

 I was out at Roland-Garros, watching a bit of the French Open.   Fun to see, lots of people, great tennis.  I mostly watched the doubles, as I had the cheap tickets for “the annexes” and could not see any of the major events … but the doubles were great … the weather less so (a few rain delays).  But seeing the great tennis got me inspired to play, so I have found an instructor here in Paris, and also looked online and have found at least one tennis partner.  So I will be able to play!  Now I will just need to pick up a cheap racquet.

 Paris is a city that is accommodating.  Last weekend was “La Nuit des Musees,” where all the museums are open until midnight and are free.  I went to the Louvre.    Saw the Mona Lisa, but mostly enjoyed just wandering about. 

 I’ve met a few nice people here.  A Danish journalist from French class, Brian, and I have wandered about some.  Today we are planning a trip to Versailles (it is a national holiday so no French class!  Whoohoo! Ascension Day or Assumption Day or Consumption Day or something).  Could be fun.

 St. Denis is the patron saint of Paris and because of that, I felt it was important to make a pilgrimage to the Basilica of St. Denis.  Brian and I went last week.  The story of Saint Denis:  He was the 3^rd century Bishop of Paris who spent his time converting the pagans to the holy ways of Christianity.  He was beheaded for his touble, on the highest hill of Paris (what is now MontMartre, the site of the Sacré Coeur church).  But, being a good future saint, his story does not end there.  He apparently picked up his head, dusted it off and walked off in a northerly direction, preaching the whole way.  Where he finally dropped dead (and dropped his head no doubt) became a shrine and the future site of the Basilica of St. Denis.  The Basilica is also where generations of French kings (and queens) are buried.  I especially enjoyed the statues of St. Denis holding his head in his hands.

 Of course Notre Dame is amazing too (except for all those damned tourists).

 A plan for my last days in Paris.  I thought it might be nice to walk through all the arrondissement in one day.  Spiraling out from the Louvre and ending up out by, oh I guess, the Bois de Vincennes.  Might make for a long day, but it might be a nice farewell to the city.  In the alternative, I was thinking of walking down one bank of the Seine and back the other where it flows through the city.  Or perhaps both walks, on alternative days.