The effects of the flu still weighed heavily on Jeremy’s muscles and energy, so he stayed in bed past breakfast and the normal time we would be up and at ‘em for a zip quick foreign excursion. Plans for Sacré Coeur, Mont Martre, the Eiffel Tower up close and by-day, l’Arc de Triomph and finally, Champs Elysées filled our clichéd afternoon to-do list. (affordably short, as we held onto the dream of returning soon for a proper visit).
Our Bordelais wardrobes clung to the idea of fall in spite of continuous warm weather. For our Spanish excursion we dutifully packed what we had of our warmer-weather clothes into our small daypacks, so when clouds and rain rolled in over the Eiffel Tower we were ironically unprepared. I tied a scarf around my hair, bought a 2-Euro checked umbrella from a dingy corner store, and trod around with Parisian mud in my summer shoes and soggy, dragging jeans. The umbrella stood strong for only a few minutes before it remembered its worth and refused to fully extend. We each took turns holding our broken companion high over our heads with tired arms.
Worn-out muscles, sodden outfits, a hacking cough and a pile of contentment accompanied us on our tour. Of course, Mont Martre first. We knew we were going in the right direction, as long as we were going UP the cobblestoned mount. We climbed up winding alleys with scrolling iron lamp posts, a long scale of stairs littered with wise rain-jacketed tourists, and found our way to the top near the dome-shaped cathedral the color of the rain clouds. The Cathedral of Sacré Coeur looks out over all of sprawling Paris. We took pictures from the shadow of the umbrella. Our timing was perfect for mass, but Jeremy’s cough echoed in the vast cavern of the basilica and turned us out before we could hear the Sister finish her scriptural reading in her pristine sweet melodic French.
Mont Martre is known as the ‘artsy’ district. It may be more touristy now than artsy, but its still an education to pay homage to that period of French history. We grabbed an expensive crepe for a late breakfast, took some ribbing from the jovial waiter who also taught us how to make the best Croque Monsieurs (like grilled cheese sandwiches, but French. Therefore better. I'll make you some one day).
We zig-zagged down the drenched hill to the metro and to L’Arc the Triomph, which is the crowning jewel at the end of the Champs Elysees. We, along with the rest of the tourists, took pictures of the arch, which houses the tomb of the unknown soldier, and is a monument commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte to celebrate his numerous victories. We traded cameras with other tourists, zipped underground to pop up again under the shadow of the grand arch, and read some of the inscriptions. Of course I enjoyed seeing it again, and it was good for Jeremy to see, but honestly my favorite part of that moment was the giant round-a-bout that encircles the arch. A circus. Champs Elysées is one of the largest, longest, straightest streets in Paris, and ends underneath the L’Arc de Triumph. Its also a ritzy shopping district and a huge tourist’s draw, so the wide lanes fill with international, or at least non-native drivers, quite nicely.
I only remember one scene from “Chevy Chase’s European Vacation,” where a zany family from America can’t figure out a way to exit the madness of the round-a-bout and ends up circling it for hours. I know that as Americans we are generally unused to this specific type of traffic control, but it is an efficient method when used correctly. This round-a-bout is large enough for 5-6 lanes, though no lanes were actually marked. 12 boulevards connect here. The ‘lanes’ all traveled at different speeds, stopping and slowing and hesitating and speeding, which turned merging into a halting, twirling game of ‘chicken.’ One car even parked horizontally across a few paths while it figured out what to do before it resumed its circular pattern. Oh how I prefer observing to driving in this case.
The Eiffel Tower, our radiant friend from the night before, flashed its grey-green powerful laciness in the cloudy light of day. Stunt or extreme sportsmen belayed down ropes attached beneath the tower’s skirts. A group of uniformed policemen huddled nearby smoking cigarettes and watching the spectacle. The underbelly is almost as impressive as the face. Tourists scampered around in the light clay ground snapping pictures and counting their admission euros to ascend to the different viewpoints. We nixed the expensive option, and instead found our own view from a park bench around the corner. Greedy crows replaced the murmur of the tourists. We swapped crowded cement for luscious trees surrounding a shady pond, with the tower’s shrinking mid-section perfectly framed by arching branches. And breathe.
Tradition expected a light lunch at the cheesy outdoors carousel café across the street from the tower. We snacked on a crepe à la marron (a crepe stuffed with a sugary chestnut paste) and Jeremy was enthralled by long orange hot dogs stuffed into hollowed-out baguettes. Tradition can sometimes make the world go round. And breathe.
My traveling companions from previous years can attest to how little I liked to simply sit and enjoy. If I sat, it was because Rick Steves suggested it. I always enjoyed, but usually it was at a sprint to get to the next great sight. I became a glutton for more of Europe. Here though, traveling with sick (and insightful) Jeremy, peace was a necessity. Although at first the lack-of-movement poured on the anxiety, I appreciate this new breathing pace.
The tram carried us to a few stops away from the magnificent Louvre to the Jardin des Tuileries. We accidentally hit the city of lights and love in time to see the tail-end of Fashion Week. A damp stone bench overlooked a large gated exit from the garden, where throngs of the smartly-dressed rubbed elbows with other fashionistas. We took bets to see which incredibly long-legged gal would catch the eyes of the stubby fashion paparazzi. I couldn’t help but feel frumpy in my waterlogged jeans, holey sweater, and heel-less shoes. And where DID I put my leopard-print bag?
The garden connects the Louvre, Musée D’Orsay, and L’Orangerie with grounds of fountains surrounded by lounge chairs, sculptures of men and gods fighting in the nude, presumably over the fair and barely-clothed maidens forever poised in longing and virginity, and perfect mazes of shrubbery. We didn’t enter the Louvre, considering our time restraint before our night-train to Seville, so instead we gazed at the former castle-turned museum with the Twentieth century semi-controversial glass pyramid entrance and promised to return one day soon to pay homage to Great Art. Starbucks.
Exactly. Why would Starbucks be in a story so close to the mentioning of Great Art of history? We thought the same when we saw a beautiful stone building across the street from the Louvre housing a 2-story American Starbucks with a French menu and the expected so-so coffee (though I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone how we came to know its quality). The free and tidy bathroom was indeed a luxury.
McDonalds. Yep, that too. Sitting smartly across the street in a similar intricately carved stone building, selling beer and McCroque Monsieurs to the exiting Louvre crowd.
And I promise we don't know how it tastes.
(Pictures coming as soon as the internet allows! A few more blogs will be up this week. Time to play catch-up!)
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