Paris

Hey all,

It is Monday afternoon here in Bordeaux, and I thought I'd start writing about my trip to Paris this last weekend, before the memories slip out of my head and onto the hard wood floor of my bedroom, mixing with the other stories the crazy experience my trip abroad has been thus far.

I left Friday morning from Bordeaux to head to Paris, where I would be staying with Florent, a friend of the family who studied at UC Berkeley last summer. After missing my 8:30 train (I tend to take my time in the morning...), I took the next train at 10:30, making it to Paris at about 2pm. Florent was kind enough to take the afternoon off work to hang out with me; he picked me up at his metro stop and we walked to his (new) apartment.

After a tour of his apartment, which was massive by French standards, he took me to a local greasy spoon to get some lunch. There, we caught up on the past nine months. After, we decided to go see the Frank exhibit at the Jeu de Paume, which was amazing. Seeing this exhibit was certainly one of the high points of this trip. Frank, a Swiss photographer, shot American life in the early to mid 50's - a time in which black and white held an uncommon weight. His photographs are what I would call masterpieces, challenging the human spirit with a wide range of emotions expressed by the artist, his subject, and evoked in the viewer.

For dinner, we got pasta from his mother's Trattoria; an Italian family with exposed and valued roots, Florent's family is as French to me as they are Italian. Truth be told, the pasta was amazing; mom, your stuff is great, but this was wonderful. The next time I'm in Paris, I will definitely have at least one meal at that Trattoria - never before have I tasted such yummy pasta.

Saturday afternoon, after getting a late start, I made my way to Père Lachaise, quite possibly the most famous cemetery in the world. Unfortunately, it was far colder than I imagined, and the cemetery being as large as it is, I was only able to find a few important graves in the two hours that I spent there. Proust was especially hard to find - a modest black grave seated behind some gaudy horror, I must have passed it three or four times trying to find it. No, I didn't kiss Oscar Wilde's grave, and petting the black cat inhabited by Jim Morrison will have to wait for another day.

In looking for Monsieur Proust, I stumbled upon two fellow francophiles - a New Yorker ex-pat who moved to Paris with his French wife six years ago. They were kind enough to tolerate my company, and after finding Proust together, we decided to search out Molière and La Fontaine before calling it a day. In parting ways, I introduced myself as ‘Benjamin’, a name that I have learned is very common in France, and one that I have more frequently embraced as I grow accustomed to its beautiful French pronunciation. The fellow explained the origin of the name as “right hand of the sun”, and I was utterly swept away in the imagery thus invoked. I’m not sure whether that’s what my name really means or not, but I don’t much care, either. My vanity is appeased.

Leaving the cemetery at around 4pm, I had a decent amount of time to kill before meeting my friend Julie for her 25th birthday south of Paris. So, in an effort to regain the feeling lost in my chilled extremities, I hurried myself into the cafe across the street from Père Lachaise, le Rond Point. There, sitting down with the book I'm currently reading, I ordered an overpriced pot of tea and prepared myself for defrost before heading out to my next adventure. As soon as I had started sipping my tea, however, one of the two men sitting in front of me asked me how I liked the book I was reading and invited me over. Preparing myself to either be robbed or somehow abused, I cautiously eased my way over, setting my backpack between my feet. As it turns out, the fellow was Lebanese and his friend sitting to my left was Parisian. The Lebanese fellow was a poet, and launched immediately into broad philosophical theory while the Parisian simply sat and smiled. He tended to stare at me, which was a bit unsettling, but I got used to it as I accepted how bizarre and random the situation was. Apparently, the Lebanese fellow, extrovert and uninhibited, had sparked up conversation with the Parisian fellow in Père Lachaise and asked him to join him for a beer in the cafe. After a somewhat awkward, but surprisingly personal discussion, I paid my tab and left, on to the Picasso museum.

On the way there, I stumbled upon the very same couple I had followed around the cemetery. They suggested I go to Grand Palais to see the ‘Picasso et les maîtres’ exhibit, supposedly the best of the year, and which was ending on Monday (today). I took the advice and made my way to the Champs-Elysees, where an enormous line of people had gathered outside the Grand Palais, a beautiful building situated right across the street from the Petit Palais, another gorgeous (yet more extravagant) work of architecture. By this time, it was 5:30 on Saturday evening, and the already cold city of Paris was quickly becoming freezing. I jumped in line, hoping that it would move fast enough for me to make it to my friend's place south of Paris by 7:30, but after asking a fellow amateur des beaux-arts, I learned the wait was expected to last a full hour and fifteen minutes. Discouraged, but refusing to accept defeat, I decided to stroll across the street through the gleaming golden gates of the Petit Palais, where I was stopped by an elderly man, who notified me of its closure.

Mince! What to do? Freezing cold in the most touristy section of the tourist-packed city, I racked my mind for warm places in which I could kill an hour without losing limbs to frostbite. Acting quickly, I set my eyes on the Louvre, which was right next door, in my mind’s eye. Crossing the Tuileries Garden against the wind, I walked past l'Orangerie (also closed) and countless beautiful stone statues, hardly appreciated by this shivering Californian. Of course, once I finally made it to the Musée du Louvre (4 metro stops away from the Grand Palais), it too was closed. Fortunately, I was still free to enter the enormous glass pyramid, where I could defrost for a bit before leaving for Julie's.

Wandering around the Louvre, my numbed senses unwittingly submitted to a tourist impulse to visit the gift shop. There, I purchased post cards of famous works of art that are now on my wall behind my computer; though perhaps a bit tacky, it is really nice to look up and see these greatly reduced paintings.

That night I had a pretty good time going out with Julie and her friends to celebrate her birthday - it is always nice to see her, and meeting new people can be really interesting. I was surprised (and a bit flattered) when I introduced myself to people, and they immediately reacted with "oh! the Ben from California, right?" After the first few times, I stopped giving people a hard time for stalking me and accepted that word of my exploits has traveled to all four corners of the world, and that I will soon be invited to dine with the classiest of company in the most exotic of places. Am particularly looking forward to people recognizing me when I find myself in China. That should be good.

Sunday I decided to go back out and get a heavy dose of culture at the ‘Picasso et les maîtres’ exhibition, preparing myself for a bit of a wait. Little did I know I would end up spending my afternoon waiting in line in -2 degree Paris! After three long hours of waiting outdoors and attempted bribes (some museum employee brought out a cart of mandarin oranges to appease the crowd, which was quickly turning into a cold, angry mob), I finally entered the museum, only to realize how painful it was to regain feeling in numbed feet after standing for three hours on end.

The show itself was enormous, with plenty of work from Picasso and quite a few works from influential painters of which I had heard and read much about. Though I am not Picasso's biggest fan, I found some of his lesser known works really spoke to me; one painting from his 'black period' and his more monotone sketches. I also really enjoyed being able to closely examine the more famous of paintings, a wide range of still lifes and portraits. By the time 7:30 rolled around, I was definitely ready to move on.

Florent, the friend with whom I had been staying, had invited me for dinner with his family, which was wonderful; being in his home reminded me of my own mom's taste, in which I took quite a bit of comfort. It was nice to sit and eat with their family: conversation was warm and spirits were high on that cold Sunday night.

When I left Monday morning at about 6:45am, about two inches of fine, soft snow had accumulated underfoot, and tiny, delicate snowflakes could be seen falling gently overhead, coming from a seemingly infinite height with a preciousness I had never known before. I felt like Paris was seeing me off, paving the city with this fine layer of down after a trip packed with interesting people and great stories. I was enchanted and moved to see such purity, such uniform beauty spread across this old city so rich in grit and history.

I returned to Bordeaux with lighter feet, happy to be who I was, where I was. And now is where I leave you, until the next now which unexpectedly sneaks up and embraces me with some moment that simply must be recorded.

Ben