Parisian Perfection

Hey,

So the plane gets into Paris around 8pm, and because I landed in a smaller airport, we had to take a bus into the city. I was grateful that we did, because it allowed us the opportunity to see the French countryside. Unlike in Rome, where I felt history, in Paris I just felt. No matter that the city itself is gritty, unforgiving and much dirtier than I'd imagined, there is LOVE everywhere. I arrived at night, and spotted at least 8 couples making out as I forayed my way to the hostel. I would see couples kissing all throughout my journey in Paris. I will tell you this, there is something in the air in Paris. I don't really know what it is...whether it's a smell, a sensation or a feeling, but it's like aromatic euphoria. Every time I would get angry, stressed or sad, I'd breathe that air in, and it seemed to say, "Chill, you're in Paris." That's pretty much how I felt. Like I was in a dream, and couldn't wake up. But, after my first night, I really didn't want to.

Ironically, though I considered Paris to be dirtier, the hostel itself was MUCH more modernized than the one I left in Rome. It had internet, a bar, a sauna and decent showers. I was more than excited to see the showers that didn't soak your feet because the drain was too slow. I have to admit, I also had another reason to get excited about Paris, and that reason was waiting for me at my hostel. I was very glad to see the reason, my buddy Terry, live and in the flesh, and after being solo for a while and fighting off some loneliness, it was nice to have some company. Together, we saw the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the River Seine. I actually enjoyed just being lost in Paris, randomly walking down streets just to see where they led. Surprisingly enough, none of the alleged Parisian crime affected us.

After he left on the third day, which did make me sad, I decided to take advantage of some of the other sights of Paris that we didn't see together. So, I found a free walking tour of the neighborhood Montematre, where all the artisans reside, and the home of the famed Moulin Rouge theatre. I caught the Paris metro to the train stop, got out and walked around for a bit. While doing so, I stumbled upon the first and only Starbucks since London. I went inside, and it felt less like Starbucks and more like a Parisian cafe, which appealed to my tourist side, but the slightly homesick for America side was expecting to see the Americanized version of which I've become accustomed. Imagine my disappointment, as I was searching for something, anything, American to forge a temporary connection.

After I took a deep breath and got a dose of "Chill, you're in PARIS!", I quickly recovered, found my tour and discovered my favorite parts of Paris, Montmatre. Full of hills, monuments to artists, little squares of people singing and dancing to well performed music, it was the infusion of spirit that I needed. Walking around some parts of Montmatre is like accidentally stumbling into a quaint village, while other parts seem to exist as its own city, independent of Paris. There are plenty of affordable and not so affordable shops to get food, clothes and mementos. It is hilly, so good shoes are definitely required, but the views of Paris and the cityscape from some particular streets is absolutely breathtaking. I started to get sick for my mom, not because I missed America, but because I wanted her to see the things I saw...and I knew that she'd be one of the only people I know who would see them the same way I would. Plus, watching her climb up these hills would have been a hoot. Although I would have gotten smacked for making fun of her arthritis.

I completed a staring contest with the local scam artists, who gather in the square below the Sacre-Coeur. The scam is simple, and it scares many tourists, enough so that they give you a lecture about it on the walking tour. It works like this: they come up to you (and usually they are African men), pretending to know little to no English, and they tell you that they want to give you a friendship bracelet. (In some cases, they don't tell you.) Before you can reply with an "ok", they slip this string looking thing around whatever arm you have available. Then, as you try to walk away, you realize they are holding the end of it. The scam comes in when they tell you that they want a certain amount of euros to release you. Depending on how scared you are, how little you are, or how big they are, it can range from as little as 5 euros to as much as 50 euros. I spotted this con being pulled on many of the unassuming tourists, and after accidentally bumping into some of the guys pulling it, I realized the con was that their english was pretty perfect. However, the face I was making must have been incredibly scary, because I found that they never even thought of messing with me.

Later, I was convinced to go on yet another pub crawl, but unlike the one in Rome, this one sucked. The places they were stopping seemed to be very....low rent, and the drinks were weak. So, I made an executive decision to ditch the crawlers, and go walking around downtown Paris. Yeah, that might not have been the smartest decision, but I did it. And, I managed to stumble into a not so great neighborhood. I saw some guys who were pointing at me, and began to walk behind me. I kept the eyes that grew on the back of my head on them, and decided to cut back across the rue (street) to return to an busier one..and through an alleyway. Moving quickly, and losing sight of the guys following me, I felt relief. I stepped onto the corner, and in doing so, I found a tiny slice of Parisian heaven.

Understand that I know some French. I'm nowhere near fluent, like I wish to someday become, but I surprised myself with being able to go to the store, read signs to do my laundry, pay for Metrocards, order bread, find clothes and manage with basic conversation. I amazed myself at how much I really knew. With that in mind, my Parisian heaven, was a place where English...was out the window.

It was a tiny lounge in the basement of a coffee shop that sold genuine African food. Greeted by a beautiful cocoa-skinned woman in all African garb, she beckoned me inside. I walked in, not because of her, but because of the smells. There are no words in any language, English or French, to accurately describe the loveliness, divinity, mouth-watering, passionate, salivating awesomeness of that smell. A combination of rice, spice, seafood, chicken and fruit...it was heaven. The beautiful woman told me to call her Maman, which is part of the word "bonne maman" which means grandmother, even though she looked like she could be my sister. Without much of a discussion, she asked me if I was hungry, and I nodded. She asked if I liked lamb and I said no, and then she disappeared. Music was thumping, people behind me were dancing and gyrating, really just having a great time. I watched Maman, hard at work at a small stove off to the left and in front of me. I couldn't see what she was doing, but I sat patiently.

After being hit on by two guys, one of which I kept turning away from because of his rank breath, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face a smiling Maman, who held a bowl in her hands. She extended it out to me. I peered inside, not knowing what to expect, but found the most beautiful looking pile of rice and peas that I'd ever seen. "Pour la vegeterianne" she says, smiling. (For the vegetarian, which she assumed I was). I dove into it....and it was FANTASTIC. A simple meal cooked well. Sauteed tomatoes, yellow rice, onion, garlic, and big beautiful peas. Sigh. I would find this place and go there twice before I left Paris, and the people tried to get me to teach them English in exchange for food. I explored, but never found nicer and warmer people than in that little lounge. Paris, I'll be back.