An Afternoon in Paris
With just over two weeks left in Paris, I’m starting to realize how much there is to do and not very much time to do it! In my first couple weeks here, I hit up the big spots: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, etc. My pace soon slowed as I settled into Parisian life; there would be plenty of time to see everything else. Three months is a long time, right? Wrong.
After my initial period of prolific sightseeing, I flipped through the Eyewitness’s Guide to Paris to mark down the sites I wanted to see. I ended up with a list twelve “cultural” things to do and nine sites to see. So this morning (and by morning I mean 1:30 which is when I rolled out of bed) I resolved to go check off at least one of my goals.
The sky shown bright blue as I stepped out onto the street. The air was cold, but with no wind to speak of it was quite manageable, even pleasant considering the late fall date. As I hopped on the metro I mentally scanned my list and decided to head to the Arc de Triomphe. I had yet to climb to the top, and with the fair skies I figured it would yield a beautiful view of the city.
Apparently everyone else in Paris had the same thought as me. The Arc was very crowded and I heard a lot of English being spoken; the bustle of tourists trying to cram in some last sights before returning from their Thanksgiving vacation was not conducive to the pensive atmosphere I was hoping to attain. So, I called an audible- the Arc would have to wait.
I left l’Etoile and headed down Rue Fouche to the Parc Monceau. I had read this park was rather beautiful, but generally neglected in favor of the Jardin de Luxembourg. Significantly smaller than the Jardin, le Parc Monceau maintains a charm all of its own in the city. I quickly likened it to the Boston Common both in look and feel, though it was perhaps a third of the size.
I took a seat on a bench just across from the duck (read swan for the Boson analogy) pond and pulled out the novel I had started that morning. It was none other than Ernest Hemmingway’s A Moveable Feast. I read two chapters before the wind picked up and I was forced to seek shelter.
The day was still young so I caught the metro over to Montmatre. Montmatre, as I had suspected after my visit to the Arc, was over run in tourists. I made my way to the top so as to go in Sacre-Coeur. For all the time I’ve spent on that hilltop, this was my first time inside the church. Truth be told, I much prefer the exterior to the interior, but I’m sure the crowds (I was ushered around the church caught in a stream of people much as sheep are led by a shepherd) and the dimmed light due to the setting sun played a significant role in this.
I exited, turned my back on the city and proceeded down the north side of the hill. This is where, Parisians tell me, the real Montmatre now lies. I walked the back streets until I found a cafe that appealed to me. I sat down and took out Hemmingway again. The narrative soon swept me up. Characterizations of the ex-pats (F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein), references to the city- particularly areas that I now stalked in the 5th and 6th arrondisements- and insights into the writing process, all recorded in Hemmingway’s succinct, yet perceptive style kept the pages turning. Before I knew it, two coffees were gone and the book was done. For anyone who has been, is currently in, or wants to go to Paris, A Moveable Feast is a must read.
- Note: Hemmingway lived at 113 Notre-Dame-des-Champs. My school, ISEP, is at 28 Notre-Dame-des-Champs. When this information was first relayed to be by Professor Martin, I strolled down the street to take a look at his home. The place is still there, resting inconspicuously on the side of a bustling street.
I spent the evening walking about St. Germain-des-Pres, and eventually made my way over to the Bastille. Having neglected my work in favor of reading- as I am recentl wont to do- I found a new cafe and sat down. I worked on my paper for the Louvre class for two or so hours before calling it a night and heading home. It was a wonderful day.
This just in: it’s 2:14 in the morning, but when I looked out the window I saw a soft snowfall drifting down onto the street. Snowing in Paris? It doesn’t get any better than that.
