Getting Lost.. and Finding Paris

Bonjour!
Welcome back. Thanks to all of you who wrote me back, or posted notes on the blog. I love hearing from you, so please keep them coming.

So, it is day 7 and I now own 3 French scarves. Yes, 3. I just can't help it. When you are here, you are struck with this deep desire to one of them. To not just be in France, but to be French. To be part of this culture so lovely, so pretty, so picture-perfect that I will buy as many scarves as necessary just to play the part. Well yesterday, the most incredible thing happened... One of them actually thought I was one of them. I swear. Here's how I know: he asked me for directions. Directions! A frenchman asking me for directions! French people do not ask a tourists for directions.... Have you ever heard of anything more delicious? Of course I could not oblige - I didn't even understand where he wanted to go, but the important thing is that he asked. This was a moment of sheer joy.

Contrary to my desire not to be one, I have become quite the tourist since we last spoke. I've been to the Louvre, Le Jardins du Tuilleries. The Louvre is one of those places you must go see when in Paris and I cannot comment on it any better than guidebooks. The Mona Lisa is small and the crowds to see her are large. You'll leave wondering "why is this painting so special?" and though there are theories, I still question. To me, there are more beautiful paintings and sculptures there, and it is the architecture that is most spectacular - the haunting castle, the expansive estate, the overwhelming glass pyramid entrance. But then again, I am an architect's daughter, so what can I say? The Tuilleries Garden is something to see, but I've discovered that I prefer picnics off the beaten path - on park grass between the Tuilleries and the Champs, over an antiquated bridge.

On Monday, I decide to go to Montmarte, an old artists village atop a hill overlooking the city. Its cobblestone streets still wind around the hill, while painters and sketch-artists fill the town square, making this little town homey and majestic. Naturally, this is a place I must visit. It seems a bit far to walk, but I remember my pact (see last blog), and the pain au chocolat that I enjoyed for breakfast, and I set out on this trek. Besides, I have maps and guidebooks - I can't go wrong.

Well here's the thing about maps and guidebooks... they show you which streets to take, but they do not describe the types of neighborhoods you'll be walking through. (This requires experience, which I now have, and could therefore advise any of you approrpriately. However,) Somewhere along the way, I find myself in the 'hood. If you know Detroit, think 6 & Woodward. If you know Cleveland, think Hough. This is where I am. Blocks back, I realized that I had wandered out of tourist territory - gradually, the boutiques became clothing marts, the cafes - fast food cafeterias, and the shops - temp agencies and Western Unions. This was a real lower-middle class Parisian neighboorhood, where I now imagine is where the majority must live - honest people who work in banks, and hotels, restaurants and markets. I felt foolish and embarrassed for having assumed that all Parisians were like the priveleged few who sip cokes and smoke all day at cafes near my apartment. I am (of course,) lost in this thought without realizing that the streets have now become flat-out raw. Sex shops offering a peep show for 2 Euros have replaced the Western Unions, and where there were banks, are now cell phone, wig, tattoo, and tabacco stores all with their metal gates open, pushing their wares on the streets with neon pink and green cardboard hand-written signs. The streets reek of rotted fruit and tar. Pregnant women pushing strollers, teenagers in huddle, and old men selling cigarettes all crowd the sidewalks, making it difficult to walk through. I desperately want to take a picture of this scene - to remember and show this other side of Paris that Frommer's somehow leaves out, but I think better of it. I clutch my bag and hurry my pace. The thing is, I no longer see signs for Montmarte, and this worries me. A wonderful thing about Paris is how well marked the sites are. When close to a monument, church, or museum, arrowed street signs point exactly toward your destination, making it nearly impossible to get lost. In this moment, however, the signs for Montmarte have disappeared, and this does not seem like a wise spot to stop and ask for directions - or to pull out my map. (Note: I feel ashamed to say this, as though I should be tougher, more coarse, like I should be more interested in experiencing this other side of Paris, but when you are lost, and you don't speak the language, exploring the grittier side of unknown cities is not something you want to do.) Fortunately, I see a Metro station, and the beauty of Metro stations is that above their entries is always a map. Aha - I see where I missed my turn. Go left 2 blocks... gold!... a sign for Montmarte again, pointing me exactly.... toward a dead end. Hmmm.... okay, I use my best sense of direction (which any of you who have driven with me know is non-existent,) and continue. A jog to the right, a jog to the left, and the incline begins.... yes! Incline is a good sign when going to the High Hill of Paris. So I climb, and as I do, I notice that the quaint bakeries, well-kept apartments, and sidewalk cafes return... as does a homogenous yuppie population. And though I am glad to no longer be lost, I can't help but think about how segregated we humans still are, and wonder why we are each handed a particular lot in life. I may have been a wimp going through it, but I'm grateful that my journey took me where it did, through a part of Paris I never would have seen or believed otherwise.

I do make it to Montmarte and I love the town with all of my soul. It is exactly as the guidebooks promise, and better than I imagined, but unfortunately it starts to rain.

After a glass of wine to regroup in a lovely cafe, the adventure continues when I meet the epitome of the stereotypical pushy frenchman, Stephane... who not only tries to pick me up for the evening, offering me "much satisfaction," but also asks me to marry him. Though I am not the least bit interested in being satisfied by Stephane, it is now a terrential downpour, and he offers to show me how to use the Metro, so I go. We end up across the Seine from my apartment in a charming area of the Latin Quarter that I had not yet seen. It is crowded, and bohemian, and filled with cheap, mouth-watering Greek food. I do not want to dine with Stephane, but the smells of pepper and garlic and lamb are making me drool. The question is.... how do I ditch Stephane and proceed as quickly as possible toward the next gyros? It's impossible. So, I go home (Stephane-less and gyros-less)... But, I am thrilled to report that I returned this afternoon for a "pita extra grec", which means gyros overflowing with frites and cucumber sauce. I ate this salty delight on a lamp-post lined bridge overlooking the Seine while a street musician serenaded me with his accordian. It was, as expected, heaven.

One thing that we've yet to discuss is the difference in living somewhere vs. just visiting there. One major difference is the need to buy house-things... like soap, toilet paper... feminine products. It would seem that this is not such a big deal. Go to store, see what you need, and buy. BUT, when you don't speak the language, this is a bit disarming. You want soap, but the package says, "douche". Well, in our country, there is a difference between soap and douche! Not so here. Here, Douche is shower soap. Note to self. To be sure, I buy both a bar of soap, and the liquid douche. When I unwrap the bar, engraved in italic letters are the words, "Toilet Soap". No joke. And I was worried about the douche.... Toilet paper is also different. Here, toilet paper mostly comes in pretty pastel colors like baby blue, pink and peach. I'm not sure why this is so, but toilet paper the color of cotton candy grosses me out. Moreover, it is impossible to tell if you are buying 1 ply or 2. I know my french numbers, and they are absent. The good news (especially for Holly who will need to use it,) is that I bought wisely: 2 ply, white. The only one white they had.

Speaking of shopping, I will wrap this blog entry by telling you about my favorite street in Paris. I discovered "Rue Montorgueil" on my second day here. It is just beyond Les Halles, formerly the significant open market of Paris for 8 centuries. The only remnant, Rue Montorgueil is a slice of old world markets - butchers displaying large carcusses on hooks, cheese shops offering huge wheels of aged cream, vegetable stands with peppers and eggplant in perfect pyramids. This is what a market is supposed to be. Scents of freshly baked bread, oversized lillies, and raw shrimp hypnotize your senses as you stroll. It is literally arresting. For those of you who know that the open market is my favorite place on earth, you can only imagine how thrilled I was to find Rue Montorgueil. I was even more thrilled when it showed up in the book I am reading (thank you Amanda), as the writer's favorite street in Paris too. She gave me the tip to go in the morning when the street is ablaze with vendors setting up shop. It is great fun and something I recommend to anyone coming here soon.

That is all for me for now. Thanks again for checking in and sending me notes along the way. This is an incredible journey which is only possible because of the loving support I've received from family and friends. A bientot!