In the name of procrastination, I somewhat reluctantly begin a new post today. (And sort of out of a need to think about anything but Notre Dame football.) In my mind, so much had taken place since my last entry that I planned to pick one or two photos from each trip or event, and post them all here with a brief recap. It didn't take long for me to decide that is really just a copout, and I need to give a little more credit to my adventures. So today I will write about Paris. Another day I will write about other places.
How is it that I ended up in France this summer? The simple answer is that I took advantage of an opportunity. I know someone who lives there, who invited me to consider including Paris in my summer travels. The timing worked out. It seems as though I've wanted to go to France forever. Yes, I took French courses from seventh grade until my sophomore year at Notre Dame, and until this summer, had yet to find a reason to use the language outside of homework assignments and class presentations. Besides, who doesn't want to go to Europe? Anybody who knows me can tell you that I've been itching to travel abroad for years. And finally, this is the first summer of my life that I have had a real vacation. June 16-August 5 left weeks for me to play, while still receiving my paycheck every two weeks. For as much as I ran myself ragged last year, I now am invigorated as I return to school, knowing that another summer vacation awaits.
The day I arrived, I was left largely on my own. It was at once terrifying and liberating. Cary (the host) met me at my gate, and we took one a train and a subway, and a bus too, I think, to get to his place. He gave me a pass that would get me on and off all public transportation for five days, thus sparing me what would have added up to hours of frustration at ticket machines everywhere I went. The small apartment had a full view of Paris the Eiffel Tower. I probably could have sat there all day long, but we left quickly so that he could go to a bank appointment and back to work He gave me a set of keys for his place, and informed me that I was in charge of getting food for dinner. (Panic.) I walked as far as the bank and then train station with him, trying hard to memorize my return trip. At the bank, I withdrew my first Euros. Hungry, and disoriented from the time change, I walked directly back home. I felt a little defeated by my lack of energy to immediately conquer Paris, but I knew I needed to recharge. I purchased my first sandwich: une baguette avec jambon, fromage, et buerre. The order was awkward and included much pointing and a facial expression that said "I am SO sorry I am an American idiot." (I think the woman was more sorry for me that I was an American idiot.)
I continued to walk, and my stomach dropped as I realized that although I had keys to the apartment, I had no recollection of which apartment it was once I got inside the building. I had no phone, no number for him even if I found a phone, no real idea where I was, and a much-expired memory of the language. Luckily, I do have a steel trap for details, and vaguely remembered a number on his door that began with "11." When I got to the building, I could not for the life of me figure out how to get inside. I kept pressing a little button on the keychain, and nothing happened. Finally a woman let me in and I realized that I was supposed to just wave the key in front of the sensor. I went to the eleventh floor, approached the apartment I prayed was his, and tried for what seemed like an eternity to unlock the door. I was relieved that the keys worked enough that I knew it was the correct apartment (otherwise I knew I would have some terrified resident calling the police on me), but was increasingly frustrated that I couldn't unlock it, and imagined myself sitting pathetically in a heap of tears for the next four hours until he came home. Luckily, that wasn't the case. I let myself in, ate, slept, and set out for Paris.
Here is an assortment of photographs. Each one a memory. They are not in chronological order, something that would traditionally drive me crazy, but I'm okay with it today. Each photo will give me a story to share.
This (above) is what I ended up purchasing on my first day. Green beans, potatoes, a grapefruit, baguette, cheese, and wine. I knew I had partially failed, for there was obviously no real entree whatsoever. It was clear that we would have to shop again when he came home. During this first day, I realized what it must feel like to be a shy person. I meekly stumbled through my orders, insecure about each word that came out of my mouth. The butcher shop, fish shop, etc were too intimidating for me. I couldn't figure out what half the things were, let alone how to prepare them.

I was charmed to no end that everything was exactly as I learned in French class. The small shops delighted me: Boulangerie, Patisserie, Fromagerie, Charcuterie (sp?), Poisssonerie. One shop for cheese, one for baguettes, one for the meats, one for the wine, etc. Walking into these shops made me smile and giggle as I recalled our overly expressive group skits in French class. "BonJOUR monsiuer! Ca va?! Je prends une baguette et deux croissants. Merci beaucoup!" Yet what would come out of my pathetic mouth in the first day or two was what Cary told me to default to when I am stuck: "Desolee, mon francais n'est pas bon" aka: My French is no good. As my short time in France progressed, I became more comfortable with the language. I spoke with greater conviction, out loud and with a smile. Just in time for me to fly away.

Many evenings were spent just like this. Sit on the balcony, watch the Eiffel Tower. Watch the sun set, and wait for the five minutes each hour during which the tower would sparkle. With silver dollar eyes and a watermelon smile, I'd stare at it, breathing "Ooooh, it's sparkling again!" Hours would pass each night just this way. No sunset was the same.

This picture was taken at the Musee D'Armee. (Army Museum, located next to the Hotel D'Invalides, location of Napolean's tomb.) I like it because I was sticking my head into these gigantic cannon, which was actually a little frightening, regardless of the fact that there was no danger. Something about putting my head all the way inside of it still seemed very very daring to me. Yet in this picture, I'm smiling as if there are no cares in the world.

This is the Musee D'Orsay, the only art museum I visited. (The Louvre was too overwhelming, too long a line, and the day I was close to it I was not feeling up for it.) The Musee D'Orsay is an old rail station, converted to the museum. Fabulous paintings, including many of the most famous we've all seen - Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, Cezzane, all represented, and much more.

This was the best ice cream cone I ever had, as well as the most beautiful. One day we went to Versailles, then took the train all the way back to visit Notre Dame Cathedral. It was closed, but the sun was setting on the Cathedral in the most beautiful way (below).

We walked through the Ile de Cite over to Ile de St Louis. I loved this little part of Paris, in the middle of the Seine River. Tiny roads, apartments, restaurants, and many places for ice cream.

Above: I finished the last of my ice cream cone on this bridge, overlooking the Seine and the rear of Notre Dame. The exposure stinks, but I like the photo anyway.
Velos!!
You can see now how bad the exposure really was, because I took this picture just a few minutes later. We decided to burn off the ice cream by checking out bikes and cycling all the way back to the apartment. It took about half an hour, and I loved every moment of it. Even the part when we cycled straight up a hill only to find that it was a dead end. So we had to coast down (fine) then cycle up the next block over (huff and puff). That street brought us up to the Opera House, down past the Jardins de Luxembourg, and through a few neighborhoods. Exhilarating, but not as dangerous as you would think, because the French are very used to cyclists. As you saw above, there are stands of bikes for use all over the city. Thousands and thousands of bikes! With the pass I had, all I needed to do is swipe my pass (also provided by host), choose a bike, and redock it within a half hour. If I wasn't at my destination, I just checked out a new bike to keep going. Easy and wonderful.
But, not infallible, I soon discovered...
On my last day, I had a small issue with the bike. Everything had been going so very well on this last day. I had taken the subway to Montmartre for the morning, then took it back to the Musee D'Orsay. Via map and some vague idea of the ride home several nights earlier, I took a bike out at the Musee D'Orsay and cycled to the Jardin de Luxembourg, where I planned to relax with a book.
I found a bike stand, put the bike away.

Jardin de Luxembourg

toy boats

Beautiful flowers-better photos do more justice, but you get the gist.
I enjoyed walking the gardens, read some of my book. But, when I grew restless, I returned to the bike stand to check a new bike out, and there an error with my card. The French I deciphered indicated that the system could not acknowledge that I had returned the bike before. I knew that there was a charge for about $150 for not returning a bike. My eyes scanned the bike rack, and I saw the very bike I had returned, easily identifiable because one handlebar was missing its foam. I noticed for the first time that the little red light where the bike was docked. The light should have been green. I panicked. Did I dock it incorrectly? I could have sworn I did it right. I stood at the kiosk for several minutes, completely puzzled and panicked. Certain that Cary was going to be charged for the bike, I felt terrible. I was angry with myself for being so careless. I knew that I'd give him the money for it and not take "no" for an answer. I had spent no money on souvenirs, clothes, shoes, or anything, and now I was going to spend all that on a human error. But more immediately, I had not planned an alternate route home. I didn't know where the nearest bus or rail station was. I was tired, wanted to enjoy my last afternoon and evening there, and suddenly (dramatically, in retrospect) that this moment of failure had wiped out all the progress I had made as an independent tourist. My heart sunk for both of these reasons and I just started walking. I found a subway line that would get me close to the apartment and took it, dejected. Too tired to stop for wine or goodies, I went straight home. Now I just had to deal with how to tell Cary that I had messed up. I imagine this is what it must feel like when a wife confesses a grocery store parking lot fender bender to her husband. I opened a beer and waited. He came in a half hour later, armed with champagne for the last evening of Paris. I said that my day was "pretty good." After he had finished a beer for himself, I confessed, "I had a little problem with the bike today...." I explained everything. He is a much more calm and rational person than I am. So, not immediately but eventually, we walked a half block to the nearest bike kiosk so that he could read what the issue was. I was comforted that even he was perplexed. He called the help line, was on hold while we walked back to the apartment, and had a person on the line by the time we were home. I sat, biting my lip, listening to the conversation that began in French and quickly continued in English. He hung up and informed me that it wasn't my fault. I can still remember him saying that after he gave the customer service rep the account number, the guy said, "I see you had a problem at the Luxembourg station." It turned out that the problem was with that location, and not with my bike or anything I had done. Redeemed, relieved almost to tears, I was able to fully enjoy my last night in Paris.

Stay tuned for Paris: Installment 2. Maybe I'll finish it tonight. But, I've been writing here too long and have other things I need to do with this afternoon. Au revoir
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