Day 4 - Paris, Bastille

I'll say it again…Vive le Revolution! Today will be the completely clichéd and touristy portion of our Parisian adventure, where we go to the Louvre, Eiffel Tower, and stroll gaily along the Seine.

It's even more clichéd, because we had a couple of excellent run-ins with some sweet, tasty, French-style rudeness. Or, as the French say, "Le Rudeness," because they all generally speak pretty good English.

Turns out, the folks in Montmarte just happen to be a little cooler than their uptight neighbors in the tourist-heavy portions of Paris. We crossed the length of Paris, from Montmarte to the shadow of the Bastille without incident.

And the "Le Rudeness" reared its ugly head. The man at the front desk in the hotel was being difficult. No outright hostility, mind you, but he managed to turn what should have been a fairly simple transaction (Bonjeur. Reservation por Tyler Rhoades. [he gives the key, and I pay] Merci) into an awkward, fumbling, drawn-out mess. Apparently, our room was not ready, which meant that we had several hours to kill before we could rest our weary bones, unpack our weary suitcases, and kick off our weary shoes and take a well-deserved weary nap.

So we started our "tourist-a-thon" a few hours early. All right then.

Our itinerary included a quick walk around the area, to acquaint ourselves with the sights, sounds, smells, and scuisine of the 4^th and 5^th Arrondisments. We got breakfast from a…not unfriendly, but not kind…bakery worker. A far cry from the incredibly pleasant woman who sold us Chocolate Croissants and Café au Lait every morning in Montmarte. This new bakery worker also had an annoying habit of allowing our halting French requests to dangle in the breeze without rendering any kind of assistance. I mean…dammit…at least we're making the effort. Couldn't you meet us half way? You don't have to speak English (because French people hate that), but...just try to get the jist of what we're doing, without pretending to confuse "Water" (l'eau) with "Diet Coke" (Coke Light).

But we made it out alive, with some mediocre French pastries to give us the strength to hit up our next destination. We were heading to the "Latin Quarter," named after the famed people of Latinia. We tootled about the Latin Quarter a bit…gazing upon (but not entering) Notre Dame, as well as a few other very neat-looking cathedrals and churches. Erika dutifully read descriptions from our trusty guide book, while I farted about and took pictures of birds.


The guide book says this is a "really small street," or something. You know it's true, because my wife is about 15" tall.


Of course, while Erika was busy being "educated," I was taking pictures of a cat stalking pigeons in front of a Chinese restaurant...because I have ADD.

After a few hours of walking and puttering, we returned to the hotel and finally got to enjoy our inexcusably delayed nap.


This is the kind of picture we took when we had a lot of time to kill.

Now, let's see. Our hotel is…well…you're going to hear the phrase "Not as good as [x] in Montmarte" quite a bit…and the hotel will be the first victim. "The Hotel de la Herse d'or is not as good as the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte in Montmarte." Wow...that was wonky. Hopefully that will work better as this entry continues.

The hotel isn't all bad. I mean...we have a bathroom to ourselves…and it's relatively clean. But the room has the vague musk of cigarettes and sweat…the street is terribly busy and loud…the walls are pale yellow and bare…the bed is rock-hard…I could go on, but what's the point? It's functional, but "Not as good as our hotel in Montmarte."


The Hotel de la Herse d'or.


The balcony at the Hotel Bonsejour Montmarte.

After a nap, we went for lunch. Here we had another unsatisfying encounter with a different bakery lady…this time on the left bank ("Left" is, apparently, French for "South"). We had a couple of sandwiches, then skedaddled off to the world-famous Louvre.

As I mentioned in an earlier entry, I'm not going to spew about art…because I honestly don't know a hell of a lot about it. I enjoyed the Louvre. I got to see some gorgeous Roman, Grecian, and French sculptures, the code of Hammurabi, some coronation jewels, and a butt-load of paintings featuring Jesus, the Saints, Monarchs, and What-not (apparently those were the hip things to paint in the 15^th, 16^th, and 17^th centuries).

And I saw the Mona Lisa. It was…well, actually, I'd heard it was very small…but it seemed pretty regular-sized to me. Not as big as those Napoleon paintings in the room behind the Mona Lisa, but still decent-sized. Unfortunately, the museum didn't allow people to get very close, and there were (generally) about 30 people clustered around the painting, waving digital cameras and pushing their way forward to the cordon.

This was my favorite picture from the Louvre.

So it was hard to really connect with the piece…but…I dunno'. Looked all right to me. I can now say that I "Saw the Mona Lisa," but I'll also say that it was "Not as good as the Mona Lisa in Montmarte."

Something I noticed – and maybe those of you out there who understand this stuff can help me out – why is it that facial expressions didn't seem to exist until the 19^th century? Every damn picture of the saints, angels, and aristocracy seem to portray people looking "stoic" and "reverent." What happened to passion? Where's the anger, the bared teeth, the fear? These are some pretty turbulent times, and there are tons of battlefield pictures, executions, revolutions, et cetera. Yet, everyone's got the same bored expression on their face.

You see what I'm saying?

And, speaking of which, why are all of the battle scenes completely bloodless? I mean…the famous painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae shows a nearly-naked king holding a spear while people around him…I don't know…show off their spears and swords to each other? Did ancient painters just not get the concept of the nasty nature of war? I mean…how did you kill a man before the invention of gunpowder? You took a weapon, and either chopped him up, stabbed him, or beat him to death. That involved (I would imagine) quite a bit of gore…yet in every painting the soldiers looked so dag blasted "stoic" and "reverent" as their friends were dying around them. Does this bother anyone else?

Anyone want to compare spear lengths?

Sorry…I promised I wouldn't do that too much. Anyhow, at a certain point our bodies decided to shut down. "Great masterworks of art" transformed into "Paintings that make me think about how much my feet hurt." It's a shame, but we'd already experienced a good deal of that feeling during our spin through the Musee d'Armee...so we came equipped with a plan of action. Once we began to forget how awesome the stuff we're looking at is, we'd go get food and coffee before the pain overwhelmed the excitement of our surroundings.

Unfortunately, the Louvre is enormous. Every person who has been to the Louvre will relish telling you this. I choose not to relish it, but I will confirm…it's huge. So we had to walk through several trillion dollars worth of art to find one of three cafes in the place.

We just wanted some bread, coffee, and a place to sit for 20 minutes. What we got was a sit-down restaurant, with the worst waiter in Paris. First off, we stood at the sign that read "Please wait to be seated." We made eye contact with several different waiters. And we waited. For a good 10 mintues. Finally, another couple arrived, and asked the waiter (au François) if they should seat themselves…and the same bastard who made eye contact with us multiple times, and ignored us, told the new arrivals that they should just seat themselves. Bastards.

So we followed the French-speaking couple, and seated ourselves at one of the tables. After a good deal of time, a waiter arrived wordlessly with menus and left immediately. We decided to get two espressos and a croissant. The waiter eventually returned. Using our impeccable command of the phrase "Je voudrais," we ordered our meal. The waiter wrote everything down, then left again without another word. Ten minutes later, the waiter returned with the two coffees, and told us they were out of croissants. Quickly I scanned the menu, "Pain du Chocolate?" "Non." "Umm…" "Only we have pineapple cake." And, without checking to see if we wanted pineapple cake, the douche left quickly. We never saw him again, but the cake probably sucked anyway. Douche.

We finished our espresso on an empty stomach and returned to the "art part" of the Louvre…which was open until 9:30 PM. We stayed until sunset…which gave us about 4 hours, from 2:30 PM to 6:30 PM. I'd joked for a long time about breezing through the Louvre in one day, and every time I'd mentioned it to a Frenchophile, they'd gnash their teeth, rend their garments, and proclaim in an outrageous French accent "Non! Non! Zat weel never do!!!" To those people I say, "Feh!"

Now, of course we didn't see everything. We saw the big ticket items (Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged Victory), as well as tons of French, Flemish, German, English, Italian, and ancient Babylonian and Egyptian works of art…but…boy…lacking any real appreciation for visual artistry, or any real desire to fully understand and appreciate said visual artistry...I feel the visit was good enough.

So we took off, just as the sun was cresting over the city, casting a beautiful glow over the weird pyramid in the middle of the square. It was the most photo-friendly moment we have had thus far...and all we have to show for it is a blurry photo hastily taken by a young Asian man. Ah well...say-la-vee.

We meandered through the 6th and 7th arrondissements after the sun had set, and eventually made our way to the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was tall. And made of metal. And it was bathed in blue light. We had no desire to go up, but it sure looked neat up close.

Beneath the tower, looking skyward.

Checking that off the list, we promptly got lost (again) trying to find "The Best French Onion Soup in Paris." Eventually (with an assist from a fish monger, then an even huger assist from a taxi driver who was so helpful that he drove us there…only asking for a little "gas money" – apparently called a "fare" au François – in return) we found the place. It was packed, and we were dressed far too casually for what looked like a "fairly nice" restaurant. Oh well. No time (or desire) to go back to the hotel and get dressed up in our fine threads. We had some goddamn soup to eat.

I liked the soup. Erika hated the waiter (well we both did…but Erika was especially venomous), so she hated the soup as well, and proclaimed proudly that it was (everybody now!) "Not as good as the French Onion Soup in Montmarte." I was poorly seasoned, and had way too much cheese for her liking. I don't know. I liked the cheese. I guess we'll have to just agree to "Not as good as disagree in Montmarte."

We paid. Left (or "south"). Then walked back to our sub-par hotel...where I nursed my brand spanking new "pinky-toe blister," while Erika nursed a giant bottle of water that we'd purchased on our way back to the room. Tomorrow we're off to Versailles, to see if we can figure out how to get to Versailles. Until then...