Jon Goes to France

I've seen of the French, and from now on I will only permit three complaints:
1) Their inability to get things done at any time other than one that is most convenient for them, namely construction projects. Like when the roof caves in. On mother. When she is in bed.*
2) The greatest tragedy in French life: breaking a bill. When I handed over a five Euro bill to the man at the subway ticket window to cover a price of three-eighty, he asked if I had anything smaller. If I wasn't in a hurry, I would've risked more than a loaded sigh and an eye rolling and replied "No, my three-ninety bill went through the wash."
3) The calendar that permits them to keep Christmas trees up as late as January 22nd.

Other than that, my ear had better not catch a wicked word from your direction about Paris. I don't care if you are a Londoner. I don't care if you were beheaded. I don't care if your city state fell victim to Napoleon's conquest and the most precious work of art by your favorite native son now sits in a back room of the Louvre. I will not hear of it.

Paris is the greatest city in the world.

The bus to Florence and the flight to Paris were flawless, save for the Americans I sat next to on the plane that told the worst stories I have ever heard.** There was a "simple" woman from New York (that city should've eaten her alive by now) who ended up next to this man from D.C. who absolutely dazzled her with his story about how inappropriately Italians touch each other and how he had to tell them what kind of touching was ok. I'm not even sure what this means. Do you see the stereotype I'm up against here?

As the Air France bus approaced Paris, I could see a dark sky with sunbreaks over the north of the city. A brilliant light shown through the steel beams and gained form as the fog refused to lift; my first memory of Paris was thick sunbeams through the Eiffel Tower.

This was Saturday, four hours after Marco had landed from Boston. Needless to say, the time difference was in my favor for the who-will-fall-asleep-next-to-an-active-drumset game. He met me at the bus stop after reportedly sprinting two blocks to greet the wrong bus. The talks were Hawks as we walked back to and toured the Basile aparment (complete with a view of the top third of the tower from the back balcony, as well as close proximity to the Arc d'Triumph - "We're building one in Seattle if we win" said Marco). Mrs. Basile was the only resident for the weekend, a most wonderful host. The guestbook proved that I was not the only one to take an unfair advantage of their generous offer. Marco made me an amazing sandwitch with fresh supplies from his mother. Pampered.

The first destination was Notre Dame (no Irish in sight). It definately evokes the fear of God, and/or tourists, but, uckily, this wasn't tourist season (every season is God season) and we were able to enter and walk the loop without hinderence. The French kept the giant rosary glass windows as the main lighting source, leaving much of the cavernous cathedral dark. A giant semi-transparent cloth hung in the transect, presumably to show videos on. The statues of apostles and saints stand on the outside of our path, silhouetted by the tinted glass mosaics.

As breathtaking as all of this was, nothing took my breath away quicker than the spectacle out in the courtyard. Two old men stood near a grove of short shrubberies with a duffel bag full of bread crumbs. For a thrill free of cost, the men would entice tourists to stand with bread on their hood for the ravenous pigeons to land on and eat, or bread to hold for the small birds to perch and peck at. Should a pigeon land on the hand and attempt to muscle out the little birds, the man standing closest would uncross his arms from behind his back and swing his open palm, connecting with the pigeon's chest and producing a sound that is exactly what you are envisioning. Thwap.



I couldn't contain my joy. This was unofficially my favorite part of Paris. Bar some.

We walked along the river, finding the palace (it really is) in which a group of Frenchmen legislate the language - they are the lords of French, they who decide which words do and which words do not become official parts of the language.

Montmartre was the neighborhood at the end of our trail. From the stairway up to the butte of Montmartre, leading up to Basilique du Sacre Coeur (a quick side note to explain that this is the exact location described by Rufus Wainwright in the song Complaint de la Butte on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. This film is, of course, a lay-low obsession of mine, but we continue: "The stairway up to the butte can make the rechid sigh" refers to the fact that you have a nearly perfect panoramic view of Paris from this large white stairway. I lived the song.) Marco and I watched the sunset and told pleanty of jokes to ease the fact that the moment was incredibly romantic (made complete by the man with the guitar doing his best "Sound of Silence," "Lady in Red," and James Blunt's "You're Beautiful").



This area also looks down upon the park and neighborhood that Amelie takes place in. We climbed down the endless staircases and entered the world again, stopping to photograph me at the cafe from Amelie. One major interior change has occured since the movie came out (I thought it was the fish vendor outside), but I shant tell what it is.

From there, we did what was neccessary: get a photo of Jon in front of the Moulin Rouge. Yes it's the red light district, yes there are tall buildings all around now, and no there are no courtyard nor elephant. But it was the Moulin Rouge.

The last dash of the day - after a pasta dinner from Paris Mom - was back to the Latin Quarter for a night at a jazz club. Had their been a rug, the French would have done much more than cut it. Viciously fast swing dancing among many people doing the same in a tight space is not for me, but these folks were really cooking. One thin old man, wearing an orange-tinted plaid shirt and Seahawk blue (omen) worker overalls, got up twice to twist his body while he wore a twisted face of concentration. Before the night was over, Marco did, in fact, doze off on my shoulder, despite the fact that our backs were nearly touching the drumset.

I was to see the Louvre by myself the next day, hoping to get up at a reasonably early hour of the morning and whip through, sparing Marco another trip before meeting him for lunch. He ended up waking me at noon by opening my door and laughing at the fact that no alarm could've woken me.

I went anyway. I had a very strict time limit before our next journey, and ended up running a quick path to the Mona Lisa and back out in 30 minutes. Say what you want about underwhelmment (a word?), but I was transfixed by her. I can't explain why. She was smaller than I imagined, yet I couldn't take my eyes off of the Mona Lisa. I managed to snap an illegal picture with the help of a human shield of Japanese.



Apparently, during heavy tourist season, French secret-service style men stand around the crowd and show no reserve when charging through and swatting down raised lenses. Think the pigeon man.

I found Marco in the smaller courtyard (note: I was more on time than he was) and we headed south on the . . . no, wait, we headed north first. In our rush, we scampered down the steps of the subway station and boarded the wrong train. I was simply following my guide, who looked up and exclaimed "this is our stop" after heading three stops in the wrong direction. I didn't even notice that we got out and simply walked up through the tunneled corridors to the other side of the platform and boarded the same line in the other direction. I even asked "which stop do we get off at" when we had returned to our original point of departure. Marco broke the news a few hours later.

A little closer to our final destination, the train went dark and came to an abrupt halt just outside of our station. The French stayed calm, and we followed suit. After a few moments and a request by the driver for patience, we were on our way again. These delays, however, were not just silly occurances. As we surfaced and saw the green-painted steel shack that housed the entrance to the catacombs, a man was placing a sign that stood about 5 feet tall behind the last people in line to enter. The sign explained that the people in front of the line were guaranteed entrance to the catacombs (which close at 4:30, this being 3:45) but that everyone on our side of the sign might not be so lucky. The man made a point of asking us to stand exactly where we were on the sidewalk as he picked up the sign and moved it every time the line moved.

At this point in the weekend, on this time on "game day" (a phrase often used by us as justification for unneccesary althetic behavior such as taking the stairs or running to beat traffic), everything was being taken as an omen. Would we Seattlites be stopped after finally making it this far? The man reached the doorway and signaled to us by facing his palm upward and curling his finers. "We waited 30 years to pass the sign" said Marco. Seahawks get it.

After an unspoken debate with the ticket lady about my age being under or over 27 (student ID but no birth date), I headed down the very narrow staircase. So long did this stairway descend that one is excused for being tired even after walking down. It was a slow and steady centrifugal force for minutes on end, until we finally reached the final elevation.

The walk through the tunnel was even longer. The path was no wider than six feet, no taller than six feet, and no shorter than six kilometers. The air was cool and damp with the unique smell of the earth's crust lingering in every crack and ominoiusly gated off-chute. A black stripe on the ceiling remained from the days before electricity when tourists followed their own candlelight and used the line for reassurance.

Finally, a doorway at the end of a room, after several angles and smaller rooms. The phrase above the door read: "Arrete! C'est ici L'Empire de la Morte" - Stop! Here is the empire of the dead.

And then you are surrounded by human remans, stacked in a precise and tight quilt of femurs and skulls, with an occational pattern of a cross or a heart, for the entirety of the next 45 minutes of your mortal life.



I dare not show you more, as the experience is yours to have. I demand it.

The wall of bones is always around five feet high, and can reach back very deep. There is substance to this kingdom of , glory in this portrait of death. The path is long, very very long, and littered with cement signs, engraved with poetic statements regarding every man's greatest fear and only fate. For this hour, it is your tomb. It is humbling and inspirting and one of the coolest things this Ghostbuster has ever experienced. It is the ending scene in a fantastic horror movie, the middle pages of a best-seller, and the highlight of my day.

"Silence, etres mortels. Vaines grandeurs silence"

Our thoughts turned to the hour after midnight. We were very careful not to touch a single deceased soul as to not recieve most certain bad luck. We didn't need it. There was a good hour spent in the Basile home reading articles and going through superstitious rituals (I never explained to Marco why he found me in the complete dark at the foot of my bed, kneeling on the floor with my iPod on, yet he knows) before a fitting meal from the land called home: salmon pasta. Hats off to you, Mrs. Basile. You understood.

After getting off the subway in the dark, we inexplicably (ok, it was "game day") ran most of the way to the only bar that promised to stay open until the game was over. Marco and I ended up catching the Broncos - Steelers game at the end of the first quarter. There were other Americans in the bar, some of them sporting their colors like us. The Steelers at the back were not to be messed with, and the men from Denver left before it was over. We congratulated the steel folks, who were amused by our faith in the team all by itself up there in the northwest.

The Panthers flowed in. We sat at the front by the projector screen, off to the left as to not obstruct anyone's views when we celebrated. Anyone who has watched the Seahawks with Marco knows the violence he channels from the men on the field. Despite our location, a man with greased back hair and a Jake Delhomme jersey made a point of walking in front of us and laughing - high pitched and dripping with "The Seahawks? Please."

Besides a few loud claps, he said nothing the rest of the night. The only other person in the bar (besided the three of us) celebrating the boys in blue was a South African getting drunk. A group of black guys came in and proceeded to call Steve Smith - I quote this directly and it is part of the story - "the Negro warrior" and act . . . in a very . . . intimidating manner . . . ok?

Never had we felt more like Seahawk fans. No respect from anyone that wasn't our neighbor. None. Hated by those that refused to acknowledge us despite the fact that we watched them all climb the stairs with their heads hung low. Isolated and comletely alone in the once-packed room, we toasted champagne: mother, son and Jon. The Seahawks.



So I conclude. The city was alive. It had a personality. I could've spent four weeks on any given street on the ground floor alone. Every inch was interesting as it was charming, and the nutella crepes and salted french bread (Italian bread is terrible) will be missed dearly.

I had one Parisian observation that sums up the quality of her character. I had to ask a music major that loves the Opera for help, but here it is:

Every time the subway took off, I swear I could hear the first six notes of Verdi's "The Brindisi" (you've heard it) coming from the squeaky breaks and wheels.

I would go back in a hearbeat to hear it again.


*This is a true story, but not my mother.
** Marco did end up telling one story at dinner that went something like "I found this book once. I started reading it, and I finished it." These three sentences are quite close to the originals. His mother and I had a wonderful time dissecting this epic tale.