How I'd Love To Go To Paris Again

You guys. Paris. There’s a reason it’s overrun by tourists.

We took the train that goes under the English Channel from London. As we boarded, I thought to myself, “I guess we’ll transfer trains at some point, because this one doesn’t look very waterproof.” Not my finest moment. I considered never ever telling Josie and Harrison that I had had such an idiotic thought, but then I decided that the joy it would bring to their lives was worth lowering their already pretty low opinion of my intelligence. I’m all about putting the needs of others before my own.

When we arrived in Paris, we had to figure out the Metro, and the guy in the ticket-information booth didn’t speak English (the nerve of these foreigners, don’t they know that only us ‘Muricans should be allowed to know only one language). Fortunately Harrison speaks reasonable French (all Canadians are born able to speak French, its science) so he was able to communicate with the guy and sort it all out.

Our Airbnb was perfection. I mean, yes, it was 5 flights of stairs up in a building with no elevator, but when you are in a different country things that would normally be vexing become endearing. The apartment was tiny and charming and ultra-parisian. Also, our street was full of little shops and bakeries and pop-up market stalls full of fruit, and when you opened the apartment window you could hear the hum of the parisians below conversing over dinner outside the restaurants.

Our first full day in Paris started with going to see the catacombs –or rather, standing in line for the catacombs. For three hours. During this time, I ran across the road to order myself a coffee. That’s right, I ordered coffee in French, all by myself. The actual order went fine, because coffee words are pretty international. I said, un café au lait, sil vous plait, (look at me, world traveller and linguist extraordinaire) and that all went well, but when it came time to pay, the lady just told me my amount, which of course was no help to me, and I couldn’t see where the cash register was displaying the amount, so I just sort of kept handing her euros until she seemed appeased. Very frightening, but I got through it.

Fast forward in our wait for the catacombs (after getting super hungry and consuming some fine Parisian delicacies from McDonalds) and I got all excited because I saw a giant lion statue which I was sure was the one Audrey Hepburn pretends to ride in Funny Face. I risked my life sprinting across the street so Josie could take a picture of me in front of it (I wanted to climb on it but I couldn’t get up there by myself and Josie was not down for illegal activity that day) but ‘twas all in vain. Weeks later, when I returned home and watched the movie again, I discovered that all along the statue she was pretending to ride was a horse. (The populous’ estimation of my intelligence sinks lower).

We at last made it into the catacombs, and they were awesome. Rows and rows of creepy skulls, artfully arranged in neat piles, putting one in mind of the Shadow Temple from Legend of Zelda. (I voiced this opinion while down there, and Harrison responded by playing the Shadow Temple music on his phone, which made me begin to be genuinely afraid that a wall master was going to drop from the ceiling and kill us all.) There were of course, very strict rules about not touching the skulls, and so I of course, touched one of the skulls, which got the other two to do it, and I am enormously pleased with myself forever and ever amen.

We then went to the Louvre, met up with some other Cape people by coincidence, wandered the courtyard looking for an entrance, heard a controlled explosion which to this day we don’t know any further details about, and got cornered by one of those dudes who wander tourist attractions trying to sell you stuff (a Jamaican bracelet maker who told me “once you go black, you never go back”. And yes, I gave him a euro for the yarn bracelet he tied around my wrist partially against my will, not because I’m weak, but because my life has not led me to a place where I have to wander the Louvre courtyard trying to get a few euros off of tourists, and so who am I to deny the man such a trifling amount for the sake of feeling like I had defeated him in the game of tourist vs. panhandler? If you have a different opinion, feel free to leave argumentative and hateful comments, heaven knows this blog needs more attention.)

Anyhoo, after that, we did the Louvre, which is pretty much like every other art museum, except with more famous art- like the Mona Lisa and that one painting from the cover of that Coldplay album. We then popped back to the neighbourhood our Airbnb was in to get baguettes and champagne (gasp! Emily’s a drunkard and a vagrant!) which we were going to partake of in front of the Eiffel Tower, but then Josie looked up the “Consuming Alcohol on Public Property” laws and the laws said no. And for some reason we actually listened. A word to the wise: don’t worry too much about laws or rules when travelling, you’ll have way more fun stories if you disregard them, and if you get caught, pull out your Dumb Tourist Card and play it like a fiddle.

We couldn’t take our champagne to the Eiffel tower, but we could take our baguettes, so when night fell, we stuffed my backpack full of food and took the metro toward the centre of the city. The train we took goes above ground, and over the Seine, and there was this magical moment when we emerged from the tunnel and suddenly there was the Eiffel Tower in all its glory, covered in a million golden lights, shining out over the city. Also, did you know that every hour, on the hour, it sparkles for 5 minutes? Because I didn’t, and that was a lovely surprise. We sat and picnicked on the lawn with a few other Cape people, and generally enjoyed the atmosphere, whilst fighting off people trying to sell us souvenirs and champagne (yes, I know.)

The next day, Harrison went on a solo jaunt to Vimy Ridge (Canadian war memorial near Paris) and Josie and I went to wander around Montmatre, which is where all the bohemians used to chill back in Victorian times. Now, of course, the surge of tourists has caused the bohemians to flee to more obscure corners of the city, but there are still lots of cool things to see, including Sacre Couer Basilica. There was also a courtyard full of painters a-painting, which was super magical to explore, but what you really go for is the view from the top of the hill. You can see the whole city stretched out before you and then you question what kind of blessed existence has led you to this point. The city looks vaguely pink in the daylight, and looking at it makes you want to drink coffee and eat pastries at a sidewalk café, all while being philosophical in a light-hearted way, perhaps costumed in a vintage dress and a well-worn ankle boot.

Josie and I spent the rest of our girls’ day hunting down all the touristy spots, because how can you not, you know? We looked at Notre Dame (didn’t want to pay to go in) and ate some crepes at a nearby restaurant, then went and found the Arch De Triomphe and the Champs Elysees. Arch: Fabulous, totally worth it. Champs: gone tacky and touristy, but you still have to stroll down it (preferably while listening to the Funny Face soundtrack) just to say you have. Also, the Disney store is fun, and they were playing Let It Go in French, which was nifty. We then returned to the apartment and watched that most excellent of French art films, Moulin Rouge. We were going to go see the real Moulin Rouge, but then I decided that I didn’t like the idea of making a touristy trip out of a place full of real actual humans trapped in the rather tragic world of the sex industry. So I just watched and obsessed over and sang along to a musical about it instead.

That night the three of us went up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. As I stepped out on the observation deck, a gust of wind nearly blew me flat, but the view was spectacular. The world below was all navy, with a million tiny lights of white, blue and red scattered around, and all the main monuments are lit up and bathed in gold. It makes you want to gather up the whole city and wear it as a necklace (hang on, that was meant to be poetic, but it sounds more like a threat a super-villain would make.) Let me try again: Wow sparkle. So beauty. Amaze Paris.

When I had talked to mom on the phone earlier, I asked her what kind of souvenir she wanted from Europe, and she said, “Oh, I don’t really need anything, I just want you home.” And I said, “Well too bad, I’m still going to get you something,” and she said, “Well, eat a macaron for me on top of the Eiffel Tower.” So I bought a hot pink raspberry one, and smuggled it up there, and partook at my leisure. Josie and I then listened to music from the Monte Carlo soundtrack (again, how can you not?) as we looked out over the city, and it was ultra-enchanting. Again, travels without background music are meaningless.

We ate dinner and then headed for Place De La Concorde, which is just a plaza full of pretty things, namely the American in Paris fountain. Technically, the real American in Paris fountain was on a studio lot in California, but this is the one it was based on, and so naturally I climbed on it and struck a bunch of ballet poses for Josie to take pictures of, because when in Rome, ya know. We then returned to our neighbourhood. Near the tube stop there was a café, and the tables outside were full of couples sipping wine and kissing and smoking their cigarettes and generally just being ultra-French and it was the best thing I’ve ever seen. I have never once before understood the lure of smoking, but that is because where I live, the people who are smoking are generally doing so outside of the Circle K whilst wearing those “I yell at my wife in public” sunglasses. But the Europeans make smoking look cool. Yes, they seem to be saying, you too can be stylish and unconcerned and the object of a frenchman’s affections if you light up a cigarette. Come, light one up with us and let us sit on a street corner and talk of philosophy until 3am.

Then you remember that if you ever tried a cigarette, A. You would probably just splutter and cough like an idiot, B. Your mom would kill you, and C. If your mom didn’t, the cigarettes would, but worse than that, your teeth would get yellow.

So that was Paris. I think I was ready to go back about four days, nay hours after leaving, but new adventures beckoned. Our next stop: Germany.