A Week Later...

i'm not sure anyone is reading this anymore, but for the record...

here i am, back at home in vancouver, where it is grey and raining. i've been home for a week now, and it feels like a lifetime ago that i was in italy and france.

wondering now if it were all a dream.

how so much and so little can change in a week, three weeks, a day. the slow passage of a rainy hour, the blink of a week. the time capsules that i've stashed away in the wetworks of my brain. the archaeology of my experiences.

my breath. my feet walking on cobblestones older than i am. my hand resting on a wall erected at the beginning of history, built by other hands. my gaze rising to painted ceilings whose beauty deliver me from the groundings of the earth.

some have told me that this trip will have changed my life, that it was a life-changing experience. but what i've learned is that life changes every day, every hour, if i let it. or won't if i don't. my life is really not all that different now than when i left. but my perception of it has changed a great deal.

my breath. my feet walking on concrete sidewalks. my hand clutching an umbrella to keep me dry as i walk through the city.

here are the moments that make life precious. "what i hold in my hand..." creeley knew this. i had to travel across the planet to finally find a glimpse of what this meant. what this means.

"What
has happened
makes

the world.
Live
on the edge,

looking."

--Robert Creeley

Peter Mansbridge, Oh I Missed You So.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007.

Some good things about being sick while in Montreal:

1. can catch up on blog entries (see updates below)
2. can catch up on my sleep (trying to sleep on the plane is like trying to shovel the sidewalk while it’s still snowing—you’re going to have to do it again later anyway)
3. can watch Peter Mansbridge on the CBC News while writing from my bed

Did 2 and 3 last night, and have mostly finished 1 this morning. Looks a bit grey outside today, but I’m going to try walking out to the waterfront of Old Montreal, and see Notre Dame Cathedral as well.

Some bad things about being sick in Montreal:

1. only have energy to do 2 and 3 listed above. ugh.
2. i'm sick. isn't that bad enough?

Have finished my in-room breakfast (the hotel delivered fresh hot croissants and hot coffee to my room this morning). Have now mostly finished updating my blog and online album. Ok, time to head out, I guess. Will pop a few pills and wander around outside...

Flight from Paris to Montreal

Tuesday, October 9, 2007.

Long flight. Long day. What else is there to say? Head cold didn’t help, either.

Scheduled Mellow Day in Paris

Monday, October 08, 2007.

Yah, ok, so the bliss couldn’t possibly last, could it?

I woke this morning with a bit of a head cold. Runny nose first, but as the day wore on, a little headache grew in my left temple (right above the stuffed left nostril, funnily enough). Sinus cold, I think. No wonder I was feeling a bit tired yesterday (maybe I caught pigeon-type bird-flu from Venice??) Hope it doesn’t mess me up too much during my plane ride tomorrow… have bought cold meds from a local pharmacy, just in case.

Didn’t really have the energy or motivation to do much when I woke this morning. Felt tired and wanted to sleep all day. But I knew I would never forgive myself if I did that, so hauled my ass out of bed, and got showered and dressed, and tried to figure out what I’d do today.

So, quick synopsis, before I get some rest & try to fight off this cold:
- morning, did a bit of computer work in the hotel room
- walked out, and at the last minute decided to head up the street to the Pantheon to take photos
- walked to the Metro station and went to Cimetiere du Montparnasse
- visited the cemetery and took a bunch of photos—this visit was much more quick and civilized, since the cemetery is organized much more geometrically; of course, this makes it far less interesting photo-wise, but it was still lovely to visit (Mitch, i saw Julio Cortazar's gravestone! Hopscotch, Hopscotch!!)
- took the Metro back to the Seine, and thought I’d try the Notre Dame towers again
- boo… three strikes and yer out! there was a HUGE line up, and given my pending head cold, I was in no mood to wait in line (besides, the change in altitude would have messed with my sinuses, right? Right?), so gave up
- walked back to the hotel, had a quick lunch, then did more computer work while I rested
- decided to head out one last time to find the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore
- found it, and spent over two hours in there, browsing and reading (and snapping a photo or two); ended up buying three books (eek)
- bought some juice to re-hydrate, and slunk back to my hotel
- have been writing in bed ever since… trying to fight off this cold

Ok, bedtime for me. Hope I get better by morning. It’s going to be a looooong day with the flight back to Canada....

Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, and Musee d'Orsay to boot.

Sunday, October 7, 2007.

While I was at the Louvre on Saturday, and was wandering through the bookstore (how could I resist), noticed a book on the Musee d’Orsay. So I picked it up and leafed through it. Agh!! It only made me want to visit that museum, too, and I was determined to do so before I left Paris, even though I’d just spent over six hours in the Louvre and could barely walk anymore. Even if it meant hobbling the entire time I was there. Even if it meant I would cripple myself for life. I simply had to go: Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Renoir—how could I not go??? Mother would disown me for sure.

Morning, breakfast in my hotel room of brie, bread (still good from yesterday!), and orange juice. Then a bit of last minute plan-changing. I’d decided to forego Notre Dame and go straight to the cemetery this morning, to get there before the crowds. Also, to give myself a bit of time to walk to Gare du Nord, and figure out the Metro system.

That would also give me the afternoon to check out the Musee d’Orsay. Woop!

It was a beautiful walk to the station, along the Seine. Brisk and crisp, a beautiful Paris fall day. Some traffic, but not overwhelming, so still fairly peaceful. Crunchy dry brown and yellow leaves underfoot. A bright, clear sky above.

A perfect day to visit a cemetery.

Managed to negotiate the Metro system just fine. It’s simple, straightforward, and easy to navigate, once you figure out exactly where you want to go, and which lines you need to take and connect to. Even the automated ticket dispenser came with English instructions, which was a speeder-upper for sure. Bought my one-way ticket, then snaked through the underground labyrinthine corridors to the correct platform. Hopped on the train, got off at Nation station (heh, that rhymes), connected to my other train, and got off at the Pere Lachaise station just fine, thank you very much.

Heh, after Rome and now Paris, I’m a Metro pro now.

I climbed the steps to open air, and took a moment to get my bearings. Saw a long, large cement wall lining one side of the street, and immediately guessed that that was the cemetery. But I was at a loss. I knew how big it was, and knew I needed a map, but wasn't sure where to get one. Most of the shops were still closed that early in the morning (I arrived around 945am). But I did find a sidewalk newsstand open, so I thought I’d try there.

As I tentatively approached, an elderly man approached me, and grabbed my elbow, asking me in French whether I needed a map to the cemetery (at least, I think that’s what he was asking me). My grasp of French is still sadly rudimentary at best (despite all those years of French language classes at school), but my comprehension was even more challenged by the fact that this poor man was missing several of his teeth. But the man repeated what he’d said (I’m guessing he spied me staring helplessly at the cemetery wall earlier), and gestured toward the vendor, pointing and reassuring me in his missing teeth French.

When the fellow who was in line in front of me finished buying his newspaper and walked off with his young son, the elderly man pushed me forward, urging me to ask the vendor for a map. “Pour la cimetiere, pour la cimetiere,” he kept repeating. The vendor seemed to know what he meant, and reached behind the counter and rummaged around for a bit (knocking down a postcard stand in the process, oh dear, those are tight spaces to work in!). Dug out a map of the cemetery, and said in rough English, “two fifty.” I dug some change out of my pocket and paid for the map.

As I left with my prize, I thanked the elderly man profusely, thanked him over and over, “merci monsieur, merci beaucoup, merci, merci!” He laughed at me with his partly-toothed grin, and patted my arm, then wandered away down the street.

I smiled after him, and trotted across the street to the cemetery entrance, eager to start exploring.

It was a beautiful cemetery. The map was frighteningly convoluted, and it took me several minutes to get my bearings. In fact, the entire time I was there, I shamefully admit that I had to keep shifting the map around to reflect the direction I was walking in. It was the only way I could keep the winding paths and streets straight in my head. And trying to locate single graves amongst all of those tombs and tombstones… but I was determined. First stop: Marcel Proust. His grave seemed to be closest to where I was. Then, Maria Callas in the columbarium, then Oscar Wilde, then Gertrude Stein. Then I would have to hike to the other end of the cemetery to find Jim Morrison’s grave. But first things first.

As I walked along, I got disoriented—was this the right way? I had to consult the map again. As I studied more closely, I realized that the entrance I thought I had entered was in fact not marked as an entrance at all on the map—I had entered by the Pere Lachaise metro stop, which was at the bottom of the map, not the top, where I thought I was! After a bit of re-orienting, I figured things out, and with a renewed sense of direction (if only all things in my life were as simple!), headed off to find Proust.

Stumbled around for a bit, and just as I was about to give up, looked down and saw the tombstone. Yes, cheesy as it sounds, it was just like that. I literally just looked down, and there it was. Dark grey slab of marble. “Marcel Proust” engraved on the front side. Snapped a couple of photos, paid my respects, then wandered off to find the next one.

In turn, found Maria Callas (under the Columbarium, number 16258, took a picture for mum), Oscar Wilde (yes, it is covered in kisses, and yes, the monument’s wee-wee is missing), Gertrude Stein (I left a white stone on her grave and paid my respects), and took various other photos as they presented themselves. Really, though, it was such a lovely morning, it was difficult to take a bad photo of anything, I think.

Then, the last one on my list: Jim Morrison’s grave. I needn’t have worried about finding it in the maze; all I needed to do was follow the others who were looking for it, too. And yes, there is a guard posted there, to ensure nothing untoward happens to the gravestone. Took a couple of photos (including one of the mildly amused guard), then wandered off to find my way out of the cemetery. During my wanderings, found the tomb of Rossini as well, and another grave of some artist I didn’t recognize—but his gravestone was so beautiful, I had to take a photo. So I did.

I left the cemetery feeling calm but somewhat solemn. Couldn’t help but think about my own impending end, as we all do at some point. (By the time I left, all the tour groups were filtering in—thank goodness I missed those crowds; I imagine they might have interfered with my calm, peaceful morning.)

Went back to the metro. Got on my train, was marveling again at how efficient and wonderful the Paris Metro system was, and was only one station away from my transfer point… when the train ground to a halt, and the lights went out.

Oops.

I sniffed something faintly chemical or burning electrical… but perhaps it was just my imagination. In any case, sat in a darkened train full of other disgruntled passengers for almost ten minutes while attendants walked up and down the tunnels trying to figure out what went wrong. Finally got on our way (a little girl on the train yelled, yippee! when we started moving again), transferred successfully, then got off the train at Cite station, to try my hand at Notre Dame again.

Nope. Foiled again. There was a sign posted outside the tower entrance, stating that the tower tours were closed for a special mass at noon. What time was it? 12:10pm. Ahh.

I walked to the Musee d’Orsay instead.

The museum was lovely—took a bunch of photos, even got a couple of good ones of paintings, as “proof” that I’d actually seen them myself, with my own eyes. I stood transfixed for a few minutes in front of my favourite Monet (the train station), which caused a crowd to form around me. So, I tested my theory: if I stand transfixed in front of a random painting, will others crowd around me to see what it was that I was fascinated by? Sure enough, it seemed to happen more often than not, quite to my amusement.

Ah well, at least people are looking at art, or pretending to be interested, right?

After yet another long day, trekked back to my hotel, grabbed a panini on the way, had a quick dinner, then fell asleep reading in bed.

A Day at the Louvre

Saturday, October 6, 2007.

I honestly didn’t think it would be possible, but I managed to spend most of the entire day at the Louvre Museum, and survived with most of my limbs still intact. There was so much to see, so much to see, sooo much to see….!!

Slept in a bit this morning—just couldn’t get moving. I guess all of this travel has been catching up to me lately. But after I got up, did a bit of email work, then hustled out and headed to the Louvre Museum. I figured it would take about an hour to walk there.

And what a walk. Oh, I think I love Paris in the morning. Before the streets get too full of traffic. Before the sidewalks get too full of pedestrians, workers and tourists alike. Before the air gets too full of noise.

(In fact, I think I love all cities first thing in the morning. Rome, Florence, Venice, Nice, Paris—they were all so different, but all so beautiful and peaceful in the morning.)

It ended up taking less than 45 minutes. Cool. Got there just after 9:30 am, and there was no line up to get in. Even more cool. Wandered in, trying to get oriented. Grabbed a museum map and tried to figure out what to see first, where to go, what to do. Overwhelmed, I quickly realized that I should probably hit the highlights first, before the crowds and tour groups got there.

Good plan. Beelined for the Mona Lisa—and there was already a huge crowd. Yikes. But at least I got a look at it, and took a couple of fuzzy photos, too (look, mom, I really saw the Mona Lisa!!). Then took a bit of time winding back down through the large format French paintings (WOW, they weren't kidding, they’re huge!!), and the sixteenth and seventeenth century Italian paintings (should have spent more time in there—but I knew there was still so much too see!). Wandered into the Apollo Gallery as well, right behind a tour group—ugh. But at least the tour group masked my ability to sneak a few shots of the ceiling (everyone else seemed to be taking snapshots, so I did too, even though pictures were supposedly restricted in there).

Saw a few of the highlights that are listed on the on museum map. Ticked them off one by one. (There is something so satisfying about ticking things off a list. Yes, I'm still a list person--and those who've worked with me know this!!) Then wound my way down to the lower floors of the Denon building, including the sculptures (my personal favourite in museums—much more photo-friendly). Saw the Venus de Milo and a couple of sculptures by Michelangelo, among dozens and dozens of others.

So after spending over two hours in the Denon building, I was doing pretty good: it was noon, so I took a short lunch break in the central Napoleon Hall, where the cafes are located (had brought my own lunch that day: some figs, a plum, a banette with cheese and prosciutto, and some water—didn’t risk vino, since I wasn’t sure what kind of security they would have).

After my lunch, I skipped across the hall to the Richelieu building, to check out more highlights. I spent the most amount of time with the sculptures—I will never tire of looking at sculptures. The energy, the weight, the lightness, the gravity, the movement, the stillness—it’s all there. And the best sculptures include elements of all of those things, transfixing the viewer and transporting her to an otherworldly place…

Right. Back to the museum. Had taken so many photos, that I maxed out my memory card. So had to spend a few minutes deleting photos of Rome and Florence so I could clear up some space. Sat amongst the eighteenth and nineteenth century French sculptures in the Cour Puget courtyard, and merrily clicked away on my camera…

After the sculptures, did manage to make it to the top floor of the Richelieu, and viewed some Flemish, German, and other paintings, including a Durer self-portrait. Also saw some objets d’art, as well as Napoleon’s apartments—yow, talk about extravagance! Everything was glittery gold and red velvet and crystal.

By this time I was getting pretty tired out, so I took another short break, then decided I’d try to attack the last building, the Sully, where the medieval Louvre exhibition was, as well as some Egyptian goodies. So I hobbled my way through, snapped a few shots, and hobbled my way back out. Have to say that I honestly didn’t spend as much time in there as I would have liked, but after more than six hours in there, my legs were killing me, I was dehydrated (again), and quite frankly, I was getting museumed out. ("Museumed out" - temporary condition in which every painting begins to look like every other painting, other art lovers begin to look like vultures flapping over bloody carcasses or bargain shoppers crowding around sale bins at Wal-Mart, and any sort of flash photography begins to trigger fits of compulsive twitching.)

So after taking a few parting shots of the main information hall and buying a couple of museum books to flip through later, I took the escalator back up to ground level, and exited the glass pyramid. Sat on the edge of one of the fountains, ate another fig, and relaxed in the sun for a few minutes.

Then hobbled out to the Seine. The sun invigorated me, so as I walked back east along the river, I came up with the silly idea of trying to hit Notre Dame before it closed. It was after 430pm by this point, and I knew it closed at 530pm. Hmm, well, I still had a chance if I hoofed it.

And I made it. Got into a queue, filed in with a ton of other tourists, took a couple of icky blurry photos, and filed back out… and missed the towers. Access was outside around the corner… Damn! Closed for the day! Missed it by going into the church. Ah well, I guess I’ll have to squeeze that in either tomorrow or Monday before I go…

On my way back to the hotel, found a row of perfect stores: café on the corner, followed by bakery, wine store, cheese shop, deli, meat store, veggie market. I eagerly stocked up for the next several days.

Travel Day: On the Train from Nice to Paris.

Friday, October 05, 2007.

This train ride was definitely better than my last. Bigger train, first of all. And more quiet train mates. More comfortable seats, and more space. And a nice big tray for my laptop to sit on (unlike the smaller Italian train from Venice).

And I have to say, I love the French countryside. It is so serene, peaceful. All the vineyards, the grapes growing on the vine. Ok, maybe not growing right now, since they’ve already harvested, but you know what I mean.

Arrived at Gare du Nord in Paris in one piece. Ok, now to figure out where to go. I’d studied my map earlier, but still wasn’t sure if it was feasible for me to walk the entire way to my hotel. Ah well, I figured I’d start going, and if it seemed too far…

The walk was surprisingly invigorating, despite my heavy packs. I guess after sitting for over five hours on the train, my body needed to move.

Finding the hotel was relatively easy, and it took me only about 45 minutes to walk there with my packs (I’m sure it would have been much less had I had less to carry with me). Passed an amazing building along the way as well (l'Institut du Monde Arab)... After I checked in, I cleaned up, then went out for a walk to orient myself to my neighbourhood.