Monday, 30 November 2009
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More like a Palace, Shall I Say...
I actually managed to get up at a decent hour this morning. Perhaps it was my guilt over my gluottny the night before, because I was able to peel my fine self out of bed, slap on a pair of running shoes, and head out the front door at 8am.
I decided to jog up and down the side streets so as not to wander off too far and get lost (which didn't work). I took note of all of the local schools tucked behind buildings and cafes. Some children walked alone, and others with their parents. I saw that no one was dropped off in a car. Here in the good ol' US of A, not only is everyone dropped off in an unnecessarily huge SUV, but all of the parents bark and honk at eachother as they enter and exit the inadequately-sized turnaround in front of the school.
Next, I passed by a gas station. This was interesting because up until this point, I relaized that I had not seen a single gas station in Europe. I don't think I saw a single one in Italy either.
I stopped when I approached a small doctors office. I wasn't sure what sort of procedures they were performing in there, but whatever it was, they sure had a sense of humor about it. Stuck to the window was an insane advertisment portraying a woman in a hospital birthing scene screaming as the doctor held up an alien of some sort. The next window showed a guy with head bandages covering everything but his horrified, bloodshot eyeballs. The final depicted a madman pushing a guy in a wheel chair, top speed, in an attempt to get away from a pursuing zombie mob. Behind these windows, however, was a totally legitimate doctors office. Okay.
I passed by about 4 more cafes and 45 French people before arriving in one of Napoleons big ass circles from which about a dozen streets stem from. I, for the sweet life of me, had no idea which one was ours. Over the next 20 minutes I would learn a very valuable life lesson: if you want to really exercise your ego...and I mean really push your tolerance for awkwardness, try asking some damn Parisians how to get home. Sure there are exceptions, and sure they are more helpful when you greet them properly and at least attempt to speak French, but this being said, I don't give a hoot what anyone tells you: the French are assholes. At one point I felt like screaming to several people at a busstop, "Hey fuckers! How do I get to Goblin Street?!?!" Alas, I restricted.
"Bon Jour? Parlay Anglay? No? Doo-ay, um, uh, doo-ay Avenue de Gob-ay-lo?"
"Oh yeah. Your first right up here." I think he just wanted to see me suffer.
I finally made it home, where Alisa and I began getting ready for our day. We decided to really make it to Versailles this time. I was determined to see one thing: The Hall of Mirrors. Here is where all the fancy-schmancy royal functions took place during the reigns of Louis XIV through the Louis XVI. It is also in this room that William I was declared German Emperor, and where the Treaty of Versailles was signed, ending WWI. In short, this room is, like, really important.
We arrived at the Palace around 12pm. It looks, get this, like a palace. The gates and building accents are covered in gold. Statues sit atop the buildings and pillars lining the sides of the gates. Theres a naked lady right smack in the middle of the court and no one does a damn thing about it. We laid down 16 bones (and I mean euros), boogied through the airport-like security, grabbed our English audio guides and prepared for some good old fashioned Palace tourism.
The audio guide thing was actually pretty cool. Perfect for an ADD person, really. It let me wander aimlessly, unattended, through a four hundred year-old castle, not having to pay attention unless something caught my eye and I wanted to find out what it was. A sposted sign bore a number you would enter into the walkman keypad and - Voila! - a voice would tell me what I was staring at. Quite hilarious was the English voice with a cheesy "Beauty and the Beast" French accent. Honestly, I'm suprised the thing didn't bust out "Be Our Guest."
Anyway, first we saw the big, gaudy chapel where the kings enjoyed their Sunday Catholicism (a religion which much have been blatantly ignored when they were screwing their mistresses and beheading their enemies). We learned that much of the art commissioned by Louis VIX was an artistic confrontation, suggesting that French Classicism was better than Italian Baroque. Funny thing was, the damn ceiling looked like a Sistine Chapel rip off.
Next, we saw a bunch of Drawing Rooms, or Salons as they are known in French. Notably, the Hercules room which had a huge painting from Veronese that was given to Louis XIV by the Venetians. We saw the King's and Queen's Apartments, including the rooms where Louis XIV died and where Marie Antoinette escaped from the revolting mob. The Hall of Mirrors, which connects the apartments, was more beautiful than I thought. 17 huge windows, 17 full length mirrors, another Vatican-looking ceiling, and at least a hundred chandeliers. Magnificient.
Outside, the gardens stretched for acres and acres. Green, perfectly groomed hedges resembled the hedge maze from The Shining. Off to the side, a guy was skeet shooting. Seriously.
After 3 hours, it was time for our tour to end. We were due in the Monmartre district of Paris to meet another friend, Ben.
Alisa met Ben through Dwayne, her roommate. Ben is an American student in Paris, studying Dance and Performing Arts. He had been there for 3 years, so we were looking forward to another local experience. First, however, we would have to ride the train 30 miles back into town. After we arrived, we decided to take the stairs from the subway to the street. Turns out, there were, like, 27 flights. My heart nearly exploded and my legs felt like rubber-bands by the time I emerged from the Metro hole. I felt like either dying, having a stroke, or bursting into tears. Instead, we went to a cafe and ordered a caraffe of wine while we awaited Ben, who was running late.
2 caraffes later, Ben arrives. He could only stay for an hour, so we ordered appetizers and...more wine. Ben, a very nice soul with a kind face, entertained us with stories of living in Paris and how it was harder than one would think to be an American in France. Apparently, paperwork such as leases, medical forms, bank accounts, etc., were a royal pain in the ass.
After Ben departed, we wandered around the neignborhood, split a soggy pizza, and wondered what else to do. Alisa ran into some strangers that spoke French to her. By this point of the trip, she was confident enough to carry on a pretty long conversation. I stood by awkwardly, impressed by her new talent.
Eventually, we decided to go to the Champ-Elysees, a really beautiful area that had just been decorated with Christmas lights. Up and down the streets, trees lit up as street vendors sold everything from scarves to windmills to jewelry to calorie-packed desserts we absolutely did not need. We walked around for 30 minutes or so, split one of those damn desserts, and headed home. The next day would be our last in Paris: we were going to the Louvre in the morning and flying to London after that. We still had two bottles of wine we were not going to be able to take with us. We also weren't going to be able to drink them.
Thus, we decided to throw a small party in the lobby of our hostel. We were joined by Claudia, our new roomate from Australia (also a Med School Graduate), some girl who just joined earlier in the night (she was 19, from New Hampshire but studying in Dublin, can't remember her damn name), briefly the Argentian doctors, another Argentenian girl who was really nice, and the oddly-flirtacious-yet-taken hostel worker guy.
The night went pretty smoothly until Alisa and I had a minor debate on, I shit you not, the Johnson administration. The details are not important as we more or less agreed on everything. With Alisa and I, it's eachothers tactics that make us enraged. One is always painfully disagreeable while the other is annoyingly aloof. These roles switch.
The night ended calmly and we crawled into our cheap Ikea bunks. But stay tuned. A blazing row, and the Louve, awaited us.
They don't call it cabin fever for nothing.
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