10 Hours in Paris
There is something about Paris that makes me feel inadequate. As the plane lands my palms begin to sweat. 12 years of grade school French classes fail me. All I can think about is being entertained by a dancing pineapple in grade 5, halloween vocabulary, that first kiss on that French exchange all those years ago and the ranting of Sedaris.
An old acquaintance once told me that he and his (cool) French friends used to sit in some square in Paris and play “spot the American.” This runs through my mind. My hands nervously brush my hidden money belt into place as my friend and I disembark the train at Châtelet Les Halles and surface. The streets are quiet and wet. I’m starving and looking for a baguette and a coffee but nothing is open. It’s 7:30am on a Sunday morning and only a few merchants are out and about. I see signs for delicious foie gras and famous escargot and my stomach gurgles knowing that such things are not even remotely in the budget.
My friend and I wander for hours and are baffled by how much of the tourist side of Paris we see in a meager few hours. We accidently stumble upon the Louvre. It’s 9am by now and the line up is so long that we doubt anyone is getting in before lunch. This saddens me, but when I get home and tell my friend about it he says that it’s underwhelming anyways “…when it’s packed with tourists elbowing each other to get a snap of some masterpiece they’ve never heard of and will not remember…” I remember Art History from first year university and make a mental note to appreciate the majesty of the pyramid as we move on to the river.
We stroll along that famous river until we end up at Notre Dame. We step inside just in time to see the beginning of Sunday morning mass. I stand in reverence and tear up a bit at the odd juxtaposition of the beautiful architecture, soloist verses and droves of fanny pack ridden tourists who shuffle about uncomfortably and take flash photography. For a moment I forget that I am one of these tourists and my mind drifts to a single moment where I feel blessed.
After church my friend agrees to take me to the Eiffel tower. I’ve been trying to tell myself that it doesn’t matter if I see it or not but deep down I WANT to see it badly. We get there and I feel strange. I’m in Paris. The big metallic mass tells me so. I try to make the feeling mean something but to no avail.
After the tower we sit down for lunch but a cigarette wielding man makes my sandwich taste like ash and I give up. We’ve pulled an all-nighter and I’m disorientated. This isn’t the intimate Paris that Hepburn promised in Sabrina and Paris When it Sizzles.
As we board the plane to head to Mali, it occurs to me that I haven’t uttered a single correct French sentence while in France. I think about my French phrase book that I neglected to open with its phrases like “Je voudrais acheter un stylo à bille.” (I would like to buy a pen.) and “La tenue de soirée est-elle de rigueur?” (Do I have to dress formally?) Frankly I’m glad that it never came to that. It seems down right humiliating. Furthermore, I soon would discover in Mali that my French isn’t bad and I can have full conversations. I can only conclude that using French in Paris is intimidating because it’s PARIS and nothing so awesome should be attempted in 10 hours.
Good post! You did see a lot of Paris in a short time.
I have friends in Montreal that play “spot the anglo McGill student.” I also have friends in Montreal who play “lets live here for years and never actually learn anything about Québec.”