March 14, 2007—Our first day in Paris was most memorable. We tried to save money by avoiding any taxi and hauled our two suitcases, a backpack, my laptop bag and Patricia’s purse into the Metro. We switched trains at the Nation, mistakenly went to Marie Montrieulle, where we lifted our luggage up the stairs to Paris’s famous cobblestone streets only to find there weren't any; we weren't in wasn’t downtown Paris at all, and had to dragg our luggage back down the steps again. We backtracked to where we should have been, the Port de Montrieulle.
Besides the immigrants, almost everyone in Paris knows Spanish, English or both. The locals are educated and extremely helpful—except for the Marie/Port mix-up, we never were lost once on our Paris trip—not at all what I’d expected.
Our hotel attendants weren’t ready for us and we were told to wait “15 minutes” for our room, which really turned out to be 45. Patricia and I were exhausted. So, as we waited, we sat in the hallway, and I fell asleep on Pato’s leg. I woke up when the cleaning lady—an African immigrant woman who spoke only French (that I know of)—explained something to us, which sounded like an apology, and pointed out that our room was ready.
We made ourselves at home in a small, multi-color room—half of a normal-sized bedroom. The bathroom was too small, with just barely enough room to sit on the toilet, sideways. I was just glad to feel hot water coming out of the tub faucet, which was also small. If I’d been any larger, I would not have fit in it. I fell asleep in that tub.
We left our things and took the Metro to the Louvre. It was five o’clock. One more hour and we’d have a discount to the museum. To kill time 'til five, we strolled through the Jardin de Tulieres, stopped and bought an expensive cup of hot chocolate—four Euros for a few drops—and a Toscane pasta salad. We needed something to keep us awake.
Either the chocolate or the excitement of the Louvre did the trick, because we walked briskly for three hours and 45 minutes through the museum. I was in heaven. We picked up a Da Vinci Code audio guide that led us through Robert Langdon’s adventure. It also offered great insights into the Mona Lisa, Madonna on the Rocks and many others.
We saw Italian/French art, the Venus da Silo, and plenty of Greek, Roman, Etruscan, Egyptian and Arab sculptures. In fact, we saw just about everything, all in less than four hours. It takes most people days. But they probably stop and actually look at each work for more than a minute or two.
On our way back to the hotel we stopped for a bite at an Arab’s panini/pizza joint. He knew English, but preferred Spanish. We asked him his price and he said, “First, where are you from?” I lied, “Argentina.” He decided to serve us a couple of decent paninis.
March 15, 2007—A crazy beggar woman gave me a gawdy ring "for me," and promptly wanted payment for it. We climbed the Eiffel Tower, cruised down La Seine on a riverboat, and saw Notre Dame. Our feet were sore. We also accidentally went into a very non-vegetarian French restaurant with dead animals mounted all over the walls, which we left. We had some good French onion soup and some bad cheese fondue. Moulin Rouge, Latin Quarter and we arrived back to the hotel to find the place crowded with Italian students.
March 16, 2007—Notre Dame, St. Sulpice and saw the Rose Line, visited my first Midieval Castle to see Lady and the Unicorn tapestries, a walk down L’Odeon (Ernest Hemingway’s place where threw something because he read a bad review), Jardin de Luxembourg, Musee Odin and The Thinker, Sacre Coeur with a view of all Paris and a bunch of hippies, place de Tartre where artists wanted to paint our picture, pretty walk down through red light district, good food at a small restaurant (I had a ravioli/omelette/cheese, Patricia had onion soup/trout/caramel crème, which was really flan) and a couple of Slovaks pitched us a vacation to Slovakia (15E a night), Eiffel tower lit up at night, followed a bunch of Americans to the Trecadore, found the Metro, went home to bed.
March 17, 2007 St. Patrick's Day—Went to the cemetery to see Jim Morrison’s, Oscar Wilde’s and Michel Proust’s tombs. I had to go to the bathroom (really bad), so I ran out of the cemetery and found a small bar, which saved my life. But when I came back I couldn’t find my wife. I went to Jim Morrison’s tomb to look for her. She wasn’t there. I sat there for an hour and a half. I tried Wilde’s and Proust’s. Nobody. I asked the guards for help. Not really good help. Finally, I went back to the hotel where I found a note. I felt better. I went to the Lafayette galeries, the Opera, Hotel Ritz and then to Bilboteque Jazz bar to look for her. I found her watching a big band jazz quartet. Er… she found me. She was pretty upset. We then went to Place Tartre and Sacre Coeur, which in our opinion is the prettiest place in Paris. We bought us a couple of crepes and enjoyed our last night. I watched a drunk Scottish guy in a kilt flash a lady and we heard a pop, which sounded like a gun shot, and found it was a loaf of bread that hit the ground (right next to someone) thrown out from a high-story building. Went home early, packed for Rome and drank maté.
Here's pics of Montmartre, Rodin's Thinker, Moulin Rouge, the Eiffel Tower at night (too beat to care about how to make it right side up) and me reading Julio Cortazar's Rayuela at Pont des Arts (where the book's setting is and where it was probably written).
Don't care to figure out how to make this right side up.
