22 October, 2008 -- Last Full Day in Paris
Reading my journal of the last day in Paris makes me realize how optimistic I can be about my endurance in getting around this magnificent city. I had hoped to cover both islands in the Seine, the Ile Saint-Louis and the Ile de la Cite. After that, I felt I had enough time to find the Shakespeare & Company book store, visit the famous Latin Quarter, and then hop the Metro to make it back to the Eiffel Tower in time for the nightly illumination. NOT!
The two islands were wonderful and I actually walked around the Ile-Saint Louis two times because I enjoyed it so much. The architecture was astounding—the cutwork church steeple was quite striking, the shops (and some of their operators) just lovely, and the numerous cafes just brimming with people made me feel at home. The area seems to retain much of an older, historical aura. As I rounded one corner during my walking tour, I noticed an open door to what I thought was a church. I pushed open the door, barely entered, and looked around. From across the not-very-wide street, I heard “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?” (These guys get kudos for just that . . . .) A construction worker sitting in his truck with a coworker signaled to me that I should not be going in the building—it was a work in progress (darn, I’d forgotten my hardhat in the truck across the ocean), so I backed out and said, “Pardon. Merci!” Ooops, wrong church.
I continued on down the street, loving the window shopping, until I was drawn into an art gallery that was full of beautiful sculptures. And ooooo la la, the owner was quite a fine specimen, too. Latin music was playing in the background as I pondered how I might get one of these fine sculptures into my already over-stuffed luggage. As I did not get any brilliant ideas, I asked the owner whether they shipped overseas; he said yes and handed me a business card. Our eyes met, our hands touched, and . . . and . . . I said “Merci!” and walked out of the store, albeit slowly. (Sigh.)
When I made it over to the Ile de Cite, where the Notre Dame stands, I noticed a lot of police activity and limousines driving up to the back of the grand church. I stopped for a lunch of salad, French fries, bread, and a glass of wine. Ever so often during my lunch, about four or five policemen would come in to take a break and use the facilities (which were co-ed and downstairs). They’d march down the steps in formation, a few minutes would pass, and then they would march back up in a line, each saying “Merci” to the proprietor as they went back to their stations outside. This probably happened three times as I dined; nice scenery and very polite scenery at that.
An English family came in during my time there and the two little girls ordered “hot dogs”; their surprise was audible when their sandwiches came out measuring about a foot long each. Five beautiful French girls were shown to an outside table right in the front of my window; I enjoyed watching them smoke, drink coffee, and eat crepes. One girl with a black bob and turquoise sunglasses was most definitely the fashion queen of the group.
The wine had mellowed me even more than usual, so I headed out to tour the Notre Dame with high color in my cheeks. Unfortunately, the one day I had set aside to do this tour was also a day of recognition for a nun, Sister Emmanuelle, who had recently died. There were notable politicians speaking, a large film screen showing the Sister doing her charitable works, and there were thousands of people listening on the sidelines. Obviously, this woman was quite the icon to the French people. So I did what any woman might do in this predicament: I shopped.
This is one thing that I did not do much of during my trip up to now. I decided it was time for me to pick up a few tchotchkes for my family and a few friends. Because the street I was on was directly across from the Notre Dame, it was littered with souvenir shops, most looking just like the other. I finally ducked into the one that had some cool cooking aprons on a rack on the sidewalk. I bought one with the different breads of France on it for my daughter and her husband, a scarf for my older son, a cap for my youngest son, and other odds and ends that caught my eye. I enjoyed the shop and the shopkeeper noticed I was amassing quite a pile and offered me a basket to consolidate my purchases.
After I had checked out and was exiting the store, she called me back. Curious, I re-entered the store. She said, in English, “I have something I want to give you!” She rummaged around in her key-rings, and frustratededly cried out, “I can’t find it!” “But here, I would like you to have this!”; she presented me with a key ring that had faux diamonds and a heart and the Eiffel Tower—totally not my style, but it was thoughtful of her to do it, so I thanked her. She smiled and said, “The one I wanted for you, it was 'Shop ‘Til You Drop!'” I laughed, waved, and said, “Au revoir!”
The French people are generally not going to seek out an American tourist and be nice to them just to give them a good experience of France; they really don’t care. But, the few instances where someone went out of their way to be kind to me really meant a lot. Of course, I must remember that at the other end of the spectrum were those gigolos with their “come hither” looks my first day in town. Yikes!
So, still feeling a little high from my wine at lunch, I started walking along the Seine on the Rive Gauche. For some reason, I felt compelled to walk and walk and walk. If you look at a map and note where the two islands are (at about 1:00 on a clockface), take your finger and follow the shoreline around until you get to the Eiffel Tower (at about 10:00). I walked the whole way there. I saw vendors and buyers and lovers and boat captains and tourists and iron rings and quais and bridges and museums and walls made of living plants and two apartments that I really adored from afar. I felt a breeze in the air, the leaves crunching underfoot (but you have to be careful because picking up after dogs here is not standard practice—so crunching is GOOD). I smelled fresh bread and cheese and fish and people and the river. I saw beautiful, avant-garde fashions in store windows, small cars lined up in parallel rows of wonderful symmetry, flowers in windowboxes, a barge turned tourboat with an actual yard of grass and flowers, an old man being photographed for a magazine, angles and curves of ancient stone. I heard music from a one-man band, a thousand different languages, the clatter of heels on the sidewalks, the chug of a tugboat, the roar of motorcycle engines, the sizzle of a crepe on the pan.
This City, which I would be shortly leaving, had grown on me and I was missing it already. I was subconsciously storing memories so that I could dredge them up again when I felt the desire to be in this lovely place again. I walked so far that I had to stop several times to rub my aching feet; I passed by Metro stations galore, but felt I had to keep walking. I walked until the natural light dimmed. I walked until I found myself back where I had begun in Paris—at the Eiffel Tower. I walked out onto the green and just sat. I waited for the illumination. I watched a young man attempt to capture the perfect self portrait by digital camera. I saw horses being led away by their trainer. I saw people rushing by on their way from work to their apartments.
Sadly, I knew I would not find that bookstore and the Latin Quarter would just have to wait until I made my next visit. I’ve heard it said that one should always have unfinished business in Paris; that I do, and at that moment, I promised myself that I would be back, and soon. Time and life are too short not to embrace these moments of absolute perfection. I was happy. I was satisfied. Bittersweet tears sprang to my eyes. And, at that moment, the Eiffel Tower was illuminated. And so was I.
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