Paris, day 1

December 18, 2007. Today was our first full day in Paris. Some sort of irony: We were in one of the greatest cities in the world, and all too tired to appreciate it! We stayed in a youth hostel, the Hotel Auberge, just off the Ledru Rollin metro stop, down a little side street. We had three rooms: 313, a four-person room, 407, a very warm two-person room (nicknamed "the sauna"), and 405, a cool two-person room. Catherine, Heather, Charlotte, and Sarah slept in 313, and Emmaline, Michaela, and I slept in 405--every night we moved a mattress from 407 and put it on the floor for Emmaline; all our luggage and things we kept in 407.

This morning became the pattern for most of our mornings. Charlotte came upstairs and banged on our door to wake us at about seven-thirty or so. We got dressed in stages, in various places--some of us in the showers down the hall, some of us in the rooms. Charlotte, Sarah, and Michaela all had to blow-dry and straighten their hair, and used 405 and 407 for that purpose, while Catherine and Heather got ready downstairs. We always had to rush to get away, and we were always ready long after the time we'd planned the night before. At about eight o'clock we went downstairs for breakfast. The hostel served breakfast, but it turned out to consist of one baguette per person, a hot drink, and strawberry jam or butter to go on the baguette. We would find a table and sit, shivering a little in the chilly downstairs rooms, sipping our hot drinks. Various internationals would come in and out. During our stay in Paris, there always seemed to be large groups of Asian tourists about, chattering away busily and moving in flocks, like starlings.

After breakfast, we went upstairs for a brief quiet time of prayer before beginning the day. We're doing a Bible study on Esther, so this morning we read the first in the series of studies, basically just a summary of Esther. When we had spent awhile praying, we set out on our day's activities. Before we'd gone to Paris, we'd prepared a whole itinerary for each day. The morning outside the hostel was a spectacular December morning: cold, dry, crystal clear, with a high pale blue sky, and and intensely clear sunshine, streaming down over the tall buildings. It must've been at least twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Here all the buildings seemed cleaner, grander, bigger. We descended into the metro. Every time we tried to get in, it seemed, someone's metro pass would malfunction. Emmaline finally got into the habit of going last so that she could get help in French from someone when one of our tickets didn't work. We would all manage to get through somehow or other, and go from Ledru Rollin to Bastille, where the walls were all decorated with scenes from the Revolution. The tunnels in the metro were always plastered with posters, for perfume, movies, art exhibitions, etc. Often, especially in Bastille, there were performers in the tunnels, sometimes only one, playing the accordion, other times bands, playing Christmas carols. Each stop had a slightly different character to it. One had historical displays about famous Parisian performers; another had historical notices about the building of the metro; others specialized in certain art.

From Bastille we went to to Notre Dame, our first sight of the trip--coming up out of the heavy, stale-smelling tunnels into the morning, with the cathedral before us and the Seine alongside. The water was translucent jade green, flowing in its canal. Seagulls wheeled and turned above the river. We crossed the street to the cathedral. The plaza in front of it was crowded, but we made our way across, under the corroding statue of Charlemagne, past the big Christmas tree, to the doors. Inside at last, under the figured portal, the serene saints on the doorjambs eyeing us. The cathedral was crowded but hushed inside. As we walked up the right side of the nave, along the chapels, it was hard to gauge the size of the place. Chapel after chapel, patterned windows with delicate interlaced colors, geometric and floral patterns. The chapel of Jean d'Arc, her statue gazing upward, hands clasped over her spear, the light slanting over her armor. Around the transept, the chapels with their ceilings painted with golden stars on blue backgrounds, past a nativity scene, past an old chandelier, past a delicate model of the cathedral, down the other aisle--and here, a sense of the hugeness.

We went out after awhile, back out into the morning chill. We walked down over a bridge and down to the walkway along the Seine. Gargoyles sprung out of the high pillars of the church; bronze figures of saints stood poised on the high steeple; the sun slanted over the windows as though their stone paning was frozen rippled water. We walked along in the sunshine for awhile, laughing, trying to keep warm. Finally we bought tickets for a Batobus, one of the hop-on-hop-off riverboats, and set off on a tour down the Seine. The boat had a glass arched ceiling and walls, and was comparatively warm inside--thankfully, for all of us. We chugged down along the Seine. We went past houseboats and under bridges. Some of the big boats were fitted out as restaurants and bars, and as the day got later, we could see people dancing and eating inside them. We got off at Champs Elysees, just in front of the big black bridge, with the faces of river-gods gilt along its sides and the great statues on their pedestals, one at each corner of the bridge--horses with flying manes and women beside, their arms and bodies flashing in the sunshine. We walked around toward the Champs Elysees. It was so cold that none of us could properly enjoy any of it. We walked between two enormous buildings that both seemed to be on the grandest scale possible, decorated with Classic statues--Apollo and his horses and other great statues, such a profusion of faces and drapery standing on corners and cornices that it seemed as though a strong wind was constantly blowing over them. Grandiose, ornate, exotic, completely sensual.

At last we reached the Champs Elysees. A big boulevard, cars whizzing up and down. A double row of trees ran down either side, bare in the winter sunshine that sparkled on the lights strung through their branches. At one end was a ferris wheel; at the far end was the Arc de Triomphe. We crossed the street and wandered and wandered, going up and down through the narrow streets leading off the Champs Elysees. Emmaline would dash off to see if she could find a place for us to sit and eat, while the rest of us wandered aimlessly. Heather was feeling ill with a cold, and Charlotte was feeling faint (Charlotte was almost always hungry). At last Emmaline found a cafe on a small side street. It was a little cafe, with two floors, the walls painted cool blue and white. The man and woman running the cafe were very kind to us. The cafe was crowded and there was nowhere for us to sit, so we stood crowded and rather scared in a corner and waited until the crowd had gone. Emmaline disappeared, and I was nervous, not knowing any French whatsoever; the other girls all dazed with cold. But Emmaline came back just in time, and we ordered our food. The man who served us was very kind, and we all ended up sitting at a small round table on the second floor, crowded together with our food. I had pasta with broccoli and ham and olive oil--delicious and hot. It was pleasant to eat the simple food and sit together quietly, piecing ourselves together after the cold. When we finished eating, we went back outside. We walked over the bridge leading to the Champs Elysees with the gilt statues on it, and then got back on the boat. We road the boat around to the Eiffel Tower, which seemed much stockier than I'd imagined it would be, looming against the pale sky.

We got off at the Musee d'Orsay. As I found out later from Mrs. McCollum, the Musee d'Orsay is actually an old train station, converted into an art museum. It reminded me in some ways of The Phantom of the Opera, big rounded buttresses, masks, faces, names of French cities, gilded clocks. We walked along under the enormous thick walls, under the huge statues. In front of the museum were statues of animals, captured lifelike, the sun glancing off their bronze hides. We had to go through security to get in and then pay for tickets. The woman at the counter looked at me as though I were an idiot when I didn't understand her and she had to speak in English. Inside through the gift shop ('Librarie') at the front, and then into the great central hall: a huge arched glass ceiling running the length of the building, resting on curved metal pieces gilded and carved. Down the length of this great hall were placed statues, and galleries led off on either side.

Everyone was thankful to be in the warmth for a change, and Emmaline was thankful not to be in charge. :o) So I took the map and led us through the museum, to the galleries I thought were best. Early Impressionists first: Millet, 'The Gleaners', and a beautiful painting of a shepherdess; Corot; early Monet, still, serene rural paintings. From there through other galleries--more early Monet, the famous paintings of garden parties and the woman in the white spotted dress with the veil. Back into the hall now, at the far end, where is the statue from the Opera Garnier of the god of music with his tambourine and the laughing muses around him. Charlotte and Emmaline found a model of the opera house. From there up to the third floor, and here we found the classic Impressionists: Monet, Manet, Degas, Van Gogh. Degas's models of dancers and the 'Little Dancer'; his paintings of studios and dancers. Monet's paintings of the woman standing on the hill with the umbrella, of haystacks and cathedrals, and, of course, the waterliles. It was amazing to me to see these paintings at last, to stand in front of them and look at the thick brushstrokes, the colors congealing into patterns of light and shadow. I found a statue the twin of the washerwoman statue in the little art museum in San Antonio. We were all strung out through this gallery, Heather, Catherine, and I going ahead; Emmaline and Charlotte (Charlotte trying to educate Emmaline; Charlotte and I were the two main art lovers in our little group) bringing up the rear. Heather and I found a room toward the end of the gallery where the Degas pastels were housed: lovely fair, intimate scenes of dancers with the light slanting over their faces, caught suspended in fleeting movements. Restful to wander between the paintings, watching the way the light changed in each one--as when my eyes are tired and focus fuzzily on the world. Drifting from scene to scene.

And also out the windows glimpses of the city, the endless crust of buildings rising up and up, blue and mauve and salmon as the sun set, and far away, on a distant curve of hill, the round minaret-like towers of Sacre Coeur, crowning the city. On this level, between the windows, were great statues of men and women, seated in their robes, staring with blind eyes from their shadowed pedestals at the city as it lay basking in the evening. At last we managed to gather together in the room with the Van Gogh paintings. We had to hurry out of the museum in order to catch the last boat. Michaela and Sarah trailed along behind us, and as we were waiting for them, we stepped briefly into a room we glimpsed off to one side--an incredibly Baroque room, all mirrors and gilt and curves and florals, chandeliers hanging from golden floral loops. We caught the boat in time and spent an hour just sitting and riding it back around to the Champs Elysees. I sat with Catherine and Heather, who were both exhausted, while Charlotte, Michaela, Sarah, and Emmaline goofed around, sucking jolly ranchers. Heather was feeling very sick with a cold and sat with her head on her knees, while Catherine and I talked quietly.

Dusk fell around us and lights began to come on in the buildings and the streets. On the back deck of the boat a couple was standing locked in each other's arms, watching the scenery go by. Emmaline and Sarah went out onto the deck to take pictures. We chugged under bridge after bridge, each one different from the last. One bridge had fierce eagles standing with spread wings; others had rows of faces, with curled beards and flowing hair, grimacing down on the river; others were carved with letters, or were simple springing arches from one pillar to another. The buildings loomed over us on either side. We could see into the lighted windows--the insides of fancy apartments and offices, mirrors and curtains. Catherine and I sat quietly and watched the canals slide by, the small bare trees, and the half-moon shining stilly out of the blank blue sky. Staring at the light rippling on the water, I slipped into a sort of daze. Like staring at a Monet painting, each blue wave catching a curve of orange light. It seemed as though we were sailing from one picture postcard to another, sitting there quietly.

At last the boat stopped at the Champs Elysees, the same quay where we'd got off earlier in the day for lunch. As we got off the boat, the steward, who'd seen us several times today, laughed and called after us, 'Vive Irelond! My favorite beer is Kilkenny's!' The girls laughed as we walked away, though someone muttered, 'Why does no one understand the difference between Ireland and Northern Ireland?' We walked back to the Champs Elysees. By now it was quite dark, and the trees were all lit: the first row, right by the road, was hung with lights that blazed like falling stars so that the trees seemed to be dripping great globules of white light; the second row was hung with little pale blue twinkle lights. Headlights blazed on the road, and at the far ends, the ferris wheel and the Arc de Triomphe glowed at each other, the Arc lit orange and massive at the high end of the road, with the shops in between. We walked up the Champs Elysees toward the Arc de Triomphe. The broad sidewalks were crowded. On either side were big stores, restaurants, and cinemas, blazing with light. The moon above seemed unreal, staring down with its white eye out of a starless sky at this man-made galaxy. Streetlights, store windows, Christmas lights, the Arc, all glowing white and blue and orange. Fancy clothing stores, Mercedes Benz auto dealers, galleries and malls, McDonald's, Quick Burgers, coffeehouses, etc. We ducked into a pharmacy (of which there seem to be quite a lot--Emmaline always stopped to ask directions in pharmacies because they were most obvious, marked by flashing green crosses mounted above the door) so that Heather could buy tissue for her streaming nose. Back out on the main boulevard, we continued up toward the Arc. People constantly bustled and swirled around us. Crowds of Asian tourists, Parisians in high boots, strange men and women wearing fluorescent wigs, dressed in skanky pub clothes and looking at once very disdainful and very miserable.

We wandered around at the top of the boulevarde trying to find a way to get to the Arc, and at last we ducked down into a metro tunnel, which took us underneath the perilous roundabout that runs around the Arc. We came out in cold tunnels, and from cold tunnels to the area under the Arc itself. Some sort of military ceremony was going on, soldiers in uniforms with gold braid playing bagpipes and laying wreaths at the flame burning under the arc. The arc was covered on all four corners with huge statues commemorating military victories, frozen Nikes with flying banners and streaming hair, shouting silently and sweeping great muscled arms upward. All day the cold had pursued us, and it was no different here. Some of the girls, Charlotte in particular, were almost senseless with the cold. Emmaline, Heather, Catherine, and I decided to climb to the top of the Arc. We bought tickets and set off on the endless spiral staircase: flight after flight, a continuous twisting circle, taking us up and up. Heather and Catherine staggered along behind. The narrow shaft echoed with our footsteps. We went through one low long cold hall at the top, then through another hall, with a small museum inside, and then at last out onto the top of the Arc itself. Paris spread below us, sprawling as far as the eye could see on all sides: an infinite map of lights, gridded with streets spread like rays with the Arc at their centre. We could see the ferris wheel, the Eiffel Tower (which started to sparkle with white lights on the hour, and which swept the city with a spotlight), the cluster of skyscrapers away beyond the Arc, like broken lit columns of a ruined city. Directly below us was the roundabout. Emmaline and Catherine took pictures of the tangled traffic below, cars crushed together like beetles swarming on a tree trunk. Lights and lights and lights, the rushing veins of streets, the sparkling freckles of windows and doors, the orange glow from streetlights, the white glare highlighting the Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower, and the moon staring down on it all. We took pictures of each other, and then descended the spiral staircase. At the bottom, we wandered around under the Arc for awhile, then went to find Charlotte, Sarah, and Michaela, who had taken shelter, shivering, in the tunnels under the Arc.

At last we went to find some supper. We came back out into the freezing cold of the Champs Elysees and walked to a Brioche Doree bakery, standing huddled together in line. Emmaline had to order food for Heather, Catherine, and me--neither Heather nor Catherine were confident enough with their French, and I of course was completely clueless. We went upstairs to the second floor of the bakery and found a round table, where we sat and rested and ate. I had salmon quiche (weird) and hot chocolate, and a galette with caramel and apple inside. Light food, not very satisfying, but much better than nothing, and nice in its own fancy, flaky way. We sat with long, exhausted silences, stunned from the cold, though as we warmed up, we laughed and talked more--joking about hypothermia, etc.

At last we pulled ourselves together and, after brief debate (we'd been planning to go up the Eiffel Tower), we went back to the hostel. I was dumb with discomfort, my legs cold, my shoulders and neck sore. We took the way back to our hostel, by now becoming familiar, the sour-smelling tunnels branching away on either side, the colorful advertisements, the stairs and stairs and stairs: Bastille, the never-ending flight of stairs on the Creteil line, to Ledru Rollin. Back at the hostel, we dumped our things. Then Emmaline, Michaela, Charlotte, and I went to a nearby grocery store, Monoprix (rather like M&S--!), to buy food for the next day.

Back at the hostel, I took a shower (313 had its own shower; the other rooms had showers down the hall, so 313, being the biggest and handiest, became our meeting area). The girls sat around, laughing and talking. Heather collapsed on her bunk, and Catherine sat busily texting Daphne. We had a brief Bible study, and then I went directly to bed.