Learning Paris, Part three

The first time I went to Paris, I was an ignorant tourist. The second time, I lived like a local. The third time, I became an educated tourist and a certified Francophile. This is part three of a series, Learning Paris. You can access my retelling of my first terrifying experience here. Then, access part two of the series here.

It would be three more years before I would have a chance to return to Paris. I had only taken one semester of French before I decided to go back to school for my Masters degree in Education. This time, I was a teacher, and Dylan and I were taking 17 kids to London and Paris on our first EF Tour.

            This time, I was a tourist again. I had a full-time tour director who showed us everything we had seen before, but with explanations. Now I knew that the bridge with the gold was called the Pont Alexandre, I knew that Napoleon was buried in the monument with the golden dome. I learned that what I thought was a castle was the Louvre, and the Consiergerie that had haunted me so much was a former prison. 

         As we toured the city by bus on our second day I was amazed at how far Dylan and I had walked on that first trip. We had been past the Louvre, the Ecole Militaire, the Musee de Orsay, Notre Dame, and everywhere else a tourist is supposed to go- we just didn’t go inside of any of it or know it by name.
     Our hotel on this trip was a quaint French fleabag hotel in the middle of the Opera district. 

We took the kids out at night in our neighborhood and drank coffees in the sidewalk cafés. We bought fruit in the morning from a local vendor. My girls were classy and fashionable, and I taught them how to walk like a French girl. I told them how to avoid the North Africans at the Sacre cour who tie bracelets to your arm with smiles and gestures of friendship, only to demand money when they are done. I became an expert in the Metro (a skill that has served me well in New York and Chicago). I practiced my French with our tour guide, Bruno- and he taught me how to not sound like a book when I spoke. 

There is also a new sense of place that develops when you travel with teenagers. Most have never left the country before. Our group was fantastic, enthusiastic, and ready to adventure.

We walked the river with the kids and had a picnic

We took a cruise at dusk on the Seine

We toured the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay

We went to Versailles, which was magical for me. I had become a bit of a French history enthusiast since my first trip, and my favorite subject was the French Revolution

I realized that I finally was beginning to understand Paris. I had seen it as a bewildered tourist, a local, and now I was an informed tourist. I also realized how much I had grown since that first trip. When we had gone before, I was a young mother that worked part time as a waitress. Now, I was a Sociology teacher who had learned to appreciate, respect, and understand other cultures. It wasn't Paris that had changed, it was me. When I returned after that third trip, I decided that I would always take students to Paris.

To be continued....
To view more photos from this trip, click here

Learning Paris, part two

After my first trip to Paris, I swore I would never go there again. I hated it. This is part two of a series on Learning Paris. For part one, click here.

            Looking back, I realize that the apocalyptic feeling I had the first time I went to Paris was my own fault. I was so stereotypical. I put myself in that situation. I know how people react to foreigners coming to America expecting us to speak their language. The French take pride in their language- it is beautiful. It was my fault I didn’t learn how to say bon jour, s’il vous plait, and merci. It was my fault that I didn’t pick up a map. It was my fault that I let my fears stop me from fulfilling my most basic needs in Maslow’s hierarchy. Fortunately, two years after my whirlwind nightmare, I was given an opportunity to give Paris a second chance.

Window in Paris

         My best friend at the time- a brilliant, beautiful bartender at the restaurant I was working at- left Arkansas to study in France. When I found a plane ticket for $425.00 round-trip, I booked it and planned to go visit her. This time, I prepared in advance to make the adventure a better one. I looked at Google Earth, I bought a phrasebook and highlighted important things to know how to say- they are all still written in my journal:

Ou se trouve- where is

Je voudrais- I would like

C’est combien: How much

Je suis perdu: I’m lost

Au secours: Help

Merci: thank you

Jen e comprends pas: I don’t understand

I even wrote out how to pronounce each thing for my English speaking brain. Plus, I would be meeting Emily in Paris, and she spoke fluent French. 

           She and I were talking on the phone one night before I left, and she told me to get from the airport to the train station Chatelet Les Halles. She would be waiting for me there. “If I’m not there, just act French, and wait.”

“How do I act French?”

“Smoke a lot. Don’t look people in the eyes. Don’t smile at anyone, and walk like you know exactly where you are going. Act like you are invincible. No one will mess with you then.”

            Like I said, she was brilliant. I have used that French walk in every city I have been to since- New York, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Chicago, Rome, Athens, Venice, Nice. No one messes with you when you walk like a French woman.

            When I got on the plane, I sat next to an old French man. “Who is he?” he asked me. “Excuse me?” I asked, bewildered. “Beautiful girl, alone, flying to Paris- there must be a man waiting for you,” he replied. I explained to him about Emily. He asked me if I spoke French. “No, not really,” I said as familiar shame crept up my cheeks. He just laughed. “What do you call someone who speaks three languages?” he asked. “Trilingual?”  “Yes, yes- and what do you call someone who speaks two languages?” “Bilingual?” He laughed again. “And what do you call someone who only speaks one language?” I told him I didn’t know. “American!” he replied. I decided he was the nicest French person I had ever met. I didn’t explain to him that I had taken two years of German and three years of Spanish in college. I was afraid I would offend him because I hadn’t taken French.  That man turned out to be another guardian angel. He and his son helped me with my luggage and accompanied me on the train to Chatelet Les Halles to meet Emily. She was sitting on a bench wearing a black dress and the biggest pair of black sunglasses I had ever seen in my life. I was so relieved to see her.

         This trip to Paris was the total opposite of the one before. With Emily, everything was easy. She spoke for me, she showed me where to go, and nothing we did was touristy.
 

We went shopping in vintage stores and flea markets, bought wine in tiny wine shops, ate food in sidewalk cafes, and went out in hip districts where the Parisians play at night. It was wonderful. 

We spent two nights there and then went to the sleepy, beautiful town, Le Mans (more on Le Mans to be written later), where she was going to college. We cooked food at people’s houses, watched American movies overdubbed into French, played Frisbee, listened to French rap, shopped in local markets, and rode our bikes through the cobblestone streets. It was this second round in France that made me fall in love with all things French. 

When I came back to Arkansas, I enrolled in a French class- determined to learn this poetic language.


To be continued...

Learning Paris, part one

Warning: Cussing is involved in this story. If you are offended by naughty language, stop reading now.


If I could move to any European city, it would be Paris. I have been lucky enough to travel to Paris four times. Paris took its time seeping into my heart. I hated it the first time I went there. This is part one of a series about how my relationship changed with Paris, from hate to love over a span of years. This entry is from my first trip to Paris in 2005. Sadly, there are no pictures of this trip yet. I had a film camera at the time, and have lost the negatives. I'll try to scan some in later.

***

            The first time I went to Paris, it was a nightmare. When I came back home, I swore that I hated it, that I would never go there again. I realize now that I had been the typical American tourist- walking around slack-jawed, not knowing a word of French beyond “Bonjour” which I pronounced with a thick southern drawl so that it sounded more like bon-jer.  The Parisians hate that. I had no idea what to expect from Paris beyond the Eiffel tower.  My husband and I were only there on a day trip- escaping our first European vacation in London for a few hours after the bombings on the subways had rendered the British city impossible to navigate. Had I planned the trip in advance, I would have bought a phrasebook, or even just googled Paris; but this was a spur of the moment decision- a day I expected to be the most romantic day of my life- spontaneous Paris in the summer.

            I remember exiting the train station and being filled with equally opposing forces of beauty and disgust. The picturesque winding streets captured my wildest daydreams about all things French, yet they were surrounded by the odor of feces and shifty-eyed Parisians whom I imagined were judging me or trying to steal my money, or both.

            A block away from the Gare du Nord I entered a store to buy a pack of cigarettes. “Bon-jer,” I said. The woman behind the counter looked me over with critical eyes for a few seconds too long. Her nose wrinkled as it crept up her face and she corrected me, “Bon-jour, madame.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. It was as though my smile made her hate me more. “Can I have a pack of Camel Lights, please?” She just looked at me, judging me. “S'il vous plait,” Rectified again. “Parlez vous Frances?” She asked. I was instantly shamed, my self-confidence dropped faster than rainfall, I felt like a naughty child. “No,” I replied, as my head dropped down. She pulled the cigarettes down and sternly placed them on the counter. She told me the cost in French, and of course, I didn’t understand. I gave her the amount I estimated and she pushed her lower lip out and made a “puh” sound as she wrote on a piece of paper the price. I paid her, and turned to walk out. “Au revoir, madame.” She said, scolding me in her polite, bitchy, French way as I walked out the door. From the look on her face and the tone of her voice, I knew she would take great joy in watching me step in dog shit and get run over by a taxi.  I was completely humiliated.

            The city seemed overwhelming. It was so monumental. Everything was huge and gilded in gold. The people moved so quickly and didn’t look each other in the eyes. Being a girl from a small, southern, American town- I was terrified. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves, so we walked. We walked and walked and walked and walked for hours. After my encounter with the cigarette lady, I was terrified to speak, so I didn’t.  Finally, hunger took over. We had a coupon for a free lunch that came with our train tickets. The restaurant had an English menu and we were served greasy boiled chicken and limp French fries. Funny, I thought French fries would be better in France. We were too afraid to speak to go anywhere else, so we stayed hungry all day. When we were thirsty, we didn’t drink. When we had to pee, we were too nervous to ask where a toilet was. We found a port-a-potty on the side of the road that cost a euro to use. I went inside and nearly threw up. Someone had wiped human feces and Urine over every single space inside like they were recreating a Jackson Pollock painting from excrement. I made Dylan come inside with me and hold me up so I wouldn’t have to touch anything. We didn’t use a bathroom again that day.

            So there we were, in Paris- lost and hungry and thirsty and hot and our feet hurt. We were tortured as we walked past the French bakeries with their yeasty smells wafting through the air and beautiful baguettes in baskets lining the walls. We passed fromageries and sweet shops and vendors with fresh fruit, but we were shamed into silence. We just kept walking and gaping at the scenery, completely unaware of what we were looking at, destroyed by its hugeness, dwarfed by its beauty.

            We decided to go to the top of the Eiffel tower because it was the only thing we knew to do. We spotted it looming in the distance and began to walk without consulting a map. Coming from Arkansas and the grid patterns of our streets, we didn’t take into consideration the winding roads and soon found our selves in a beautiful, smelly labyrinth. One moment the tower was here, but after half an hour of walking toward it, it was over there. Had we looked at a map, we would have known to follow the river, but retrospect is always brilliant. After three hours of wandering, we found it- and got in the incredibly long line. Two hours later we made it to the top. Paris sprawled out on all sides of us like the realm of Hades- a never ending terrifying maze of swarthy, mean French speakers with their snooty eyes and judgy mouths. It seemed like the city extended to the end of the Earth.

            To top it all off, we missed our train back to London. After climbing the Eiffel tower, our legs were wasted. Exhaustion crept in. We finally braved the metro with the help of an English speaker, found our way back to the train station, and after looking at a digital clock decided we had two hours until the train left. We went to a pub across the street from the train station and gave in to our hunger and thirst. Ordering beer and croque-monsieurs through pointing, the day started to seem like it hadn’t been that bad. Hunger is a bitch.  Things look better when you have a full belly and your head is swimming with beer. Upon our arrival to the train, we discovered that we did not know how to tell time by a 24-hour clock. The train to London had left two hours before. The last train from Paris was leaving in five minutes. When the woman at the gate told me that there was no way we would make the next train, I started to cry. My body was heaving as the tears poured down my face, and I imagined being stuck in this hateful city, with only my purse;  How we would miss our flight from London to Amsterdam the next morning. Fortunately, tears are a universal language. “You want to get out of Paris tonight?” She asked. “Y-y-y-y-yes, I choked. “Follow me. Run!” She ran us to a desk, printed new tickets for us, and then ran us to the train. She was an angel. We got in as the doors shut and the train departed. “Never again, Paris,” I thought, as the train roared back into the underwater tunnel. Screw you. Fuck you and your cobblestones, your beautiful monuments, your snooty asshole people and their fucking French language. Fuck you.            

Looking back, I realize that the apocalyptic feeling I had while I was in Paris was my own fault. I was so stereotypical. I put myself in that situation. I know how people react to foreigners coming to America expecting us to speak their language. The French take pride in their language- it is beautiful. It was my fault I didn’t learn how to say bon jour, sil vous plait, and merci. It was my fault that I didn’t pick up a map. It was my fault that I let my fears stop me from fulfilling my most basic needs in Maslow’s hierarchy. Fortunately, two years later, I was given an opportunity to give Paris a second chance.

To be continued... 

Into Venice, part two

   Part one, here

     The first thing you notice about Venice is that it is crawling with people. Like ants, they spill across the ancient stones, chattering in languages both familiar and unfamiliar. It seems like a living museum full of all nationalities except its own.  It is a city of tourists and thieves. Everyone is a stranger with a camera. Here, an Indian woman selling sunglasses, over there a waiter with a Russian accent. Where are the Venetians?

            I felt almost like I was at Epcot, it was hard to believe that I was really looking at the Bridge of Sighs, the Doge’s Palace, the Grand Canal. It is hard to believe that Venice exists, even when I’m not there.

            The second realization I had about Venice was the power of the sun. Its blaze annihilated me within moments, fierce and Italian- the sun was oppressive. The force of the heat pushed me straight down into the floating stones of St. Marks Square. I quickly began to see only the color white, as the sunlight bounced and reflected off of the water and stones. You must have an excellent pair of sunglasses when you visit.

            We went on a gondola ride, as every tourist must do. It was pricey- 20 euro per person. We had a large group, so we took up several boats. Our driver was texting on his iphone as we wandered through the city’s canals. It was here that you saw the decaying beauty of Venice. The water laps up onto the buildings and eats at the stone. Venice reminds me of a beautiful, older woman. The inevitable decay only adds to the allure and spellbinding beauty.

 It is impossible to take a bad  photo of the city.

            After our gondola ride, we asked the driver where he would eat. We wanted to try something local, not touristy. When in a tourist destination, walk as far away from the crowds to find your meal. Our driver walked us over to a café where we could not read the menus. Taking a leap of faith, I ordered. My meal was delicious- fried cuttlefish with tomato sauce and sliced polenta on the side.

            After eating, we decided to get lost. If you are going to do anything besides ride a gondola, do this. Walk forward. When you come to any intersection where a decision must be made, take the emptier path. Soon you will find yourself alone in narrow, stone corridors. Sometimes they will dead end in a canal, sometimes lead to a square or a garden. Just wander. Take photos. Stop and listen to the magical silence of a world that survives without the automobile. It is lovely.

            To find the way back to St. Marks Square just do the opposite, go toward the people. All too soon you will be back in the throngs of visitors. We decided to go across the Grand Canal to Santa Maria della Salute. We got lost on that side of the bridge, and then bought a grapefruit gelato, and walked along the edge of the Grand Canal.

            All too soon, our day was over. I felt a little cheated, like I had bought a knock off Gucci bag and was unaware it was a counterfeit. One of my favorite things about traveling is experiencing the culture of a new place- but Venice hides its locals, tucked away down green canals that slowly devour the city.

            Venice is not a place to be seen in one day. She is a romantic lover. She wants you to go slow, to romance her; she isn’t a one-night stand. To get the real Venice experience you should get an apartment, stay a few days, walk the city streets at night.

She leaves me wanting more.
Click here for more beautiful photography from this adventure

Into Venice, part one

Venice is a daydream.

As a child, it seemed the most magical of cities, a place of awe- like another planet. It is a city that defies all of the realms of normalcy and probability.

A floating city

An ancient city

A hidden, secretive, winding city

I had always wanted to travel there.

            This past summer, I had my chance. I chaperoned a group of 10 teenagers on an EF Tour of Venice, Florence, and Paris. In the months leading up to my trip, I obsessed over Venice. I stalked her like an obsessive lover on Google Earth. Watched Anthony Bourdain eating his way through the hidden cobblestone streets on No Reservations. I picked up the mystery novels of Donna Leon who writes Venice in a way that makes you feel like you were there. I had a big fat crush on Venice.

            We approached Venice by boat in early June, coming from the wholesome beaches of Lido di Jesolo. The water of the lagoon was bluer than I had imagined. It smelled salty and clean. When the boat docked, I believed we were there, in the city of my dreams.

            Turns out we were in the old Jewish ghetto, the island of Giudecca. I did not know this right away. We were ushered into one of several product demonstrations that we would be held captive in on this trip. I guess EF makes trips affordable by herding you into a labyrinth of wares, hoping to sell you products, like a time-share spiel. This one was a glass blowing demonstration. Having just read Donna Leon’s Through a Glass, Darkly, I was amazed at the skills of the man who twisted hot, molten, glass into a horse. I knew from her novel that this was not a working factory. There were bleachers along the wall for students to sit and watch. The lights were bright, and the heat not as intense as it should be in a place where glass was melted and formed. There were several men in high priced suits that watched us by the door, like a fishbowl within a fishbowl.

            We watched the young, handsome glass blower, one of the only Venetians we saw in Venice, and then we were herded into a sparkling shiny room. It was like a three dimensional cathedral wall full of color and shape. They showed us their unaffordable cups and bowls and then we were free to look around at all of the beauty none of us could afford. We were followed by the men in suits like we were kids from the wrong side of the tracks. There was no exit to be found.

            After searching along the walls for a door that led outside, we went back out through the ovens, where another group of teenagers were assembling in the bleachers. We sat in the courtyard, restless, still thinking we were in Venice proper. We baked in the Venetian sun, next to a yard of gondolas in mixed states of completion and repair. The air smelled of lacquer, salt, and sun. I felt like a caged animal, believing that the city of my dreams was just around the other side of the glass prison, and yet I couldn’t get to it. I paced, I wrote, and waited.

            Finally, our tour director came back for us and we boarded the boat again. I felt cheated. I lost two hours of my fantasy for a sales pitch. The boat took off, and we headed to the floating city.

 Photos from the trip on Flickr
To be continued…

Stories of travel

            The only cities I have ever fallen in love with immediately were New York and London, but I can’t remember if it was love at first sight or a slow burn. In New York, I felt like a local. I lived in a dorm at Columbia University for three weeks. I knew where to get food, cigarettes, and beer. I spent seven days in London in 2005. So in both of these cities, I had time to get aquainted, become familiar with their curves and quirks. I could navigate my way through public transportation to any destination. It was love, not lust.

            My relationship with other cities has been whirlwind- enough time to find myself slightly scared, yet yearning for more time in their streets. I dream about them at night. I stalk them online. I have had the fortune of seeing a lot of the world, and each experience leaves me needing more. I’m like a junkie. I crave travel. I need new cultures, new experiences, and new adventures. My first experience outside of the United States happened on the city streets and  beaches of Jamaica. The first short story I ever wrote was inspired by that trip. Jamaica was a feast for my senses and it changed my entire perspective on the world. I have been to Paris four times, and my relationship with Paris has deepened each time from tentative loathing to gut wrenching heart destroying love. I have traveled through Greece, Italy, and France. I have been to Iconic American Cities: New Orleans, New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles. I have traveled Alaska from top to bottom and east to west.

            I have seen a lot in my life- mostly for free (more about this later), and I have so many stories to tell. Sometimes my stories take the form of fiction, sometimes images, other times extreme self-reflection; but the thing they have in common is they all need an outlet. I didn’t even know that I had a writer inside me until I was 36 years old, and now it is like all of those words that were stored up inside of me are determined to flow out. I’m overwhelmed with a need to put these things down on paper and share them with you, oh unknown reader. The question is where to start?

            There are so many things I need to tell you. I get confused, and don’t know which story to start with. I spend so much time trying to create perfect sentences that I just go over and over the words and never get the stories out, like an obsessive compulsive woman who checks every appliance before bed.

            I think I’m going to start here- with travel.

            Jamaica, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Athens, Venice, Florence, Monte Carlo, Nice- each place has its own story. Should I write chronologically? Or should I wait and see which city is calling to me with questions unanswered and probing themselves forward in my dreams?

            Right now, I feel like writing about Venice. Like Paris, the first time I was there she confused me. In the eight hours I spent there, I found it destructively beautiful, terrifying and overwhelming. Venice haunts me.

Perhaps, I will begin in a floating city that inches toward its own doom.