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Published: March 15th 2007
Feeling small
Believe it or not, that tiny dot is me in front of the Arc de Triomphe.During a rather lively phone call with my father (at 20 cents a minute, he likes to remind me), he took the time to berate me for having neglected this travel blog for a while. Ironically, he chose to make this point while perusing a selection of barbecues in San Antonio, Texas, studiously avoiding working on the presentation he had to make the next day. Meanwhile, I am crouched over 1375-page textbook, futilely trying to understand Chaucer's
Troilus and Criseyde , an epic poem of such considerable girth that I could probably drop it out of my window and break the neck of that irritating barnyard goose that always keeps me up at night. (Seriously, if that goose didn't belong to the head porter, he would be toast.) So as Dad satisfies his manly urge to look at shiny cooking implements and talks to me about keeping up with this thing, I am running through my list of things to do in the next two weeks, some of which include writing three 2500-word essays and puzzling through weekly torture sessions of Middle English. Forgive me if this isn't the first thing on my mind.
However, now Dad has gotten
Where are we again?
Oh yeah, Paris. It might look like I'm sitting in Israel enjoying a nice shwarma, but really I'm in the Parisian Jewish Quarter... enjoying a nice shwarma. Some things are tasty wherever you go. me thinking about writing an entry, which is very distracting. How am I to concentrate on the love-sick Troilus and the passages on predestination from
Boece when I have Paris on the brain? Therefore, it is with great pleasure that I dedicate this entry on France to my
dear father. I hope the irony that your memory is forever associated with your least favorite country is not lost on you, Dad.
Alright, so like most of my family, I had-- and still scrupulously maintain-- preconceived notions about the French. It's really not that difficult. Even for a left-leaning college student like me, living in America invariably instills suspicions against our Gallic allies. It doesn't help that they aren't too keen on us either. It's a mutual thing and that sort of works for us both. When the US and France finally agree on something, it'll be like an episode of
The Twilight Zone . So it was with great uneasiness that I sat with my luggage on the floor of Charles De Gaulle airport, waiting for Aunt Deena to rescue me.
If I were to "do" France again, the only person I would
A Jewish soldier
The American Cemetary, Normandy need to take with me is my Aunt Deena. Being the lone Francophile of the family, she knows everything there is to know about Paris and she never does it half-assed. She flits about the Champs Elysee like a native, popping into patisseries for tasty treats, shopping in high-end Parisian boutiques, and understanding that most complicated of creatures, the Parisian waiter. Being under the protective wing of such a maven helped me relax my deeply-entrenched prejudices and enjoy France. So let me say that I am thankful to her for opening me up to a part of the world that I would not have normally ventured into. The French still irritate me, but at least I understand them a bit better.
Now, I could not have possibly seen all of Paris in just a few days, but I already have a favorite place: the Arc de Triomphe. The Eiffel Tower is all well and good, but if you want you want to be utterly knocked flat by a massive structure, then the Arc is the way to go. The monument is 51 meters tall and 45 meters wide, which isn't spectacularly huge when compared to buildings that you can
Eiffel Tower
From the Arc de Triomphe. see walking down any main street, but the beauty is in the details. All over the structure are carvings commemorating French victories under Napoleon and display a strong nationalistic sentiment that is deeply moving. It is perhaps a little ironic that many of the motifs show the valiant French battling against Germanic peoples and apparently winning. I really shouldn't be so cynical; modern history aside, they are quite wonderful sculptures. During the time we were in Paris, a massive French flag was displayed from the ceiling of Arc, which really drives the point of the monument home. No matter how Americans feel about the French military prowess, they once had armies that conquered many parts of the world. Modern Britain would not be what is today without the influence of William the Conquerer (or William the Bastard-- it really depends on what side of the channel you're on) and the French who set off from Normandy to over-run the Anglo-Saxon tribes in 1066. The English and the French battled for centuries for control of massive parts of continental Europe. The Napoleon juggernaut seemed unstoppable until he hit Russia and, to be fair, Hitler had a lot of trouble with that
The Hall of Mirrors
Versailles. Half of the Hall was closed off for renovation. :( too. And without those "cheese-eating surrender-monkeys" (not my words, I assure you), America might not have suceeded in gaining independence (or at least our history would have been radically changed-- the Conway Cabal, anyone?). The Arc de Triomphe is a powerful reminder of all that France was and, perhaps, can be again. Who knows? The world is a crazy place.
On the subject of militaries-- Aunt Deena and I decided that we wouldn't be responsible US citizens if we didn't take a tour of Normandy and the D-Day beaches. It was so important to us that we actually dragged ourselves out of bed at some monstrously early hour (for us, at least) and stumbled down to the bus depot to join other bleary-eyed tourists (an American family, an Aussie, and three American airline pilots) in an all-day tour of the region. Once in the bus, I promptly fell asleep, but soon woke up to dry, if misty, day in beautiful Normandy. Of all the museums and beaches that we briefly visited, perhaps the most touching was the American cemetary. I had seen this place during coverage of the 60th anniversary of D-Day, but I didn't really understand the scope
Tri-color
Arc de Trimophe. of the place until I actually stood in front of all of those graves. The place just goes on forever, marble tombstones as far as the eye can see. It was interesting to spot all of the Stars of David, Byzantine crosses, and the like amongst all of the regular crosses. I was actually surprised at how many Jewish soldiers were killed on the shores and lands of France. I had trouble finding enough pebbles to place on each gravestone, partly because there were so many Jewish graves in the little area I surveyed and also because of the cleaning crews kept the paths scrupulously clean. However, the sombre silence was spoiled by busloads of French high school students pouring into the cemetary, pushing, shoving, and screaming. Now, I respect and applaud the French school system for having mandatory field trips to such sites; we in America should do as much. I also understand that kids will be kids and kids, by definition, are boistrous. But you know, I think that by that age I had figured out that a cemetary-- particularly a cemetary full of people who sacrificed their lives to preserve mine-- deserve a certain modicum of respect.
I left the cemetary angry and I still haven't really gotten over it.
Off the subject of armies, Aunt Deena and I also dropped in at the palace in Versailles. I had never seen opulence quite like that. The French monarchs were really something else. Each different room had a theme, often corresponding to Greek gods and goddesses. There were paintings everywhere, even on the massive ceilings. As you walk down the corridors, you can feel the marble eyes of hundreds of statues representing the past kings and queens of France staring down at you, as if trying to figure out why such mundane feet are trodding amongst the divinely-appointed. I was particularly excited to see the famed Hall of Mirrors, mostly because my mother had practically begged me to take pictures of it for her. She was right to be eager for photos; the place was breathtaking. Mirrors lining the walls, glittering crystal chandeliers, and sumptuously painted ceilings-- the place had it all. It wasn't until Aunt Deena sighed in disappointment that I realized that something was amiss. About halfway down the chamber, great black walls rose up to block the mirrors, allowing the wanderer to walk through
Ego much?
Napoleon, Arc de Triomphe a tunnel of quotes and facts about the Hall of Mirrors. Apparently, that isn't a normal feature. Versailles is currently refurbishing that particular half, so I didn't get to see the room in all of its glory. Oh well. The half I saw was pretty cool.
But Paris wasn't all about marble and musty dead kings-- it was also about the
food ! What did I eat? What
didn't eat? Pastries, crepes, cheese, pastries, chicken, shwarma, pastries... Out of all of that, I was most surprised to be able to eat a wonderful shwarma dinner in Paris's Jewish Quarter, the Marais. Some rather insistent salemen lured us in and stuffed us full of Middle Eastern goodness and I honestly can't complain. I'll remember that shwarma for the rest of my life.
Above all, through tourism and food, I learned a little more about what it was like to be French and now I can somewhat understand their mentality. Afterall, are you going to be overly friendly after spending the day dodging dog doo (like the alliteration there? English Studies is paying off.) on the Parisian sidewalks or waiting hours for your waiter to come with
Champs Elysee
From the top of the Arc de Triomphe. your check? I'd be down-right crabby. Maybe it takes a couple of days walking in their exceptionally fashionable and expensive shoes to be truly able to understand someone.
But, boy, was I glad to take those off!
--Kate
PS. Thanks to Wikipedia for the Arc dimensions.
PPS. Thank you for the awesome trip, Aunt Deena!
PPPS. How do you like them apples, Dad?
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Meg
non-member comment
i'm feeling green...
with envy! that's so amazing Kate and your such a good story-teller :) i'm glad Europe is rockin' your socks off!