Successive Success

After my wonderful petit dejeuner, I decided to strike while the (wrought) iron was hot, and stick around this district. Checking my handy street map, I noticed a ton of cultural sights in this area. It's called the "Latin Quarter" because it's home to La Sorbonne University. Back in the day, all the scholars were allowed only to speak in Latin, and the Roman influence is still evident today. Rife with students, I fit in on these streets much better than the semi-financial neghbourhood I'm staying in. I walked between the breathtaking Pantheon and La Sorbonne. The light was rising above the tops of the buildings, illuminating the stately Grecian pillars. Handfuls of students were lounging on the buildings' steps, some chatting with tweed-coated proffessors. They looked at me mockingly as I snapped a few pictures, showing how much they must take for granted the elegance that surrounds them every day.
My eye was caught by a gated-in garden, so I poked around, and found it to be a little oasis of tranquillity, set off from the bustling streets. As I sat down on one of the benches, I looked at my map again, and it turns out this garden is attached to the Cluny Museum, which is housed in a converted Abbey. This was the old Church's holy garden, and it definitely played its part well.
Intrigued, I walked around the corner to the Museum's entrance, paid the 5 euros, and toured the magnificent old Abbey. I think I was allowed to take pictures, but years of being told otherwise made me wary; I was only emboldened at the end, so there will be one or two. At first I couldn't figure out if it had been a church or a small castle. There were creaky corridors, tiled indoor balconies, glowing courtyards; such ornateness seemed unusual for a monk's home. The museum's contents weren't as interesting as the building itself, though they do house one of the most valuable tapestry collections, if that's your thing. Everything was so Gothic (they even had real chain mail), I started to let my imagination run away, and got a little spooked in the room of headless apostle statues (ironically, right next to the disembodied heads of the Kings of Judah).
My Paris book said there were a couple neat streets nearby, and they led to the Quai de Montebello, which traced the Seine. I hadn't realized how close to the center of the city I was, and couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the Seine this very morning. On my FIRST TRY! I found the streets, and they opened up to a bridge crossing the iconic French river. It was quite a feeling, like finding oneself inserted into a favorite childhood story. I walked over the (surprisingly short) bridge, and thought I'd wander for a bit, taking in the hawkers' booths, then turn around and walk back on the other side. After one block, I saw rising steeples ahead of me, and thought fleetingly, "is that Notre Dame?" then dismissed the thought, thinking I was still a ways away. Then I realized, the sound I'd been hearing in the background was church bells going crazy, and that Notre Dame had just sounded noon.
My pace quickened, for this Cathedral really does represent favorite childhood stories, and as the rose windows loomed nearer, I couldn't keep the goofy grin off my face. I still thought for a second that this could just be some other church, it's not like there's a shortage of them in Paris. But as I neared, I noticed herds of tourists, thickening the closer I got. I figured, 40 million French tourists couldn't be wrong, and then more signs indicating various "Notre Dame" amenities, like "Notre Dame Security", "Notre Dame Bench", "Notre Dame Toilets". No kidding. The tourists were flocking, as if they were pidgeons, and the Cathedral was the old man with bread.
This was my first time in Paris that I'd entered a really large mass of tourists, and thought this must be a thief's dream. I clutched my purse tightly to my side, and adopted an air of forcefullness about me, letting all those thugs know I wouldn't take any funny business. I've realized though, I'm not nearly as nervous about French thugs as I am about American ones. The French ne'er-do-wells have an almost comical air about them, like they're emoting the bully character. They all have the manicured scruff, a la Jason Statham, and the leather coats, maybe an earring or two, all this lends to their charicature-like nature, and it's hard to take them seriously. They probably even carry brass knuckles.
My little ruse must have worked though, nobody bothered me, not even the street vendors. Only one sea-dog fellow told me "vous etes tres jolie, and the two-second language lapse in my brain couldn't translate in time to stop me from glaring at the stranger who was bothering me, before I realized he was paying me a compliment. Quite respectfully too. What a city, even the wharf rats know how to treat a lady.

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