Paris, September 2015
"We'll always have Paris."
The above quote given by Humphrey Bogart's character Rick Blaine in Casablanca could easily reach beyond the personal and speak to the collective, to the fact that Paris belongs, permanently, to each and every individual across the globe, a place on the opposite end of a boom-and-bust-town. Her heavy energy and organized infrastructure won't be blown away by some big, bad wolf. Rome may be the "Eternal City" but Paris knows too that it is staying put, that her edifices of steel and marble and stone aren't going anywhere soon (unlike the flights of her 80 million annual suitors). We'll ALWAYS have Paris.
Notre Dame Cathedral
We rolled into Paris's Gare du'Nord, a transportation crossroads, on a Monday evening. The best early decision we made was NOT to purchase a 1-day or 4-day Metro Pass but to instead pick up a book of ten metro rides for 14 Euros each. At today's currency rate (2015 and presumably 2016 are opportune times to head to the continent) of 1 Euro equalling 1.12 US dollars, we each spent a highly reasonable $15 for transportation and which lasted us 3.5 days. The good thing about the Metro tickets is that you can use them for free transfers within 90 minutes but only on the same mode of transport (i.e. bus-to-bus or metro line to metro line). In all, we mainly utilized the Line 14 as well as Lines 4, 12 and 7.
Our pied-à-terre was a six-floor-walkup in a building that smelled mildly of plaster and old Chinese food. The neighborhood, the 18th Arrondissement or what we referred to as Chateau Rouge, was a raucous market for African nationals. Nearby Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre loomed over us like a squat Taj Mahal on the highest hill of the city. Montmartre contains the Moulin Rouge, the spiritual birthplace of the modern can-can and where many gals turned a buck in the late 19th century. It's still a venue for performances and this year The Moulin Rouge is celebrating its 125th birthday. Montmartre was the working-class neighborhood for many of the artists and writers who made names for themselves; to this day it leads in affordability and smut shops.
Moulin Rouge
One day in particular, early in our travels, exemplified Paris at its best and worst. We trudged in the pouring rain to the Musée d'Orsay only to find a large crowd gathered outside with the museum's insides dark and still. The tourists gathered on this Tuesday morning, September 22nd, were there to catch the opening day of the much-anticipated exhibit, Splendor and Misery: Images of Prostitution 1850 to 1910. (Are you sensing a theme yet?) Save that of the plucky umbrella hawkers, there was little movement in the mass. Upon closer inspection, we witnessed a diminutive sign attached to the glass wall that read:
The Museum is Closed Due to a Strike
The museum workers were protesting a move by French President Franciose Hollande to have the city's most popular museums begin opening on Mondays, a day of quietude and closure reserved for building maintenance and administrative duties.* Hollande wanted to relieve the pressure of the crowds on the other six days. And while I empathized with the museum workers' plight and could only imagine the even worse labor conditions of the sex workers in 19th century Paris, I was wet and hungry and suggested to Mauricio that we cross the Seine and see if the Louvre was closed in solidarity.
It's funny how the themes of your working life shadow you on your vacations. As we approached the verdant lawn in front of the Louvre we spied a man in a red rainjacket playing fetch with 14 polite and well-groomed dogs. It made me smile especially when he kept calling "Ballou, Ballou" a Siberian Husky with selective hearing who hid among the manicured bushes. Whether in The Hague or The Haight, there's at least one free spirit in every pack and I had a serious moment where water welled in my eyes as I realized my "Bad News Bears" were frolicking 6,000 miles away without me.
We somehow talked ourselves out of attending the Louvre (which wasn't affected by the d'Orsay strike) and drifted towards Les Halles, a set of outdoors corridors with commerce and cafes. There we indulged in some retail therapy in the likes of vintage clothing shops. Never before had I witnessed such an extensive selection of velvet jackets and managed to score a royal blue specimen to bring back west. Nearby Marais, the Jewish/Gay neighborhood also drew us in with its tight, cobblestone alleys. During the course of our four days in Paris (certainly not enough time to make me a self-appointed expert), we mostly kicked it around this near-north side of the Seine, popping into places to eat like Le Bistrot Beaubourg and Paris Beaubourg Restaurant, as well as checking out museums like the gargantuan Pompidou and the more intimate Picasso Museum. My favorite place had to be the Musée d'Orsay which thankfully did open its doors two days later. It was there that I fell in love with the French Symbolist painters, precursors to the Modernists who emphasized mythology, oneiric sequences and religious mysticism. Examples of the Symbolists can be seen in my post "Surviving the West in Non-Ordinary Reality."
Speaking of visual art and image, the French, unsurprisingly, blow the Americans out of the water. Everything there felt elevated in terms of showmanship and, being out in public, you were expected to step it up in terms of grooming and fashion. Coming from ultra-casual Northern California, this is something that required real effort as if I had to access an obscure and underutilized part of my brain that valued the dapper and meticulous. The French have a tight sense of image but a loose sense of leisure, making certain to secure their mandatory 25 days of paid vacation (which does not include paid holidays). Beyond that there is a significant cafe culture of drinking, smoking, eating and conversation.
Van Gogh's Bedroom
In the U.S. the equation seems flipped. Apart from preppy mores of the Bos-Wash corridor, along with some pockets of the debutante South, Americans dress way more loosely and casually (dare I say, sloppily?) but have a far tighter sense of leisure than do the French. Citizens of Gaul have an average of 31 days, paid-time off per year. The U.S. worker, by contrast, is not entitled to any paid vacation days nor paid holidays as mandated by the federal government. Sadly, even the meager 10 days that Americans may accrue from their private companies often go unused. When Americans do go on vacation, the day is spread out like an ambitious to-do-list of hitting all the sites and completing all the activities. We've got all those Calvinist ants-in-our-pants and can't sit still.
As for our loose sense of fashion, is there any cultural redemption? In my view, yes, and it comes from our superb culture of music-making. There has to be something shameless and extroverted about making music and I think it goes hand-in-hand with fashion or not being overly concerned about it. Americans make great tunes because the best music has a devil-may-care attitude to fabrics and threads. The French may make their marks on literature, philosophy and visual arts (more the media of the introverted and self-conscious) but Americans like to rock it. Just look at the Grunge scene from Seattle (dirty flannel and ripped jeans), Bluegrass and Country from Appalachia (tucked-in flannel, tasseled leather and denim) or the modern-day Brass Bands of New Orleans where it looks like everyone just rolled out of bed and grabbed their instruments.
France obviously has its superstars in the music department (think Edith Piaf and Daft Punk) but they've always adopted and run away with our best musicians, particularly our jazz musicians. Jazz is something that we heard everywhere in Paris. With the rain it gave Paris a certain timelessness as if it was okay to fully relax, sit in a cafe and just watch the world go by.
As for the mores of each culture, I would certainly like to take the best of each, namely the French ability to look smashing and the American ability to stay productive. Or is it better to wear whatever I went and always have one eye towards –– no, let's say worship –– the Goddess of leisure and vacation? Which values are the best? You be the judge.
Taken from Impressions Gallery at d'Orsay
* The latest news is that an agreement has been made to delay the new Monday schedule of the d'Orsay until later in the winter and only after new staff has been hired.
The above quote given by Humphrey Bogart's character Rick Blaine in Casablanca could easily reach beyond the personal and speak to the collective, to the fact that Paris belongs, permanently, to each and every individual across the globe, a place on the opposite end of a boom-and-bust-town. Her heavy energy and organized infrastructure won't be blown away by some big, bad wolf. Rome may be the "Eternal City" but Paris knows too that it is staying put, that her edifices of steel and marble and stone aren't going anywhere soon (unlike the flights of her 80 million annual suitors). We'll ALWAYS have Paris.
Notre Dame CathedralWe rolled into Paris's Gare du'Nord, a transportation crossroads, on a Monday evening. The best early decision we made was NOT to purchase a 1-day or 4-day Metro Pass but to instead pick up a book of ten metro rides for 14 Euros each. At today's currency rate (2015 and presumably 2016 are opportune times to head to the continent) of 1 Euro equalling 1.12 US dollars, we each spent a highly reasonable $15 for transportation and which lasted us 3.5 days. The good thing about the Metro tickets is that you can use them for free transfers within 90 minutes but only on the same mode of transport (i.e. bus-to-bus or metro line to metro line). In all, we mainly utilized the Line 14 as well as Lines 4, 12 and 7.
Our pied-à-terre was a six-floor-walkup in a building that smelled mildly of plaster and old Chinese food. The neighborhood, the 18th Arrondissement or what we referred to as Chateau Rouge, was a raucous market for African nationals. Nearby Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre loomed over us like a squat Taj Mahal on the highest hill of the city. Montmartre contains the Moulin Rouge, the spiritual birthplace of the modern can-can and where many gals turned a buck in the late 19th century. It's still a venue for performances and this year The Moulin Rouge is celebrating its 125th birthday. Montmartre was the working-class neighborhood for many of the artists and writers who made names for themselves; to this day it leads in affordability and smut shops.
Sacré-Coeur
Moulin RougeOne day in particular, early in our travels, exemplified Paris at its best and worst. We trudged in the pouring rain to the Musée d'Orsay only to find a large crowd gathered outside with the museum's insides dark and still. The tourists gathered on this Tuesday morning, September 22nd, were there to catch the opening day of the much-anticipated exhibit, Splendor and Misery: Images of Prostitution 1850 to 1910. (Are you sensing a theme yet?) Save that of the plucky umbrella hawkers, there was little movement in the mass. Upon closer inspection, we witnessed a diminutive sign attached to the glass wall that read:
The Museum is Closed Due to a StrikeThe museum workers were protesting a move by French President Franciose Hollande to have the city's most popular museums begin opening on Mondays, a day of quietude and closure reserved for building maintenance and administrative duties.* Hollande wanted to relieve the pressure of the crowds on the other six days. And while I empathized with the museum workers' plight and could only imagine the even worse labor conditions of the sex workers in 19th century Paris, I was wet and hungry and suggested to Mauricio that we cross the Seine and see if the Louvre was closed in solidarity.
It's funny how the themes of your working life shadow you on your vacations. As we approached the verdant lawn in front of the Louvre we spied a man in a red rainjacket playing fetch with 14 polite and well-groomed dogs. It made me smile especially when he kept calling "Ballou, Ballou" a Siberian Husky with selective hearing who hid among the manicured bushes. Whether in The Hague or The Haight, there's at least one free spirit in every pack and I had a serious moment where water welled in my eyes as I realized my "Bad News Bears" were frolicking 6,000 miles away without me.
I love cultures that love their dogs!
We somehow talked ourselves out of attending the Louvre (which wasn't affected by the d'Orsay strike) and drifted towards Les Halles, a set of outdoors corridors with commerce and cafes. There we indulged in some retail therapy in the likes of vintage clothing shops. Never before had I witnessed such an extensive selection of velvet jackets and managed to score a royal blue specimen to bring back west. Nearby Marais, the Jewish/Gay neighborhood also drew us in with its tight, cobblestone alleys. During the course of our four days in Paris (certainly not enough time to make me a self-appointed expert), we mostly kicked it around this near-north side of the Seine, popping into places to eat like Le Bistrot Beaubourg and Paris Beaubourg Restaurant, as well as checking out museums like the gargantuan Pompidou and the more intimate Picasso Museum. My favorite place had to be the Musée d'Orsay which thankfully did open its doors two days later. It was there that I fell in love with the French Symbolist painters, precursors to the Modernists who emphasized mythology, oneiric sequences and religious mysticism. Examples of the Symbolists can be seen in my post "Surviving the West in Non-Ordinary Reality."
Speaking of visual art and image, the French, unsurprisingly, blow the Americans out of the water. Everything there felt elevated in terms of showmanship and, being out in public, you were expected to step it up in terms of grooming and fashion. Coming from ultra-casual Northern California, this is something that required real effort as if I had to access an obscure and underutilized part of my brain that valued the dapper and meticulous. The French have a tight sense of image but a loose sense of leisure, making certain to secure their mandatory 25 days of paid vacation (which does not include paid holidays). Beyond that there is a significant cafe culture of drinking, smoking, eating and conversation.
Van Gogh's BedroomIn the U.S. the equation seems flipped. Apart from preppy mores of the Bos-Wash corridor, along with some pockets of the debutante South, Americans dress way more loosely and casually (dare I say, sloppily?) but have a far tighter sense of leisure than do the French. Citizens of Gaul have an average of 31 days, paid-time off per year. The U.S. worker, by contrast, is not entitled to any paid vacation days nor paid holidays as mandated by the federal government. Sadly, even the meager 10 days that Americans may accrue from their private companies often go unused. When Americans do go on vacation, the day is spread out like an ambitious to-do-list of hitting all the sites and completing all the activities. We've got all those Calvinist ants-in-our-pants and can't sit still.
As for our loose sense of fashion, is there any cultural redemption? In my view, yes, and it comes from our superb culture of music-making. There has to be something shameless and extroverted about making music and I think it goes hand-in-hand with fashion or not being overly concerned about it. Americans make great tunes because the best music has a devil-may-care attitude to fabrics and threads. The French may make their marks on literature, philosophy and visual arts (more the media of the introverted and self-conscious) but Americans like to rock it. Just look at the Grunge scene from Seattle (dirty flannel and ripped jeans), Bluegrass and Country from Appalachia (tucked-in flannel, tasseled leather and denim) or the modern-day Brass Bands of New Orleans where it looks like everyone just rolled out of bed and grabbed their instruments.
Why so glum, Pablo?
France obviously has its superstars in the music department (think Edith Piaf and Daft Punk) but they've always adopted and run away with our best musicians, particularly our jazz musicians. Jazz is something that we heard everywhere in Paris. With the rain it gave Paris a certain timelessness as if it was okay to fully relax, sit in a cafe and just watch the world go by.
As for the mores of each culture, I would certainly like to take the best of each, namely the French ability to look smashing and the American ability to stay productive. Or is it better to wear whatever I went and always have one eye towards –– no, let's say worship –– the Goddess of leisure and vacation? Which values are the best? You be the judge.
Taken from Impressions Gallery at d'Orsay* The latest news is that an agreement has been made to delay the new Monday schedule of the d'Orsay until later in the winter and only after new staff has been hired.
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