Monday, March 17th, 2014
Outside Notre Dame- Paris
I have fulfilled every tourist stereotype of Paris- geeked
out over the Eiffel Tower, cruised the Seine Rive, carried a backpack filled
with enough useless crap to feed a country, and eaten crepes… twice today. Half
of my jambon et fromage is stuffed in my backpack. Moment of shame… It was too much for me. I had to toss it at the train
station. *weeps*
So much to talk
about, so little time… Let’s start with Versailles.
Arrive in Paris, morning of the 15th.
We boarded a bus
driven by the impeccably dressed Kareem- tailored suit, sunglasses, the works-
and headed to the Versailles palace. Mario, our Portuguese guide, showed us
through the building… Incredible. Gold, oil paintings, windows to the ceiling,
a stone court half a mile across… We only went through eight or ten rooms and
the Hall of Mirrors, and we barely scratched the surface. Walking through the
Hall of Mirrors was the best part- it’s another one of those weird things I’ve
been dreaming about doing since I was a kid. I read way too much. See previous post regarding core parts of my
education taking place in a fast food restaurant.
Anyways. We got to
see the King’s Chambers, including his bedroom and offices, and the Queen’s
Chambers, where she was required to ‘give life’ in public, as Mario so tactfully
put it. I completely forgot to mention
the gardens… They were huge, and though mostly dormant due to winter, still
impressive. Hedges, fountains, the like. The first forest I had seen since
leaving home.
After the tour, we
waited outside the gates, where a group of peddlers- (entry stops here, picks up on night train to Barcelona).
Bit of a change of
scenery… Anyways. The peddlers were hawking cheap trinkets- Eiffel Tower key
chains, toys, etc.
“One euro, one
euro!”
“Five for one euro!”
“You buy!”
They remained on the
outskirts of the group, calling to us. A few of the girls finally got up the
courage to go and buy something- suddenly, they were swarmed with peddlers, all
competing for that one euro.
“Pretty lady, pretty
lady!”
“Five for one! Five
for one!”
I quite literally lost sight of one of the
girls for a few minutes. I was afraid she had been impaled on a keychain.
They mobbed us for a
good five minutes, but they got their sales. On that note… anyone want a keychain?
After Versailles, we
went to dinner at a place called Hippopotamus. We had éclairs, and while I’m
sure they weren’t the best Paris had to offer, they were quite splendid. Next
stop: the hotel. Tiny little place that probably had the French version of a
panic attack when they heard they were booking 30+ teenagers for two nights. I
roomed with Courtney and Sarah, in a room with two beds slammed together to
make floor space. Our shower was missing a significant part of the door (as in an entire panel), but the
showerhead lit up- groovy, right? One of the rooms in the apartment across from
us was consistently bathed in fluorescent pink light; we spent two nights
trying to get a peek at the resident.
So, here’s an
interesting story… Please don’t freak out, Mom, we were all fine. Anyways,
Michael and Mr. Goebel come knocking on our door fifteen minutes after we’ve
turned out the lights. When we finally collect ourselves enough to get to the
door, I can’t get it open. Did I mention the knob doesn’t work? You can only
deadbolt it shut. Anyways, once we finished talking, we lock the door and climb
back into bed. About ten minutes later, footsteps pass our room and stop next
door, where two of our group are staying. The person knocks and one of the
girls calls out sleepily- “What?” (The
walls are paper-thin. This all sounds like it’s taking place in our room.)
What follows is a
babble of rapid-fire French from a very concerned sounding man. He pauses,
waiting for an answer, but they’re too smart to give him one. He sighs in
frustration and knocks on our door, repeating the urgent message. Having
learned our lesson from next door, we keep silent. The man knocks harder, then
gives another frustrated sigh and stalks off.
Thus, having now
been scared out of our wits twice, we spend our first night in Paris jerking at
any creak of movement in the hall.
Day two of the City
of Lights. We sleep in until 7:30 (what?!) and enjoy a breakfast with plenty of
French pastries. We then hop a bus with a tour guide whose name began with a
‘k’ sound- her accent was so thick, no one could make out the rest. She was
quite lively, and poked fun at her native folk. I’ve learned that a key element for tour guides is the ability to tear
down your countrymen. That being said, she started our tour off with a quick
tale of plot, murder, and cannibalism. Vive la France.
We took a bus tour
of the major sites of Paris (Grandy, tell
Pawpaw I saw the Arc de Triomphe and took a picture!), then dismounted for
lunch. After, we split into groups during free time pursue various activities
around Paris-. I chose to climb to the top of Notre Dame. Despite having to
wait crammed in small staircases and narrow walkways for extended periods of
time, it was well worth it. The view was incredible; close-up gargoyles and
spires, and a view of the city that left me staring. It was worth every euro,
every step. Speaking of steps, there were a lot. A little girl in front of me
declared this many times, and much to my group’s amusement, eventually busted out
with what had apparently been preying on her mind for the entire climb-
“These steps look
like cheese. I wish they were cheese. I’m hungry. I want cheese and
crackers. Forget that, just cheese.”
She kept us
sufficiently entertained all the way down. There was only disadvantage to
climbing the church, what I call Notre Dame Leg Syndrome (or NDLS, as we later referred to it). Every muscle in your legs
vibrates when you put pressure on it, especially the leg that hit the stairs
first. Try standing on the subway for twelve stops when your right leg thinks
it’s Michael Jackson. Afterwards, we headed to a church called Hillsong Paris.
Tommaso discovered for us that the service had been moved at the last minute,
and actually managed to track it down for us. The entire group flooded in,
exhausted and hot, for what was supposed to be a two-hour service. In my
opinion, all we had to do was hand out glowsticks, and it could have been a
rave: lights, loud band, and dancing in aisles and on benches. They sang some
songs in French and some in English, and when the pastor’s turn came to speak,
he had a translator (she translated into
French). The message was… weak. He read a few verses from Acts about Paul
and Silas praising God in prison, then spouted off a lot of spiritual
self-help, music playing the whole time.
Upon reading this, I realize I come off as
rather harsh and condemning. My issue was not with the music, lights, dancing,
etc., although that is certainly not my style… My real issue was going into the
service expecting to learn, and walking away feeling disappointed at the watery
message spoon-fed to me. I realize it was meant to be more ‘revival style’, and
also that the majority of the Parisians in the church were young believers. I
talked about it a little bit with others and found some who agreed with me and
wanted more, and some who didn’t mind the service. It’s a preference, and what you just
read is a culmination of unmet expectations and exhaustion… and a wee bit of
sickness. I was at a low that day. Like I said, I’m trying to show you exactly
what I felt and saw each day… although this entry needed some explaining.
We had to leave early to keep to our schedule. We may have
made a bit of a scene, thirty-five Americans all getting to our feet and
walking out. Ah, well. It certainly wasn’t the refreshment I’d been hoping for,
but seeing believers in such a dark city was encouraging.
We had twenty minutes to hunt down dinner afterwards. I just
scavenged some baguette and Nutella off of Lauren. (Thank you for that, by the way.) Afterwards, we headed off to what
would be the most spectacular night I’ve ever experienced… and which I must
write about later. Goodnight and goodbye, Paris, France. I’ll be back.
Abigail
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