Paris: The Food, the Rad, and the Pugly

I'd like to think of this as my garbage-pail-soup-post, in the culinary sense: it's where I throw all my leftovers together to make a delicious appetizer. An appetizer for what I believe will be my last Paris post (yes, I realize this all happened in early January. Do you even know me?). So these are my leftover photos, the ones that don't quite fit into any category, but that please me so much that I just had to horn them in somewhere. 



The Centre Pompidou is a modern center of many arts: film, all pieces two-and-three-dimensional, things organic and plastic, and all in a cleanly designed, open building. A building with stunning views that I did not quite manage to do justice to. I could have lived there, or at least spent several more hours there than we did. The gift shop was a mecca of hipster-decor and bohemian-chic that I am too poor to be able to do anything but hold it longingly and hope that a passing Parisian aristocrat (they still have those, right?)  would take pity and just buy it for me. No such luck; I suspect they don't actually have aristocrats anymore.

I designate this bright blow-up sculpture as "The Rad"- the colors are most certainly rad, but also, I needed that final pun for my post title. Apologies. 

My friend had a desperate email need, so we stopped in an Internet cafe we found after hours of keeping our eyes peeled. While she did her business, I wandered around the funky-fresh little shop, which had shelves full of manga and walls covered in murals of sprightly steam-punk Japanese girls. The cafe-owner was, rather incongruously, a middle-aged, highly respectable, matter-of-fact Frenchwoman. She softened, however, when I expressed interest in the shopdog, a pudgy, placid pug; I asked her what his name was, and she responded, "Broosah." I must have looked blank, because she added, "Tu sais, comme Bruce Willis." She thought he looked like the American action star: I leave it up to you to draw your own conclusions. 

So little Bruce Willis and I became fast friends; he enjoyed attention and the "excited" face I put on for infants and animals. An unfortunate and hopefully allergy-free customer left his coat on a chair while he web-surfed, and Bruce Willis hopped onto it and made himself comfortable. I was quite sad to take my leave of him. 

And onto the food. France may be a food-lover's paradise, but not if said lover is vegetarian. However, I love sweets and breads, so I found enough to sustain myself. This lovely rose-hued (and rosewater-flavored) treat was, essentially, a huge chunk of marzipan. As an almond-paste lover, I was in heaven, although I couldn't eat the whole thing at once, as the intense sweetness was almost overwhelming. In the best possible way. 

A macaron, bien sur. I was determined to have one, even if it was a cheap-o one from a corner Persian corner shop. So what? It was still wonderful- the crisp shell giving way to the chew of the interior and the burst of raspberry in the center. It's such a cliche to wax rhapsodic over French cuisine, but as a bitter herbivore I usually don't feel the temptation. Their desserts, however- well, pardon my waxing.

This is, in my opinion, also quite Rad. When my sister visited me in the UK during the winter, she was disappointed that we couldn't find real, dead, corpse-y mummies in the British Museum. Sarcophogi were simply not going to cut it. So, sister of mine, this one's for you, straight from the Louvre. 

Paris: It's the small things

When I travel, I can't help thinking about the first question I'll face when I come home. "How was it?" is such a well-meaning, innocuous bit of small talk, and usually I'll reply in kind. It's enough to say that it was great, that it was cold, and that one only wishes for more time there. But some people want to know, and have the time to listen. And it's frustrating, knowing how hard it is to answer truly, to describe a period of 96 hours in only a few minutes? And what about the things I forget, little moments that add up to make a whole? 

I have a solution, albeit a ramshackle and not entirely successful one: take pictures and remember little things. Of course the big things, like monuments and legends and icons, are wonderful. But I try to take more pictures and write more about the other things, the small things, close-ups of details that those at home would never get the chance to see otherwise. I could take photos of Winged Victory at the Louvre- or I could simply admire her, and anyone curious could google image her later. But google image will not turn up these moments, I hope. Well, perhaps now they would. But probably not. 

When I was here a decade ago, I remember a young boy being a young ass with his equally silly young friend, horsing around in the nave of Notre Dame. His coat sleeve dangled dangerously close to the many flames of the votive candles. My mother grabbed his arm, and, almost forgetting her semesters of French in the flurry of the moment, managed to say, "Attention!" He gave her a sideways glance and scarpered; then we lit a candle for my grandmother. Now here by myself, I guiltily put in slightly less than the suggested minimum 2 euro donation and take a candle. I love lighting it; although it doesn't have the same meaning for me as it does for the devotional, I still feel that it has meaning. 

A strangely modern nativity diorama at Notre Dame  /       The glorious giddy opulance of the Opera House

In front of Notre Dame, the birds are greedy, plump, and accustomed to being fed. The obese pigeons seemed already satiated. 

Wandering around Montmartre, we came upon a quiet chapel (is that the right word? I'm such a heathan. Perhaps it was simply a church) set back from the main street, hidden by a snowy courtyard.  There were only a few other visitors besides ourselves, and the only source of light was the wintry sun that managed to pierce the dim, darkly stained glass windows. 

This fellow stands above the huge gothic doors of the cathedral (this time I'm sure that's the right word) of Notre Dame. I believe he may be Saint Denis, since he's featured in other locations nearby; also, how many saints are known for their lack of head atop the shoulders, but rather, cradled in their own arms? As soon as I noticed Denis, I also began noticing how very many carvings there are all over the cathedral, hiding in nooks and alcoves, or standing atop ledges, surveying the cityscape. Because of the snow, the Notre Dame towers were closed (yet another addition to our gallery of disappointment that included the Cemetary of Pere Lachaisse, the Eiffel Tower, and the Pantheon). I realized how much even I couldn't see, all of those things I had to miss because of closures or lack of binoculars; I must have missed so many things similar to Denis, everywhere, little things that I would love to notice but simply did not. But I try. 

Paris: In which we traverse to Versailles, and: in memoriam

Ah, Versailles: 45 minutes away from the bustle of Paris, a different sort of bustle. The kind created when hordes of tourists descend upon an area where there is only one attraction. And somehow, it did seem a world apart from the city, although it was hardly rural. The streets were barely wider, but they were certainly emptier. The shops and cafes were flatter, and there were no apartments or flats looming overhead. I felt naked, at first, so vulnerable to the blue mid-morning sky. 

There was a huge line, unmoving and thick, when we arrived at the ticket office inside these gates, although it had only opened 20 minutes before. We waited for about 15 minutes before we realized that we were not moving- not just moving slowly, but we had not advanced an inch. As the people around us began to realize the same thing, a low murmur of irritation started moving up and down the queue. Then, we noticed groups of tourists hurrying toward the entrance, with strangely excited auras. More spilled out of the ticket office, looking jubilant. Then came more, hordes of them, actually running across the frozen ground. One middle-aged man in glasses saw me staring, and as he and his wife jogged past, cried happily in broken English, "Free! It is free!" 

We never found out why Versailles was free that day. But I won't soon forget the sheer ecstasy on all of our faces in those moments; it was like Christmas morning, like the days when wars end. We all began sprinting toward the entrance, as if we thought that at any minute they might change their minds and catch us doing something naughty. I felt how ridiculous it all was, but I had to grin, too, caught up in the silly exuberance, that feeling of getting away with something. 

This little bit of trompe l'oeil blended so well into the Queen's flowery, fussy chambers that I didn't notice it at first. Jeff Koons's other piece/room matchups, however, were not so subtle. 

Yes, this is exactly who you think it might be

This one's also a Koons. I thought this one, in one of my favorite hues, was striking and fitting, somehow. I'm not sure why he wanted an installation in Versailles, or why Versailles allowed him to install his pieces in centuries-old rooms and corridors, but I'm glad an arrangement was reached. There were, if one is to believe the New York Times, some protests outside of those golden gates when the partnership was first announced: often a sign of artistic success. The excesses of the palace can be laughable; at their worst they are stultifying. The faint shock of seeing a gilded Michael Jackson in a main drawing room has the effect of a breath of fresh air. He is not true royalty, of course, as King Louis was, but he is a Prince of sorts; and it seemed only natural to have one more gold-plated royal in the place.

The Royal Chapel

The grounds looked bare and barren under their layer of snow; almost silly. Where I imagine flowerbeds might be in the springtime were only flat expanses of white, and the fountains were stilled. We got lost trying to exit the palace and were directed by bizarrely misleading signs into the gardens. We wandered, and accumulated a ragtag group of similarly confused English tourists. They seemed reassured by my semi-confident grasp of French, although the only thing I was called upon to translate turned out to be, "Sir, where is the exit, please?" 

My great-aunt Mary was a good traveler. It's not enough to just go places; there is a special talent involved in a mastery of this art. I think she had it, and if I have it in me, maybe some of that is hers. Her house, all sleek horizontals and hidden dens and wood-panelled rooms heated by the late afternoon sun gleaming through glass walls, was a modernist dream; it was also a humanist dream. It housed a collection of trinkets and memories from multiple continents, a positive U.N. of decor. I remember flipping through those leather-bound photo albums, stuffed with slightly faded moments past, hoping that one day I would be a traveler too. Something about those pictures was impossibly glamorous; maybe it was that technicolor-dream quality to them, with those photographic blooms of soft, vivid color, or maybe it was the captured wind in her curls and the confident red on her lips. 

It was hard being here this week, thousands of miles from home, while Mary faded away. But in some way, I can comfort myself by imagining I am taking on her mantle, that of the cosmopolitan, the sophisticate, the world-traveler. It's a daunting task- to be a Traveler is an art I'm still trying to learn. But the way has already been paved for me. 

Paris, this time with even more snow

From the top of the hill where Sacre-Coeur perches, the entire city of Paris looks almost manageable; of course, it isn't really, unless one has endless time and money. But it is a pleasant kind of unmanageable, the kind where I use the "submit and admit" mindframe so that I can relax and enjoy: submit to its charms, while admitting that I will never experience all of them.  With only four days in Paris on a student budget, it becomes necessary to trick my mind into forgetting this fact. 

This is a side street running along parallel to le Sacre Coeur, slick with ice. It was almost empty except for this woman. She looked serene and patient. Maybe she was there on a pilgrimage.

We could have taken a tram, clean glass and gleaming steel, all the way up the hill to the peak of Montmartre, but it seemed cheating, somehow. I didn't want to wait, suffocating in the hordes of others waiting for their turn to board; there was also a large number of fur-clad, elderly women and be-suited old men, so it would also have been a little shaming for two able-bodied youths to attempt to horn their way in the line. 

So we walked, placing each foot carefully on the next step, clinging to the rail, boots crunching on slush or sliding on ice. Once at the top, I surveyed my memory and remembered how I'd loved it up here as a girl, perhaps most of all, better than the Eiffel Tower or the artists' square.  Although I hadn't retained how vastly Paris spread out under me like an inviting, winter-tinged picnic spread, I did remember that white onion dome and the cobblestoned square in front of it. When we were here, vendors had taken it over, selling cheap trinkets and rubber balls and hot, sugar sprinkled crepes. Now, I suppose the cold and ice were too much for them. It was completely empty of enterprise. 

And finally, the Eiffel Tower. I was happy to revisit it, since it had been a decade since I'd last stood under its sturdy legs, sipping scalding hot chocolate. This was actually one of the first-nay, THE first- place we visited after our arrival. We exited the Metro stop and emerged into swirls of snowflakes; we strolled along the concrete, snow-softened banks of the Seine and made mitten-prints in the unblemished drifts. 

We knew the Tower was somewhere close, but it wasn't until my friend mentioned that she hoped we were going the right way that I looked up. I started laughing, and she followed my gaze and laughed too. It was there, looming out of the fog and snow, unimaginably huge, not 200 feet from where we stood. We'd been so taken by the snow and beauty (and a dead rat I'd found, perfectly frozen, curled in a snow-bed) that it had been growing closer and closer, without announcing its presence. It seemed perfect, iron grey and silent, modest in its dominance. 



In person, in is more gargantuan, and less iconic. The snow prevented us from ascention; this would prove to be the first of many such disappointments. The miser in me was relieved to not have to pay again; but since the last time I'd been ten, this must have been a senile, ridiculous miser, trying to rationalize myself into contentment. Because of all of the things in Paris that hold potential for disappointment, the view from the Eiffel Tower is not one of them. It is exactly like it should be. 

Paris: But more importantly, SNOW

Here's a little tease. What structure could that possibly be lurking in the background? Also: ducks waddling around the frozen pond. 

So, I'm going to whet your appetite for Paris photos, just a little; but don't expect to see any monuments or tourist traps yet. Well, mostly (see above note). As a California gal, born and bred, I don't get the chance to see much snow. As a California child, I remember melting into pools of excitement at the sight of it, usually on an occasional trip to Tahoe, the one place in the golden state guaranteed to wear white after Labor Day. The year we lived in England, it snowed, and although I realize in retrospect that it was barely enough to justify the snowman we were determined to scrape together, it was thrilling. It felt like being inside of a Christmas card. 

If that isn't a Christmas card picture, I don't know what it is. Okay, it could also be Narnia.

So I just wanted to try to capture for you the excitement I felt arriving in Paris on a Monday morning, tired and hungry from my trip under the Channel, only to find snow coating every concrete surface: still clean and soft, undirtied by the thousands of footsteps, at least for a few hours. And it was still falling from the sky, too, in magical swirls and gyres and tumbles. Beautiful, and edible, too. 

But not very filling

This park was actually closed, so I had to stick my whole arm through the gate to get this snapshot. Also, while we were doing this, a creepy Frenchman started trying to take pictures of us, for some unknown slimy reason. I shut him down but quick, very thankful I could tell him off in French.

Even the drains in the Champs de Mars are lovely! I give credit to the snow, which makes everything fresh and perfect, at least until it turns into slush. In spite of the sub-freezing weather exacerbating my terrible cold, shutting down my immune system, and turning my lightly-shod feet into painful ice cubes, the child inside of me was simply thrilled to be dancing in the snow. 

Southend; proper name: Souf-end

Southend on Sea is the more popular, more well-known sister to my own tiny Leigh-on-Sea. She is no London, to be sure; she isn't even a Birmingham. But as a child, she was the exciting city just around the corner; one with a theme park (however ramshackle) and a pier (however windswept). So on Boxing Day, we decided to take our post-dinner stroll there, only a short car-ride away.


And Southend, too, has changed. The waterfront, especially, looks different; it is cleaner, sleeker, and of course, a much nicer place for money to exchange hands. It doesn't really bother me, I suppose. Just past this spaceshippy pier front entrance, there are the same familiar, grungy streets full of shoddy arcades, fluorescent chip shops, and poorly carpeted trinket shops.

How I have missed ye, Adventure Island!

Farewell, Southend. I hope I'll see you again sometime; I feel that our visit was incomplete. We were foiled in our attempts to walk along your pier, which turned out to be closed at dusk. We could only stare nostalgically at the Adventure Island sign. Most of the shops on High Street were already closed. Things in England don't stay open past the setting of the sun, which, here, usually comes at around 4 in the afternoon.

But I already have you preserved in my mind, perfectly- your freshly fried doughnuts at the end of the pier, dusted in sugar; the open square above the Odeon cinema where we could chase pigeons; and your beautifully tacky, colorful theme park where we would be set free for an afternoon, until dusk fell and everything would close, exactly on time.

Home Sweet Home: in which I return to the abode of my childhood

At the tender age of 11, almost a decade ago now (pardon my involuntary shudder; it is still shocking to me that my life can now be separated into decades) this was my home. As a family, we willingly transplanted ourselves from sunny California- the Golden State, the land of ocean and vineyards and hippies and mountains and pine- to Essex, proud patron of the "Essex girl" jokes, the mud flats of the retreating Thames, and marshes. However, as I was barely into my double digits, all I saw was that we were on an adventure.

For the holidays, my sister Mimi came to visit, which was an absolute delight. Despite my utter lack of what some would euphemistically call spirituality, Christmas has always been important to me. It is the rituals: the baking of the cookies, the cutting of the tree, the same songs sung every year, the huge, sprawling family parties. So knowing that I would be away from home, I fretted. I wondered how I would fill that void where all of the old traditions would normally be. And then Mimi announced that she was coming over for the holiday. It was a relief, to say the least; wherever we went at least I had family with me. 

And so we went to Leigh-on-Sea, to visit the family in whose house we lived for a year. 

As the Thames tide withdraws, it leaves behind it acres of mudflats and stranded boats. Often we would see children playing footy in the mud, hundreds of feet out into the flats.

I don't want to be cruel, but the juxtaposition of that sign and the beach itself is sad, in a hilarious way. 

That Gatsby-esque green light is actually a fish and chips cafe, featuring the logo of a chef bumblebee.

Most of you probably haven't heard about the death of Woolworth's, popularly known as Woolie's. It is, or was, a UK store chain that sold everything from candy to toasters to hair dryers to movies. And now it has gone broke, and shall be no more. It saddens me; we came upon this Woolie's in the town centre and I felt a faint wash of melancholy. It was a staple of High Streets across England; not fancy or posh, but sturdy. 

Things change, I suppose, even in England. The church graveyard was no different; the tombstones didn't seem to have drunkenly slouched over any more than they had before. The Leigh Library was the same; I could see into the dark room on the top floor of what was once a Vicarage, into the room where we would sit for hours on hard wooden benches, reading French comic books. I remember, with a clarity that surprises me, being a young girl looking at an extravagant ivory wedding dress in the windows of a shop on the corner near the bakery where we would buy chocolate haystacks; now, if it is not the very same dress still in that window, it is certainly its doppelganger. 

But the house that we used to live in changed; there were new carpets and the shed in the garden was different. The room that Mimi and I slept in had a new set of closets, and the attic that had seemed so haunted at the time was now just small, dark, and ordinary. We had left a decade ago, and now were interlopers in a place that had been gradually changing without us there to notice it.