Paris, day 7

4 avril 2010
Paques (martin)
St. Eustache

Mass at St. Eustache with Jessica who got adoring glances towards her white sundress on the metro ride [under] the river. Wearing white on Easter Sunday must be a tradition most native to those of us on Angle Terre…

Giddy about..life, about blushing on subways and the joy of sanctity inside this Holy congregation, we clutch our candles and wait. I write:

The organ is behind our heads.
This church is a garden on Easter –
of Light, blooms of [years old] chandliers
and votives.
My hand is heavy;
memories, crisp and beautiful martin de Paques
gold and ivory.
Red on my chest
White on my shoulders,
organ piping behind my head..
Past meets everything present and
future. Alas (that gonging organ!)
The Church is restored, and
an effervescent garden of
light and fire.

___________________________

Nuit:

Lights dim in St. Eustache.
Travelers gather the crusty plastic souvenir bags by the handles and meander to the exits. It is sunset now; the presence of the Holy falls like dust and ashes of incense on the empty chairs…next to me in the quiet murmur.

There is so much touche’ in Paris! (European, period) Mothers, daughters, and Father time together at the altar. (A visitor teaches her daughter a polite kneel..) “When you are young, it is very easy to keep in contact with people,” says a passerby collecting leftover literature from the abandoned seats around us. This was the first Frenchman interested in our Anglais heritage. “Louisiana” was his favorite state to visit. *insert winky smile* “When you are old…not the same.” Touch. Keeping in touch.

When people meet or greet or kiss, they linger, here. Couples embrace with a devotion to the moment. A couple exchanging a greeting of “paz” or peace during Eucharist utterly poured gratitude onto each other from a wellspring I haven’t seen enough breaking the surfaces of muddy human bounds. Kisses. Whispers of thanks and peace to God and to one another.

It is the anthem. It is everywhere. J’aime. ❤

Paris, day 6

2 avril, 2010

Le Pantheon | Sugarplum Cake Shop | Louvre

Good Friday.

Strolled throught the isle de Seine upon waking and venturing out. Just passed the Notre Dame on St. Michel is the higher-end shopping district and home of St. Eustache…I’m thinking about going back for Easter mass…

Danielle and I stepped ito the rainy afternoon bound for Le Pantheon – my study topic. Take the metro, transfer twice, down Rue Cardinal, and despite the setbacks beneath the city’s transit, this worked in the end. Peak at street level and walk until you find what you’re looking for, that’s really how it works. Freezing cold. Classically Paris.

I should note: today was my first experience of many of the Sugar Plum Cake Shop, Paris. In our less-than sure of where we were heading hike up Rue de Cardinal Lemoine, a little purple Easter Bunny cake sitting in a shoppe window made me double take and then reconsider going in for further interest. We had found the Sugar Plum Cake shop. “Well Hi There!” Thinking…”Bon-jou—wait…did I just *imagine* that..?!” Laurel, shop owner and South Carolinian native ushered the two of us into her boutique – showcasing delicate cupcakes and even denser velvet cakes behind the display window. Plum-colored walls, and the same aubergiene upholstering on the chairs tucked into five or six family-sized antique tables…white dishes…I immediately feel all kinds of in love with this place!

Laurel had been living in Paris for 15 years, married to the “bloke” who owned the pub down the street, with two kindergarteners as adorable a she. After having her children she desired a new adventure, and with the Kitchen-Aid mixer she had received as a wedding gift, she created the establishment we were experiencing. It had only been open for six days.

We arrived six days ago.

This happenstance made. my. day.

Pantheon loses its limelight, we returned to the Sugarplum for a pot of Anastasia tea, a gold-dusted brownie and a blueberry muffin. The sun came out and I stopped to smell the roses at the corner flower store (the most luscious colors and smells in terra cotta pots you’ve ever known).

Big Mac au Francis at the Louvre tonight. I never eat McD’s but a French McD’s is certainly a grande exception, right?

Paris, day 5

1 avril 2010

St. Eustache | Versaille | Cafe di Conti | and some preaching

Made French toast [from real “french”] this morning. Have been collecting brochures, maps, literature to send home. Need timbres..

Visited St. Eustache just across the Seine…blocks away, really. (It’s actually sitting atop a huge underground mall…) This tugs my heartstrings today; it is my favorite cathedral thus far!

Paris is a city of kisses; I once read a poem that said a “kiss is a trick designed by nature to use when words become..superfluous.” Paris is a city full of kisses. I have no words to describe the fullness of these things for which I am writing to you.

I had a craving for some hot , thick soup at lunch, where, for which we wended through Rue de Conti to the corner Cafe de Conti, the recognizable Lucinda Handwriting on flamboyant red, vinyl awning…

Fresh bread arrived on our table from the patisserie down the street, sliced and then devoured by three insatiable American pallattes. Soon thereafter followed the aromas of soupe a l’oingnon, soupe de legumes, and a ham omlette sandwich laden with goooooey emmental cheeses (we cannot figure out the American equivalent for this amazing cheese!) Oozy sunny-side fried egg on toasted bread topping a green salad. (yeeeah, and THAT was just Katie’s dish. haha)

I love the cuisine, so much.

Determined to find Julia’s kitchen and Le Cordon Bleu.

Went to Versaille on a sudden whim to keep up the momenteum of checking “must see in my lifetime” spots off of my to-do list. Very lavish and so overwhelming with tourism! The stories and rumors and history make it so exciting to see. Hall of mirrors is jaw-dropping. I stand in the corridor where walls reflect centuries: Treaties signed, global politics over decadent desserts, war and peace. I see Jack and Jackie O’ Kennedy, Reagan and Margaret Thatcher…Fred Astaire…Napoleon…Louis himself…and Marie. I add my feet among the millions who have walked here. Just…Cool.

Nearing the end of our stay at Versaille we sat with sore feet on the ancient granite cobblestone and watched, in amusement, the funny French pigeon locals tossing around a knob of crusty bread (profiterol-esque) that a man had thrown away. That was all. Just, volleying around potential energy..and we were laughing so much at the ridiculousness of the sight! Like beating a pinata hoping to get something substantial off of the endeavor, but it just wouldn’t give. They soon gave up and waddled away when the epiphany hit me, “It has to be broken.” I stomped and crushed and pulverized the crumpet to redeem it’s useful purposes..and the birds feasted. “Aw, you made them happy,” Danielle said. It was then that I remembered the weight of this metaphor, the significance of breaking bread, the significance of this season of Christ, broken for us. The bread must be broken [and we,] to eat of it. It is almost Easter.

C’est bonne vie.

Paris: day four

31 Mars, 2010 | Notre Dame | Saint Chapelle | Louvre I

Much lighter on the feet, this a.m.

Traversed to the isle to visit Notre Dame for only a moment before Saint Chapelle for a scheduled tour.

How far back in time must I go to find these world-renowned landmarks exterminated of the term, “tourist?” Restored and alive? No longer are these places of worship, reverence, education, and humility; and it does sadden me to see GOD’s house as (turned into merely) an afternoon house of entertainment for our short attention spans.

So much tourism.

Alas, I am a tourist in this foreign land.

I believe Notre Dame to be most glorious in its facade, and in its foundation on the isle at the epicenter of Paris. (We pointed our twenty, some-odd walking shoes at the bronzed plate embedded in the stone courtyard of the cathedral from which all miles into the country were marked, once upon a time…)

I love the blue in the windows, but the light is fixed so high that much of the aisles and chapels are rather dim; interestingly enough. Very grandiose. My desire to stand beneath massive structures to feel so small (like Alice in Wonderland…minus potions and dreams..) beside columns reaching up into heaven’s domes as high as the sky…has been fulfilled today.

I have wanted to exist in one of such cathedrals since I took the ever eye-opening art history class with Saul.

Oh, if he were here… (*ha*)

Noted happy trivial thought: Africa missions and support posters hung at the doorway in French.

Saint Chapelle was gawdy(ier than expected) but perfectly balanced with the magnificent display of windows piecing stained glass light into the chapel sanctuary. I wish I could’ve seen a mass gathering there in its time. I think the entire monument (reliquary, actually) was only available to the government and clergy of the Renaissance, however.

Delighted! (about) My first Crepe avec Nutella! Absolutely exciting and tasty. Such a good stand to stop at , too (behind Notre Dame), very smiley and fun crepeteer flipping out crepes. I’m noticing that the international residents of Paris are considerably more welcoming and willing to help Americans out in the city than the Parisian locals.

Louvre at noon –
Overwhelming amount of artwork to see. Kind of like thumbing back and forth for weeks through your art history slides to familiarize yourself with every piece…but in this instance, one’s perception is narrowed; there are but a few steps (and a thousand other people,) between you and that piece of learned history.

Rather than take pictures of…pictures…I’m trying to capture the things about the art history that I cannot see in “pictures.” Paint strokes, fabric folds, enormous canvases belittled in the post cards I will buy. I could spend a whole day alone in the hall of Italian Renaissance.

Just, to know, how close I am to the work of history making (talent) (revolution) (innovation) behind the brush..

Mona Lisa nearly missed me. Da Vinci didn’t care for it, so, I don’t expend my efforts fighting the crowd of tourists armed with cameras, but I do encircle the room of Tintoretto’s and Veronese’s that seemed a bit neglected at the time.

I want to find Julia Child’s kitchen, and Le Cordon Bleu.

Using up my wheat loaf for french toast in the morning.

Quote in my head, “God is around. God turns things around.” (Psalm from The Message) I think of my friend from our plane trip, the nameless highschool French teacher, who recalled to me her own journal pages from her first trip to Paris, “[Laugh] I was so bitter…” and I thought for a moment, will I say the same in retrospect?

I am worried, and scared, and bitter –

If I weren’t, I would look straight passed all of the buzzing people and see only the contraposto beauty of Venus…

Paris: day three

30 Mars, 2010 | D’Orsay | Les Invalides | Musee’ de Rodin

Memories of jelly rolls and Dad, for breakfast. ( I didn’t even remember the joy of having ‘jelly-rolled’ toast until I did it this a.m….)

Going to Rodin museum and to Napoleon & sons’ tomb site.

Green and rainy today.

I enjoy the Marche de Fruit e Legumes from around the world. Fresh Basil from Israel sparks a grin..

Donnehoo explained to me that the food, here, essentially costs more because it is generally of better quality to begin with. Our typically overly-processed foods are packed with preservatives, made available in “Jumbo,” quick-get-and-go accommodations, are rather unnatural. My body has realized the change from one nation’s grocery diet to another. Bitter sweet thought, isn’t it?

There is no peanut butter! I’ve seen tons of jellies, of fruit and sugar, but no peanut butter. “Chesnut Spread,” may be close, but no cigar. Nutella, the crepe community poster child, is the closest bet.

Bought my first loaf, demi, of wheat bread from Paul’s. SO excited. I know that I will look back at these words and laugh, gasp, feel disgust in some way for naivete and ignorance. Learning Francais.

Today. Was. [exhausing].

Musee D’Orsay until 11:30, commuting the ten blocks there and back. Renoir moves. Rodin, Monet, Manet. One Cassatt. D’Orsay = falling in love with sculpture. Thinking of Michelangelo, “The figure existing in the block of uncut marble…” until it is released into the brilliant light of purpose and existence by the hand of the artist. A concept that I adore.

Musee’ de Rodin en apres-midi. Deep. Gorgeous, intimate stones. I most enjoyed the figures that were so intertwined into a breathtaking lace of hands, fingers, kisses…and the tension! Entombed in the still-frame of stone, frozen emotion, completely captivating. Bravo, for cracking into this stone, Auguste. I’ve fallen in love with sculpture like never before.

Missing yoga and hoping to find resting place to practice. Not much happening mentally today – lots to see and do and yet, little to say. All I want is to get out of the hum-drudgery of the busy, bustling city to see the countryside. Peace. Quiet.

Good morning, by the way.

Paris: day two

I am finding myself singing Beauty and the Beast as I wend through the massive feet of Eiffel’s tower. “This really is a ‘holy sh*%’ moment,” Rushing admits.

Donnehoo insisted that we learn the ins and outs of the metro system – supposedly infinitely more manageable than other modes of mass transit in NYC or D.C. We began our morning at the fresh market: Marche de fruit e legumes. Note: Must purchase a seed bread loaf soon.

Fantastic apple for breakfast! Of course, a misted, open-air market apple in Paris (a dewy, wet morning) beats an apple from Wal-Mart, U.S.A. any day, right? I’m feeling like a righteous idiot with the language barrier, but I’m learning. Actually, I’m celebrating every stroke of english pen and syllable of English dialect I hear on the streets. Stayed up into the wee hours conjugating verbs in the lobby…

Hummus, Greek yogurt, and blood orange juice de Sicilie from the grocery store made for, roughly, a ten euro shopping trip. International favorites. Had lunch (tearing a baguette to scoop up olive-oily hummus) collectively eating more French words and phrases with Katie, Danielle, Rushing, and Jessica, my roomie.

At 1:00, the group headed out to the metro, embarking into the city from Louvre-Rivoli, Arc de Triomphe bound. Tired, we trod through l’apres midi avec Donnehoo to “one last statue,” or so he assured us; “We just need to see one more statue…” A French Revolutionary and his noble steed saluted us at street level, mounted ostentatiously above the crowd of tourists. A bit confused – wanting of explanation – we placated until we heard, “Look where he is looking.”Just…being me…I look at the horse’s expression for an answer. My smarter half turned towards the horizon beyond the soldier, 180 degrees, to discover the Eiffel staring back at us. It really was a ‘holy &h!*’ moment.

We walked forward, beneath it, where gads of tourists awaited a trip to the top, and for an ice cream cone, even.

( **Every time I hear these foreign sirens whirring caution, I wonder where Jason Bourne is. **)

Donehoo treated what group remained to the “best gelato in the city.” Gorgeous sage green pistache’ and deep, dark chocolate so rich that my delight reflected on its shiny dollop.

Now, I sit with my feet propped in holy knee socks, resting by the open window in 1420. Blood orange and indigo color my table setting. Thinking about the high school French teacher I met on the plane to Paris.

She recommended an international wedding ceremony
and made me consider becoming a language teacher.

Paris: day one

27 Mars 2010

My favorite Amelie track hums behind door 1420 in the Latin Quarter’s Citadines apart’hotel. My first handshake with the City of Lights came with a rush of new smells and sights that retain a consistent tint of frosty grey, rain or shine. Cliche lingers in the air – a soundtrack fluting along – an audible ticking of history (sweet history!) with every greeting between our twenty-first century feet and the story-telling cobblestones.

O’ the places we’ll go…

I had my first Pork (note: not “ham.”) and cheese on baguette from Paul’s. Tough on the teeth. Consuming the new smells of France coupled with the fresh taste of the food – the cheese, Oh, the cheese – is making me queasy.

Beautiful view from our third-story loft.
Foggy day.

Paris has the fast-paced mechanics and tourism much like that of New York and Boston, combined. I am looking forward to getting away from the expected, to find treasure hidden behind the facade of the city life. I want to get to the country, into a Caillebotte frame, where Monet’s swatches color the grass to the sky.

It is a beautiful view.
[If you were never aware of what was around you…]

Cafe au lait for jet lag, s’il vous plait.