Day of the Louvre

After getting errands out of the way (going to the doctor and buying eyeglasses), our afternoon started with a lunch at a French-Italian cafe called Gigi, steps away from Avenue Georges-Pompidou in Levallois. The serveur was writing down the plats du jour on the board outside of the restaurant as we were going inside, and as soon as she finished writing the day’s special a few seconds after we sat down at our table, she placed the large board on the seat next to us, for all of us to see. I took a pizza vegetarienne while Terence took a Tandoori pizza, and Florence took a caprese salad. We enjoyed lunch as Italian food should be enjoyed– with bread and olive oil, water served in a wine glass, and lots of laughs and conversation. At the end of the meal, I have only finished 1/4 of my pizza, with 3/4 remaining. It was good pizza, one that I wouldn’t hesitate to take back home if I were in the States. Yet in France, a t0-go box is a foreign idea– literally, as for the French this is one of the telltale signs that someone is a tourist. I asked the two native French persons I was having lunch with if they would’ve taken a box had they not finished their meals. They replied with a full and certain, “non.” What if someone like me who doesn’t eat much orders a pizza that they can’t finish? Apparently everybody small or large have the same appetite that they can possibly finish same-sized entrees. So I managed to get the attention of the server and tried coolly in French, “Je voudrais a importer, s’il vous plait..” The server said, “Oui, oui,” which meant he understood my attempt at being French in the effort to balance the content of words, which can only come straight out of a tourist’s mouth.

After lunch and the purchase of the eyeglasses next door were over, we took our cameras and began our familiar walk to the metro station in Pont Levallois. Here in France, metro is not synonymous to train, as it is in Chicago. Metro is their subway system, which takes passengers to stops within Paris and just outside of Paris, while their train system is more extensive as it takes them far outside of the city and into the suburbs. We’ve taken both systems in the past few days, supplemented by walks along Parisian streets as we discover the city with the rest of the tourists and even Parisians themselves.

Our stop was Pereire, from which we took line 7 to the Louvre. As we walked out of the train stop, we were greeted by the sun glinting on the old royal buildings that make up part of the Louvre, and after a walk through a cobblestoned hallway, we saw the three pyramids that envelop the grand Pyramide en le Louvre. Snapshots here and there formed a collection of pictures that make up our impression of the great museum– it’s old, decadent buildings that are symbols of a monarchy long gone, its strive toward modernity as illustrated by the glass-and-steel composition of the pyramids. The Louvre is an example of an institution that celebrates its history while also embracing new advancements in the arts. Of course, as with any museum, it takes restoration of its historical buildings and monuments seriously, but it also allows for the creation of certain modern areas and wings to keep itself updated and relevant to a fast-moving audience that demands progress.

It was quite majestic, and some of the highlights included:

– Mona Lisa

– Virgin of the Rocks

– Madonna and the child

– Venus de Milo

– France/Liberty

– sculpture of the Three Graces

It took me back to a time when I was studying European history, and I was fascinated to see in person artworks whose meanings we studied, and previously I’ve only seen in thick, heavy and academic books. The sheer amount of artwork and artifacts that are at the Louvre is unimaginable, and its impossible to see them all. Even for most Parisians, there is always something new to discover at the Louvre, even if trips to the Louvre comprised their field trips in elementary school. It was an extraordinary experience, and beyond the exhibits, I tried to understand the Louvre as an exhibit in itself. An exhibit that houses multiple wings with multiple floors with multiple galleries. It’s a labyrinth, as complex and enmeshed as the jardins francaise, the crisscross metal lines on the inside surface of the pyramids. For someone who’s a writer and a thinker, there are definitely plenty of stimuli to activate the flow of creative ideas.

Before we left the Louvre, we made sure to stop by the bottom tip of the pyramid in the ground floor. We also took souvenirs and a book about the Louvre. Passing by the Carousel de Louvre, which consisted of boutique jewelry, home decor and clothing shops, we made our way towards the escalator that would bring us out of the dreamy museum and out into the streets of Paris, particularly the Rue de Rivoli, one of the most famous streets in the city.

The souvenir shops on the Rue de Rivoli were stark contrasts to the elegance of the museum across the street. Save for a couple of chain souvenir stores that have certain quality standards to maintain, the shops had goods that you would normally find in a bad part of town, tacky and dusty, with irate vendors who recommend product deals with raised eyebrows and without a smile. Hotels also line the streets, with doormen who show similar gestures but with completely different purposes– not of their irritation of obnoxious tourists who stroll and stall in their shops, but their deadpan come from their occupation with more important things such as servicing a clientele made of businessmen, celebrities and wannabes. The musty, dusty smell that waft out of the golden hotel doors were reminiscent of other eras, perhaps the accumulated smells of lobby potpourris, room fresheners, and perfumes of patrons from decades long ago.

Businessmen in American English converse with people features that suggest their Asian, African or European backgrounds, and in a place like the States, I would usually assume the other person speaks the same language with the same accent as the person they’re speaking with. In Paris, things are different, as I’ve seen persons of Asian lineage with the Western style of dressing and gesturing can speak something other than English, like French, British or Spanish. It’s a little more disorienting to hear more than two different languages spoken constantly on the same streets by people who you don’t usually see speaking a particular language. France, and Europe in a much  larger way, is the continental part of the world, possibly more heterogeneity than the neighborhoods segregated by culture in the States.

Several blocks passed until we get to the train stop we took to go home from the Jardin de Tuileries yesterday.  This was the La Defense stop, and we had to switch metros two more times before we got back home. We stopped by the Monoprix grocery stores to pick up some haricot verts, potates, filets de poulets and creme de champignons, ingredients I would need to make dinner. As soon as we got out of the store we saw Terence’s childhood friends, David, and we exchanged a few words in my interrupted French and his accented English. He’s studying journalism in college, and we connected through our familiarity of journalism methods, which we both discovered had similarities regardless of language or locale of instruction.

I laid out the ingredients on the counter in preparation for cooking, but first, I had to recharge myself with a cup of espresso coffee. I cooked a dinner of seared and herbed French potatoes, green beans, and chicken with brown sauce. We also had spinach salade to begin, salmon sashimi, and fresh pineapple for dessert.

The night ended with a small teapot and teacup of tisanne, a la Marie-Antoinette. Madelines and French cookies served as accompaniment, as the night calmed down.

A typical French Sunday

Early this morning, we woke up to sharp, thin rays of sunlight. The aluminum panes so common in French windows consisted of tiny holes set in a linear fashion, a line after another, allow for multiple rays to inject brightness into a dark room. Dashes and dotted lines of light. It was Sunday, a day of rest to which the French gives much importance, yet we had to hurry; we were to help Florence set up her yard sale post in a designated area somewhere in the city.

We loaded nostalgia items, trinkets, clothes, pens, table clocks and phased-out electronics into the car. Other things that we had to load included the foldable table and disassembled hanging rack on which we were to set the items for sale. These items were not hefty but they looked bulky and cumbersome when placed an old hatchback Renault car.

As we circled the city of Levallois, which was more like a modern village than a city, we rolled our windows down and extended our necks to peer down at the designated numbers written on the street gutter. Her stall must’ve been lost somewhere beneath piles of new and used items flooding the streets of the city. It’s incredible how a city yard sale can encompass the whole city, massive amounts of items, big and small, dark and light, cheap and pricey, radiated through the streets from all directions. Half of the city was practically closed down, cars cannot pass through and most shops were closed. The only spots open were the bakery and the church. All of which are typical in France where nothing is done on a Sunday.

The Opera and a movie

After the drinks at Cafe Cherie, some of the guys went with us for more sightseeing. We took about two metro lines to get to the Opera Garnier, the magnificent, gilded structure that once housed the height of arts and culture. The Opera was such an imposing structure on that block that the buildings beside it paled in comparison, only serving as contrasts that enables the Opera to reign. We also passed by Galleries Lafayette, one of the biggest department stores in Paris. In that area, there were a mix of shops, from designer to chain stores to boutiques. We walked a long while, possible more than 10 blocks, to get to a Japanese restaurant called Higuma. “See those trees in the horizon?,” Terence said as we were walking. “The restaurant is just around that corner.” I braved the streets walking in heels as I calculated the distance from where were stood to our destination. We crossed the street a few times, waiting for the lighted green man that was our signal to walk safely, and other times, we crossed without paying attention to the light– nonchalantly stepped into the streets while I frantically quickened my pace to avoid spontaneous motorcycles driven by crazed Frenchmen.

Higuma

32 bis Rue Sainte-Anne
75001 Paris, France
01 47 03 38 59

Quirky discoveries in Paris, Montmartre adventure

What was supposed to be an early start became a day of adjusting to Parisian time. The original plan was to wake up at 8 am Paris time, or 1 am Chicago time, to meet Terence’s doctor by Champs-Elysees. But I ended up waking in a dark room, after everyone had left, being woken up by a white Westie with a note by its foot. It was impossible to know what time it was given the lack of light. I quickly woke up and showered, in order to be prepared when we start exploring Paris.

French bathrooms are interesting. Here in France, toilets are usually separate from the showers, both of which are also separate from the tubs. In the States, toilet, shower and tub are all in one room, which is called the bathroom, while in France, all the elements are separate in different rooms. The shower area is tiny, but sufficient for its purpose. Glass doors in the French style, unlike sliding doors that we have in the States, kept the water in the shower area.

Lunch was almost the same as yesterday’s, with salad and bread, with the addition of poulet avec champignon francais, which was chicken sauteed with button mushrooms.

We caught the early afternoon metro that will take us to Montmartre. The Paris subway system is a labyrinthine confusion, which made me appreciate Chicago’s linear streets and straightforward Loop/”El” system. Looking at the Paris rail map, one would notice an ominous, overwhelming system shaped like a spider, with its legs stretched out, encompassing a span of neighborhoods. Exiting or transferring to another line is confusing since the exit of one rail line seem to be so intertwined with exits and transfer outlets of other rail lines.

What I like about the underground subway system aren’t the exits or the rails, but the ads in the underground. The ads are huge in size, almost covering a portion of a wall from ceiling to floor, and when set side by side to each other, look as though they are exhibits at an art gallery. The illusion of golden frames that border these ads make the form or presentation of the ad very much a part of the display, not just the content. Even in the underground, the French knows how to present ads like art.

Montmartre

Getting out of the subway station and into the sun-bathed cobblestoned streets of this artsy neighborhood was my first encounter with Paris. Bistro after boulangerie after creperie after bistro line the hilly Montmartre area, which reminded me a lot of Hubbard Street in San Francisco, with its narrow, winding, zigzag streets.

What I noticed about these bistros is how the people in the outdoor patio are facing the streets, sitting side by side each other with a drink instead of sitting across from each other and sharing a meal. In the States, chairs would be facing each other, with diners not minding what ever is happening outside of their respective meals. In France, being in a bistro is as much watching people in the streets as spending time with your companion.

We chanced upon a gelato shop, and got a small scoop of mango gelato. At the end of a narrow street, steps away from the gelato shop, there is an area where tens of artists and vendors sell artwork– caricature on-demand, string bracelets, aquarelles of the Eiffel Tower, sketches of Paris– under tents and umbrellas and sunshine.

Sacre Coeur

At last we got to the Sacre Coeur, a massive, white structure filled with stained glass windows. Twin domes on both sides add symmetry and contrast to the lines that make up the church. I lighted a candle from the donation box while inside the Sacre Coeur, for my grandfather who passed away in 2007, and gave a small prayer of gratitude for all that has happened that had led me to this point, to this place. It was immense gratitude to the forces that 10 years ago I was only a young girl on my way to the States, and now I found myself in Paris, the most beautiful of cities, in a church that was breathtaking, immense, awe-inspiring and filled with history.

French churches, and perhaps European churches in general, are opulent. A display of beauty and decadence, excessive and spiritual, public and intimate, sacrifice and surrender. The pews were hard, wooden and narrow, probably restored from decades, if not centuries, ago. There were no cushions to comfort bad knees, but inconvenient, makes you pay attention and more conducive to praying.

I entered one shop on the interior side of the church, then another, going past the books in multiple languages and beyond the small statues of patron saints who seemed unfamiliar to me in their translated French names. I found a few rosary bracelets that I like to keep as a souvenir for my sister, so in a mix of broken French and English phrases, with the help of Terence, we were able to purchase what I needed before we left the church.

Outside, the sun was bright and a lot of people were sitting on the steps, children running and adults were in awkward stances trying to capture the panoramic view of the city. Most were probably tourists, but it seemed as though everybody I encountered was a native because he or she spoke French.

The view of the city was somewhat low-key; I was more enchanted with the intricate pattern of the confession booths and detailed railings inside the Sacre Coeur than my first look of the cityscape. The buildings were unimposing, almost uniform in their height and color. Maybe it was due to my unfamiliarity of the structures, but nothing signaled a landmark, just as the New York or Chicago skyline would easily be recognized through the Empire State building and/or the Willis Tower, respectively. No building I saw gave it away that it was Paris. The Eiffel Tower wasn’t in sight, maybe because we were in a different vantage point, or it was far away, or I didn’t search for it enough. The buildings were close to each other, and imagining myself lost somewhere in there tickled my claustrophobia. At the same time, one knows that the indistinguishable structures only remain that way from afar; the beauty of Paris is that it tempts you to come inside, get closer, let go of your guide book, and lose yourself in the city.

To take in the sun, the view and the moment– what a lovely way to spend the spring in a lovely place like Paris.

After the Sacre Couer, we took the metro and found ourselves in a bistro called Cafe Cherie. A cliche name, but the French can get away with it. There we met Alexandre, Henri, Richard, and Adrian. It was my first few days in Paris, and haven’t really picked up on what to expect when the waiter comes– I knew how to order when I make the first move, but I couldn’t decipher what the waiter was asking. I assumed, in any language, that the first thing the waiter would ask is, “What do you want?”, yet the way the waiter asked prompted me to glance at the  Frenchmen with a puzzled look that signaled I needed help. They translated for me, and all I wanted to have was water, really. The waiter smirked at my tourist expression, and possibly even rolled his eyes. When he came back, he had beers for the boys and an expensive glass bottle of water for me. He could easily have given me tap water, which was safe to drink in a Western country like France, and charged me less, but this is Paris, where customers aren’t king and servers don’t bend over backwards to satisfy you. I poured the water from the bottle into the glass, raising my glass to meet beer bottles, and drank my water without any complaints. This is the first of the long series of stopping at cafes, ordering water in glass bottles to be drank in a glass with a lemon and a spoon.

A French bistro to end the night

When the sun finally set late in the night, it marked the start of a discovery into the streets of Levallois, a city characterized by modern apartments and charming boutiques right on the periphery of Paris. Small hatchback cars so common in European cities lined the cobblestoned Avenue Georges-Pompidou. Passing by modern apartments designed in a staggered and terraced fashion, along with a mix of older buildings with French railings hinted that I was in another city, far from Chicago or Los Angeles. I was in a different country, and along with the low-rise buildings, the way people walked and talked and gestured gave it all away.  A couple speaking in French leaned against each other as they walked in the streets; the girl was effortless in her capri pants and heels with a cotton scarf draped over her neck, while the boy and his leather jacket matched his brooding look.

After the walk, the first of many walks to acquaint myself with this city, a stop at a bistro was deemed necessary. Desperado beer and a glass of vin blanc were all it took to help me learn one of the most important phrases a visitor in France needed to learn– Je voudrais…, s’il vous plait (un verre de vin blanc).

The bistro was named after the post office, the landmark close to it.

Brasserie de la Poste

70, rue du Président Wilson
Levallois-Perret, Ile-de-France 92300

Intro to a French lunch

One of my first introductions to the French culture, after getting acquainted with the European airport system and the narrow roads that characterize France, was paved by food. Food is definitely makes a culture accessible, a crash course on how a culture and population nourishes itself. It is intimate and can establish rapport between two people versed in one language different from another, barely speaking a common tongue. Sharing food is also another form of communication that exposes the way in which one was brought up and what food was commonly eaten during childhood– can this person hold a knife to properly cut meat, how does he or she take out olive seeds, is this person intuitive enough to understand what the other person needs. In French culture, it is imperative that one offers water to the rest of the people on the table first, and serve them first, before filling one’s own. I think this was also common in my childhood when my whole family used to eat together and observed table setting and seating.

First, we started with a tuna salad made of tuna chunks, lettuce, cherry tomatoes and olive oil. We had baguette, thin slices of pizza. A cheese plate followed afterward, composed of cheese I’ve only heard but never really paid attention to before: camembert, roquefort, leerdammer, and so on. Dessert followed, and instead of something terrible saccharine, we had a selection of yogurt and rice pudding.

In the States, among the things we do independently, is to eat alone. Given the demands of work, and schedules filled with activities that must be attended to, families rarely have time to eat together. One would serve his or her own plate directly from the pan on the stove; this was a no-no when I was growing up. The only plates that meet the pans on the stove were huge serving plates from which everyone in the family can take food, paired with a serving spoon or fork that must be used over one’s own silverware; no exceptions. Even if we eat together in front of the TV, we are alone in our own spaces, tuned together to an external piece of electronic that we have welcomed into our dinner. In France, the dining table is there to be used for eating, not for display or as a counter on which to set porcelain or other decor.

The act of eating presents everyone’s vulnerability to each other. We are helpless when chewing a piece of meat or when we shove a fork full of salad into our mouths. I think that perhaps, naturally, as human beings, we prefer to eat in the comfort of solitude, when we can express ourselves without regard, without having to abide by certain table rules. Sharing food, though, is another story. It is social and convivial;  it is revelry, a celebration of grace.

Toward the afternoon, after finishing a call with a recruiter from the States, I had an espresso in a short cup, as well as French cookies and madeleines to go with it. I sipped from the cup and looked toward the window, the soft light of the sun lay calmly over the streets, and will not set until later in the night– a sign of an afternoon that invites us to relax and enjoy, after all, we’re in Paris.

First day in Paris

We flew into Paris as the day was just starting to breathe life into the place. It was with sleepy eyes that I welcomed Paris, and its response was a rather nondescript acknowledgement of my coming. This was my Parisian welcome, or lack thereof; I was the eager girl excited and anxious to get acquainted with another, only to receive a curt welcome in a less fancy fashion than expected.

We got off the plane after a long while of gathering our belongings from the overhead bins and fidgeting with our passports. My first step into French soil was not foreign, nor entirely familiar. Airports have a way of making you feel as if you never left the original location, regardless of the hours you spent in midair, flying across countries, cities, and bodies of water. Yet I knew by the moves of the persons I encountered, the breathy language and peaked syllables that I was in a different place.

Waiting in line with non-EU citizens to get our passports cleared was a straightforward experience, compared to the hoops we seem to go through in Asia. The French officer took my passport without a smile and stamped it with such muster I thought the ink might have splashed across a page. I opened my passport as soon as I he handed it back to me, and I almost missed it, flipping through every page of the book only to find the faintest brown marks on the second stampable page. It didn’t even say Paris or France or CDG, it was just like a date stamp given by a French tourism employee.

Interestingly, there was a new kind of connection I felt, toward fellow Americans with whom I waited in the baggage claim area. We were all displaced for a moment in time, outside of our comforts and natural habitat. In the States, I’ve always felt like I’m from somewhere else, never from the same country or city as the people I interact with. Now I felt deeply a kind of solidarity with Stateside people, we are all foreigners in this place. For those brief moments, I looked to them for comfort, the face of a stranger with a familiar accent and predictable gestures. It was only when I stepped out of the country that I felt we were all from the same place, regardless their state or race.

The French people, culture and language is an altogether different animal we must take on and understand.

Walking through Charles de Gaule was like walking through an airport within the United States. The surroudings didn’t feel like I was in a different country at all. Even the advertisement didn’t seem to have changed much; the characteristic Accenture ad was there, with its banner-like proportions, and the last thing I noticed about the ad was the change in language used for the copy. I wondered why it took a while to eventually realize I was in a different country, then I realized that I’m essentially in the same part of the world; I never left the West.

We walked the length of two terminals to get to the parking lot, and observing people in this airport was like observing a continent– although they spoke French and had unmistakable French chic, both men and women alike, something in this airport subtracted a bit of their being French. They are not French in their own country, but rather they were Europeans in an international airport. CDG is designed in such a sleek way that there’s no memorable area, it’s functional that it blends into the background, an escalator structure facilitating in human flow and bridging nowhereness to a destination, which is how most airports should be like.

We took the elevator to the floor where the car was parked, and the memorable aspect of the airport finally came. The elevators made electronic sounds akin to a note in a classical music composition. The sound sounded like a stylized human voice reaching a musical peak, or a high pitched organ key, or even a wind gust passing through a crack producing a syllable that made its way in a cold glass. There was a reverberating coolness in that Laura treat, gesturing toward a French spring.

Springtime in France is perfect, just as they said it will be.