When I got there, the line was already long enough that I would be waiting three hours. This was very frustrating to me, as it was the one thing I REALLY wanted to see in Paris. I appreciated my time wandering around the city though, and waiting in that line would have taken precious hours that I did utilize in a productive way.
Once I realized that I didn't have enough time for my friend Claude, it struck me that no matter how short the line at the Louvre was, it would be silly to only spend two and a half hours there. So I walked down the Champs-Elysées. It is an enormous expanse of gravel, pavement, and trees. I was amazed that a city with such a large population would continue to leave all of this valuable space to the pedestrians, but it is in keeping with the feeling of Paris in general. Somehow the whole city is in tacit agreement that certain space must be alloted to certain things; the size and grandeur of the Louvre must be situated beside an empty space. A twenty minute walk of expansive emptiness, large enough for a children's soccer practice.
Having been foiled yet again, I headed to Montmartre to see the views and the Basilique du Sacrè Coeur. The basilica sits atop a hill, towering over the city. From the Pompidou, it was as visible as the Eiffel Tower, but more beautiful.
The basilica is lovely inside, but it reeks of money. Along with the sound of voices murmuring, people "shush"ing each other, the clank of coins is a part of the constant din. Before the statue of every saint is a box to donate to their cause. From 1875 there has been constant prayer in this church, day and night. Apparently it was built using funds from donations from good Catholics like the ones I witnessed, contributing their money for the "constant adoration of the lord".
But what of the woman kneeling before the door, with her hand outstretched, saying "please" in more languages than I could recognize? I assume she is Muslim because she was wearing hijab and I wonder if that she was in front of a basilica caused the lack of interest of passers-by.
The ten people who I witnessed walked in before me barely glanced at her, let alone went into their pockets to donate their funds to a fellow human despite the fact that moments later they'd be dropping bills surreptitiously into a box in front of a statue. The irony was painful for me, especially because I had no one with whom to share the crazy situation which confronted me. On my way out, I gave some change to the lady who was kneeling at the exit with a photograph of her and some children in a visibly impoverished place.
It was very strange.
The neighborhood of Montmartre was lovely as well. Taïs and her mother lived there, I'm not sure how long ago.
Heading back to the flat to grab my bag, I was happy to catch Taïs's mother. I can't explain how welcoming she was during my entire stay and how comfortable I was there. For a few days, it felt as much like home as Prague does to me by now. However, there was something nice about returning to my soviet-style dorm, the good old Kolej Komenského.
I regret not making it to the Monet exhibit or the Louvre, though not for lack of trying. The long lines exemplify the one thing I didn't like about Paris. Prague is not very crowded, only sometimes in the really touristy places like Old Town Square or Wenceslas square. Paris is more like New York: most boulevards jammed with people, lots of tourists, the metro riders packed like sardines.
Though Nuit Blanche was a great light in which to see the city, it stressed the sheer number of people living in and visiting Paris. However, I may not get the chance again to see it from such a local point of view as I did this weekend, thanks to Taïs. I was able to see Parisian apartments and to traverse neighborhoods with those who lived there. Being with Taïs before she left influenced my comfort with navigating the city. She was also very good about explaining things to me, both historically and practically.
For those who don't know, Taïs and I met this summer when she was visiting New York. Meeting her soon after she arrived, I enjoyed sharing my city with her and showing her how a native negotiates with the cultural and physical landscape. What a perfect cultural exchange. If only my French was as great as her English...
No comments:
Post a Comment