You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Paris’ tag.
Paris has any number of tree-lined boulevards; many are relics of Napoleon’s Empire where a large military and a grand architect reigned. Georges-Eugene Haussmann was charged with rebuilding Paris after the revolution. Much of the design that today immediately screams “Paris” to me is Haussmann’s vision. I suspect he advocated for grand boulevards so that the buildings themselves could be better admired.
Napoleon just needed a street he could parade an army though.
Still other boulevards have entirely different origins. The Boulevard Richard Lenoir is among the widest of the streets in the city. The reason is that it actually runs over the Canal St. Martin. The canals were also a Napoleonic era installation; built to bring drinking water into the city. In the end, they were also found to be useful in circumnavigating the low bridges and many twisting turns in the Seine River.
St. Martin remained an open canal for years, until rioters in the eastern side of Paris began to use it as their moat. Defending only the bridges, they were able to prevent law enforcement from entering in sufficient force to quell the violence in their section of the city.
In 1906, a 2 kilometer section of the canal was covered by a vault. The underground chamber, when you enter it, is eerily quiet. It is lit only by skylights; open shafts that vent into the center of the boulevard above.
Each day when I left the apartment I was staying I crossed the two northbound lanes of Boulevard Richard Lenoir, a wide walkway, a garden path a petanque court, another sidewalk and the two southbound lanes on my way to the metro stop. I was also crossing the canal running underground.
Just north of where I was staying the canal emerges from its underground vault to a series of locks that eventually raise it to street level. Here swing-bridges carry auto traffic across at regular intervals. Lovely arched footbridges cross even more frequently.
On my first morning in Paris I walked the neighborhood north of where I was staying. I crossed these footbridges several times in my wanderings through this funky neighborhood.
On my last full day in Paris, I rode the length of the canal; from underground at the city center, emerging to views these bridges from an altogether different perspective from my first day and continuing past to the outskirts of Paris proper.
It was an accidental choice; based mostly on what required the least amount of walking, the least effort. In the end, it may have been my favorite tourist activity.
The Ponts des Arts is a footbridge across the Seine. Located just West of Ile de la Cite, the bridge offers a lovely view of the oldest part of the city of Paris.
At night, I am told, it is a particularly romantic venue.
I was told that by an Italian.
No surprise there.
I asked for it, I suppose.
I was looking at the railing of the bridge as I crossed it. The railing is hung with hundreds of padlocks. Since the bridge runs adjacent to the Institute of Paris, my first thought was that graduating seniors donated their school padlocks. Overhearing a more extensive conversation about the locks, I turned to ask the international couple behind me.
“Quelle est l’histoire?”
What is the story?
That’s when I was told that the bridge at night was quite romantic; that lovers come here and, as a symbol of their love, write their names on a padlock and clip it to the bridge.
Awwww!
Not students as I had thought; those finished with their school lockers and eager to move on. Lovers; inspired to leave a lasting symbol of their love; of their unbreakable commitment to each other.
Somewhere in the conversation, the gentleman I was talking to switched to English. It was only then that I detected that he was, in fact, Italian.
As he continued on about the padlocks, he shrugged and said that the locks will, no doubt, last longer than the romance.
Who would have thought I would have found the least romantic Italian in the world strolling across a footbridge in Paris?
I wrote earlier, in A Step in Time, about the stairwell in the apartment building in which I was staying. I neglected to include a photo.
In the photo below you can see the replacement pieces on each tread. Though this particular staircase lacks the grandeur of the Opera house, it has its own brand of beauty, I think.
The end of the tour at Palais Garnier dropped the group off amid a collection of former costumes. A couple of my favorites are below. Alas, I no longer remember for which shows they were used…
OK. So it was mid-day, but getting me to the opera is a feat unto itself, so you have to give my tour guide some points regardless of the time of day.
We took a guided tour of Palais Garnier late one Saturday morning. Much to my surprise, I found myself craving a return to see the theater come to life; to see it in its glory; hosting a performance. That’s how fascinating the building itself is.
Built in the late 19th century, this ornate stone building is still host to modern dance and ballet performances. Though we didn’t see a live performance, its wonderful architecture is also art. Entering the tour below the orchestra seating we climbed into the spectacular lobby including both the petit foyer and the grand foyer; Garnier’s “outer theater”‘; the space where Paris society came to see and be seen themselves. In this, he created high ornate ceilings, a grand, balcony-lined staircase and a lovely mirrored hall.
Although they are now electrified, the lamps you see were once gaslamps. It was the state of the art at the time the building was built. Even then, each gas port had to be hand lit. Imagine this grand staircase lit with a thousand flickering gas-fed flames and you can begin, then, to imagine how this became the setting for Gaston Leroux’s fictional Phantom of the Opera.
Our guide led us into the theater itself; into a hushed chamber, with velvet seats and a horseshoe of gilt-outlined boxes. The box to the far right was designed to be for Napoleon the Third, although he never used it. The stairwell that was to be the private access for the emperor is, in fact, unfinished. The stairs remain, but they are ungilded, untiled, undecorated. The theater was commissioned by the emperor, but completed in 1875, after the empire fell.
Recently repainted, the Chagall ceiling depicts scenes from a number of operas. Vastly different from the style of the rest of the building, it is much loved by some; reviled by others.
Either way, as you sit in the orchestra seats, if you close your eyes you can begin to hear the sounds of the orchestra warming up and a hundred years of voices chattering as they take their seats.
“To market, to market to buy a fat hog;
Home again, home again, jiggity jog”
Well I didn’t actually go to market to buy a fat hog…just fois gras, cheese, fresh baguette and wine. I ended up with seltzer and fat-free yogurt.
And so a vacation ends; home safe and sound, with the beast curled up at my feet and my computer in my lap.
Today I pack my bags for the return trip home. With just a metro ride, a train, two flights, customs, immigration, a cab ride and a 7 hour drive ahead of me, my vacation is coming to an end.
La vache!
In many ways I am ready. My feet are tired, and my wallet is empty. I miss my own bed, although my accommodations here have been lovely. I miss my dog…and there is no replacement for that.
In other ways I am not. My French has improved, but not as much as I would like. On another visit I will have to stray further from the city to see a bit more of France. I still have a few more adventures to write about, but that will have to wait until my return.
Au revoir, Paris.
Do you speak French? Do I?
The truth of the matter is that, given time to compose my thoughts into something contained within my limited vocabulary, I speak pretty well, if a little formally. Already on this trip, and several times on previous visits, I have been sent to join French-speaking groups by well-meaning receptionists, who, with only a limited exchange are fooled by a decent accent.
At least on this, most recent occasion I was able to respond with “Non, non, non. Je parle un petit peu, seulement” (“I speak only a little”.)
On previous occasions, my initial response has been “Huh?”; not understanding enough of what I was being told to debate the merits of joining the tour in French.
For someone who has not studied French in decades, my French is better than you might think; providing you think I have forgotten it all. While, in terms of pronunciation, I am probably ahead of the curve for most students of the language; my vocabulary is limited, my grammar is highly suspect and my ear for the language is truly abominable.
For my accent, I have Soeur Marie Celeste to thank. Her careful instruction in the language included not only the proper conjugation of irregular verbs, but patient practice in wrapping my American tongue around French r’s and u’s. It also included the occasional, less than patient, grabbing of my face to re-tune the noise it was making. I am sure even this cherub-faced nun could no longer get away with that, but I am grateful for her intense interest and high standards now.
Of course there are drawbacks to a decades-old education from a rather stodgy high school. The lectures I attended in the good sister’s precise, clipped, formal French were not perfect practice for the French heard on Paris streets. I have difficulty with both the speed at which it is spoken and the use of slang, to which I was never exposed.
I do much better with other “French as a second language” speakers and on safe, well-taught subjects, like the weather and walking directions. Out to dinner with a group of folks earlier this week, I understood much of what the German woman said in French compared to the native Parisians. When talk around the table turned to an animated discussion of inside-Paris politics, I was completely lost.
It should also be noted that the little French I speak is very formal; too formal. As I used in the title above, I consistently choose “vous”, literally the plural “you”, but also the formal choice when speaking to a stranger or someone more senior or experienced.
I use “vous” with my sister.
It is the downfall of formal education; that, and the fact that I don’t know how to cuss.
The Eiffel Tower, now the premier symbol of Paris, is a relatively new addition to the skyline here. It was built between 1887 to 1889 for the Centennial celebration of the French Revolution and a World’s Fair. It was to be a temporary structure that would serve as an entrance to the exposition grounds. Only it’s usefulness as a radio tower saved it from being removed following the fair.
Once considered an eyesore by many, today it is quintessentially Paris. Pictures of it are included in every travelers photo-journal. Postcards abound. Nearly everywhere that you can buy a postcard, you will see at least one with a series of photos taken at different stages of building. You can even purchase a flip book that, as you flip the pages, essentially creates a film of the construction.
It’s disconcerting at first to see this iconic landmark in stubby incompletion, but as an engineer and real estate junky, the process of creation holds a certain fascination for me. Now I am rather used to seeing the great tower without its familiar cupola, at least in old photos.
The photo below, though, is more recent.
It is my first glimpse of the landmark from early in my visit.
I realize that having the luxury of both an extended visit in Paris and the hope of returning again, so that not everything must be crammed in this time around, is the stuff of dreams. I do, indeed, count my blessings.
That said, after 9 days afoot, I am a bit road weary; or should I say sidewalk and metro weary. My shoulder bag has begun to feel a bit like an anvil around my neck lately. Even though it is the same bag I carry every day at home, in Paris it becomes heavy with a guidebook and city map, a book of French verbs, a shopping bag, my camera and mounds of change in two currencies. Today, I added a hat, gloves (well to be fair, it seems to be only one glove at this point…) and an umbrella before launching out.
It’s a miracle I made it out the door, what’s more found my way to several more museums and a cafe (or two), but I am a veteran now.
I have been on walking tours in Ile de la Cite and Montmartre. I have visited Sacre Coeur, Sainte-Chappelle, and Notre Dame. I have taken a tour at Palais Garnier; strolled the Canal St-Martin, the Seine and the port of Paris. My pockets are lined with ticket stubs from Palais du Tokyo, Musee Carnavalet, and, of course, le Metro. I have window shopped the Marais, Place Vendome and the Champs Elyssees.
I cannot count the miles I have wandered.
This morning I headed out with the intention of seeing Musee Rodin and Musee d’Orsay. On the advice of a local, I went to Rodin first. The lines there are shorter, and you can buy a ticket to both museums at the same time; saving at least an hour in line at Musee d’Orsay.
Two museums in one day is a stretch for me. Two museums and two lines for museums is a non-starter. Plus, it was cheaper to buy the tickets together. It does set you up for a bit of overload, though.
I should have realized that I was hitting the wall when, staring at the clay studies Rodin did for a statue of Balzac, all I could think about was how much Balzac looked like Captain Kangaroo.
Recent Comments