Paris, je t'aime

I'm just back from my last time in France for an unspecified period. I had so much to say while I was there, so many descriptions of things planned out in my head, waiting for the inevitable creation of this blog. And somehow they've all been reduced to fragments again. But I'll try.

We flew into Paris on Thursday, in accordance with the expiry date of my visa. Our usual hotel hadn't been offering discount rates this time, and would've put us on the wrong side of town anyway, so we'd reluctantly booked a different one, and I have to admit I was a little disappointed when we checked in. The hotel was under renovation, and although the room was impeccably furnished - the usual selection of French channels and fuzzy CNN were presented on a flatscreen TV this time - the hallway was still pretty torn up. And I couldn't help but make comparisons: "our other hotel has bigger rooms", "our other hotel has a fan in the room", "our other hotel has a bigger window with a better view". (If you ever go to Paris in the summer, you'll know how important space and air truly are.) But it wasn't that bad. I lay down on the bed while Lui went out to get some bottles of water, then down to the lobby to iron our clothes for the evening (he wasn't allowed to bring the iron up to the room) with what he reported was a several-year-old, barely functional machine. By the time he got back, it was time to turn our sweaty, traveling selves into classy French tourist-locals.

Binga arrived just as I was trying to figure out how to secure the belt on my cheaply made but oh-so-classy red dress, and I was somewhat relieved to find that she, with all her fashion-consciousness, couldn't find a better way to manage it than I could. So I prepared for a night of tugging on the end of the belt, as it would repeatedly be coming loose every time I sat down or breathed, and we left.

I have to say, and this may be a little mean, that I am constantly amazed by the fact that Binga has never been mugged or attacked in the streets (of France). She speaks English so loudly, stands in the street looking around so cluelessly, and is so generally vulgar, I just find it surprising that she hasn't attracted attention as a prey-worthy tourist, even if she does actually live in France. Of course, it did happen once that she made herself a target, but unfortunately, I was with her that night, and it was my bag that was torn from my hand, while she looked on dumbfounded.

Still, it was good to see her again, as it's good to see all ex-roommates after the "I hate you for not cleaning the kitchen" period has passed. And last time I was in Paris, her boyfriend had suddenly broken up with her less than an hour before my arrival, so this trip found her in much better spirits than the last. The three of us walked to where we would be having dinner, at the Café des Deux Moulins (of Amélie fame). Unfortunately, the new owners of the place have taken out the Tabac counter, to make room for more tables, so the scene isn't exactly as it was in the film. (For instance, in the film, there isn't a giant, signed Amélie movie poster hanging on the wall.) But the bar is the same, and the toilets are the same - and so incredibly filthy that it makes the raucous sex scene even more enjoyable.

I wasn't planning on drinking - we were all so dehydrated, and Lui and I had a bottle of champagne to look forward to - but Binga ordered a peach kir, then Lui said to make it three (I don't even like peach kir), and so the two of them ended up splitting most of mine. For a simple brasserie, however, the food was fantastic. Lui had filet de boeuf (fillet steak), Binga had magret de canard (duck), and I had piccata de volaille (some sort of flattened chicken, that may not have really been chicken, as "volaille" just means general "fowl"). But what I was most impressed with was the little salad that came on my plate: layers of iceberg lettuce, tzatziki, and apple slices - something I never would've thought of myself, but will definitely be making now. God bless the French.

We had dessert (I got the requisite crème brûlée), paid and left in search of the epicerie (produce stand) from the same film, which was only a few short Parisien blocks up the road, but couldn't find it; it was late and most things were closed, and none of us could remember whether our waiter had said to turn right and it's on the left, or to turn left and it's on the right. So Lui and I said goodbye to Binga, then headed over to the Moulin Rouge.

We waited in line for what seemed like forever, and eventually found that there was no reservation list and that payment would be taken at the table during the show - they claim the thing sells out nearly every performance, so why let people walk in off the street and possibly take the seats that others have called ahead for? But we'd gotten there early enough to not only get in, but to get really good seats: close, but not too close, and right by the waiters' station. Some people would be annoyed by this, and a woman at our table blatantly was, but I thought it was fascinating to watch the staff carrying bucket after bucket of champagne, or to overhear them making fun of their tourist clientèle (it's good to understand French), so I really didn't mind that my view was occasionally impaired. It's not like there weren't enough boobies to go around.

Don't get me wrong, the show itself was really entertaining, and I did appreciate the multitude of boobies. What I didn't so much appreciate was the multitude of anorexic-chic bodies on the stage, and Lui even remarked that not many of the boobies were very sizable. At least I now know how far I want to go in my "must lose the belly" resolution: not that far. But the music was catchy, the costumes were fantastic, the talent was so far above and beyond anything I could ever dream of doing... It was a truly captivating show, which I know sounds cliché and sort of stupid, but can I really describe something like the Bal du Moulin Rouge in words? No, no I cannot. And cameras were strictly interdits. (We did go back to the boutique the next day and buy a 30€ book of photos; I just couldn't justify walking away from something as once-in-a-lifetime as the Moulin Rouge with nothing but memories that I can't even describe. Unfortunatly, the entractes - the acrobats who held each other up by their heads, the juggler, the weird guy who brought people up from the audience and made them do a scene - aren't in the book.)

The show ended just after one a.m., and we thought we'd get a taxi back to the hotel. But, as is the case with late nights and big cities, the illegal taxi drivers outside the theatre wanted 35€ for what would amount to a 15-minute walk in painful shoes. So we walked back to the hotel, had sex quickly (because, hello, Paris, cabaret show, you kind of have to), and fell asleep outside the covers, the window wide open to fight off the heat.

The next morning, as I said, we went back for the book, then had an hour to kill and so decided to check out the Musée de l'Erotisme (Museum of Erotic Art). It was interesting, to say the least: some of it laughable, some of it tasteful, some of it completely tasteless, and some of it kind of hot. As usual, I was drawn most to the black-and-white photography and simple drawings, which I guess is what you get for spending some time as an art model. On most floors (there were seven), comment books had been left open for visitors to sign, and most visitors had either drawn funny cartoon penises or gone on about how turned on they were. I can't honestly say that the museum really turned me on - I checked with Lui, he agreed - but it was a fun way to kill the afternoon, and I can now say that I have a thing for the work of a certain erotic artist (named Barbé), which is so much cooler than loving, say, the Impressionists.

I have to admit, I like Paris more every time I go. On my first visit, I was 15 and a non-French-speaking tourist, required to do all the required touristy things. When I next went back, six years later and speaking French, it just seemed too big, too full of people picking up on my accent and answering me in English. But it's gotten better since then: it's all about going places where the tourists don't go, or going places where the tourists do go and quickly and forcefully establishing yourself as not one of them. (I think my accent has improved as well, which probably helps.) It's about accepting Paris as Paris, and not trying to make it into somewhere quaint and French and able to be claimed as one's own. Anyway, I've already claimed another French city, and I'd hate to cheat on her with her promiscuous bigger sister.

After our tryst with the museum, we collected our bags from the hotel, walked to the nearby Gare de Saint-Lazare, and caught our train to Rouen.