I Laughed, I Cried, I Tried to Speak French
My last day in Paris before chunneling
home
I Laughed, I Cried, I
Tried to Speak French
On my final
day, I stored my luggage at Gare du Nord and went to the Pantheon. It's the
coolest place in Paris. Literally. The stone crypt underneath the structure
devoted to the Great Men of France (i.e., no broads) is nice and cool. My hero,
Emile Zola, is entombed next to Father of the Year 1863, Victor Hugo. I read a
history of the "controversial" inclusion of Zola to the crypt, as his pro-truth,
anti-racist defense of Dreyfuss made him a national pariah on many levels. I was
all verklempt.
I found some of those
Paille D'Or biscuits Edward likes -- filled with raspberry jam -- en route to
lunch with Ms.
P.
Femme de
Mystere
I met Ms. P and her
Prince Charming at Bir Hakeim, and we had lunch. Of course, the waiter was rude.
This was not the gay restaurant of the other night, after all. Unlike New York,
not all waiters in Paris are gay.
Ms. P
is a former co-worker who hails from Alabama, and met and married a Frenchman.
So she got engaged during the company's holiday hiatus, announced her
resignation, and lives the dream of every American girl and some gay men: Find a
rich prince and run off to Europe. Believe me, I'd do it to. Where do I sign
up?
My own idiotic fantasy involves an
industrialist from Umbria named Fabrizio, who needs me to move to his piazza to
help raise his motherless children, Livia and Claudio, and yell at the servants
nonstop. In the evenings we'd have friends over, and discuss why Gore Vidal
refuses my invitations. I'd yell at the servants in the kitchen and offer
everyone some more wine, and spy the children watching us from the balcony,
because what romantic fantasy doesn't involve a balcony, after
all?
Meanwhile, in real life, I am
sweating up a storm in a green Hawaiian shirt on the metro while American kids
scream their heads off and all I can think it, "In France, where do they sell
duct tape?"
After lunch, Ms. P and her
husband returned to the Enchanted Cottage and I went to the Louvre, after an
unsuccessful and hot schlep to L'Orangerie, which would entail an hour-long
wait. It might have been the Jardins des Tuileries, but it felt more like Planet
of the Apes's desert scenes. The Louvre is overrun with every known tourist
group. I weaved and bobbed through people in five languages. I discovered that
saying "Scusa" at a highly exasperated level works on everyone but Japanese
tourists. I am saying "Scusa!" in their ear, and they are looking around and not
moving.
Diagnosis: Paris in Summer is New
York in Summer, but cubed.
After escaping
the Louvre, where I only looked at the Victore de Samothrace, her dismembered
hand, and a hall of Roman imperials (where Antonious is openly recognized as
Hadrian's "favorite" -- Hide the Children), I headed for Place de la Bastille. I
visited 3 rue Keller, where the gay and lesbian center is. The president and I
spoke at length about the Centre and how America is okay on gay adoption but not
marriage, and in France it is vice versa. The whole domestic partnership issue
has brought out every bigot in la France to loudly declare that homosexuals are
all pedophiles. Apparently, the discussion of sexuality has just really begun,
whereas before, it was sort of accepted in a "don't ask for your rights and we
won't tell you what to do" sort of
way.
The French still have to work on the
Egalite part.
And so I left Paris at
18h19 on the Eurostar. I really did love wandering around Paris, living from one
bottle of Fanta to the next. I learned to accept Evian in the face of no
alternatives.
I laughed, I cried, I
tried to speak French.
Posted: Fri - October 28, 2005 at 02:46 AM