I wake up and the sky is gray. We are stuck in traffic. The digital clock at the front of the bus says 9-something. Mr. Obnoxious next to me (who, as you might recall from Part 1, likes to shush people) is having a very loud and intense conversation with someone who is probably his girlfriend. Poor girl. I feel like shushing him...but I don't. I'm just a nice guy I guess.
Friday, 11 AM. Finalmente, we reach our hostel--Hotel Caulaincourt--at the bottom of the hill atop which the famed Montmartre sits (although we don't realize this yet). We check in; the manager waives the charges for the previous night's "stay"; we meet the two girls with whom we will be roaming around--one who is a long-time friend of Jo's from back in Philly, Laura, and the other, Lindsay, who is a friend of Laura's from their study abroad school in Spain; we don't sleep; we hit the city.
We find a restaurant that does not look cheap and I have the most delicious omelette of my entire 19-year experience on this earth. The spirit of that Omelette Mixte visits me when I eat out at American breakfast joints and I can't help but cringe at the sight of our greasy-imposter-omellettes. Snobby, I know.
After topping off our tanks and pushing the trip to Belgium out of our minds, we go in search of Notre Dame via Metro. I know nothing about Notre Dame, and when I see it from afar, I wish I did. It is stunning; elaborate; seductive. The sight of it triggers my internal adventurer spirit--the trip begins. Awareness of cold and wind and rain and tiredness fades completely.
Throughout my time in Europe I have found myself unaware of the history of the places to which we are traveling and the sights we are seeing, and often I have felt guilty, regretful, and even shameful. I am so grateful to be exploring Europe yet I have not known the natures of many of the places we have explored and often I have felt unworthy of the experience.
Here in Paris I realize that there are legitimate reasons for this ignorance--preoccupation with school, lack of exposure to the world beyond U.S. borders, poor recall of knowledge learned in high school geography and history classes--but despite these, this realization of ignorance is a lesson in and of itself, and perhaps many lessons. Once we learn to travel we can become individuals who travel to learn (a valuable lesson learned from a monk named Patrick Duffy, a "character" in Blue Highways).
Lesson one: when I travel again I will do my research because the experience becomes so much more affecting and valuable when one does this. Lesson two: I will forgive myself when I do not do my research, because life can be busy, time can be limited, and because any experience is better than none if one is open.
Construction of Notre Dame, which means "Our Lady" (referring to the Virgin Mary), began in 1163 but was not completed until roughly 180 years later. Because it was built during a period of widespread illiteracy, the cathedral's many portals, paintings and stained glass works retell Biblical stories. It sits on the Ile-de-la-Cite', eneveloped by the waters of the Seine, and is able to accommodate 6,000 worshipers. In 1768 it was decided by geographers that all distances in the whole country of France would be measured from Notre Dame, and in many ways it is still considered the center of France.
If Notre Dame could speak, it would have many stories to tell: Before leaving for their holy wars, crusaders prayed here; polyphonic music matured here (definition, polyphonic: producing many sounds simultaneously; many-voiced); during the French Revolution it was pillaged and desecrated; it was dedicated by revolutionaries to both the cult of Reason and the cult of the Supreme being; it was used as a warehouse for food storage; it was here that Napoleon crowned himself and his wife emperor and empress. In the 1800s, Victor Hugo, the writer of The Hunchback of Notre Dame (The original title being Notre Dame de Paris--an anticlerical, anti-aristocratic work of French, historical romanticism) raised awareness of the terrible physical state and high artistic value of the cathedral, which led to a 23-year restoration beginning in 1844.
. . .
Inside we are comforted by the cathedral's warmth and restfulness. The only light sources are chandeliers and natural light setting the stained glass aglow. Although the building is large and the nave reaches great heights, it is welcoming rather than overwhelming, which is much more than I can say for Santa Maria del Fiore, the cathedral in Florence. We take our time wandering every nook and every cranny. We find a chandelier that is about 9 feet tall and 7 feet wide hanging a few inches from the ground in a tent-like metal structure, perhaps waiting to be restored. Later we find an electric nativity scene with a crowd of confused-looking people standing in front of it. Below a stone screen of Biblical characters being revealed again and again by swirling, billowing colored lights stands a large screen on which animated clouds move across a bright blue sky at different speeds. Below this, Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus sit in a field of lights, slowly twinkling like moonlight reflecting off of a swelling sea.
We find a cafe to shelter ourselves from the incessant winds and penetrating cold and order some hot wine to go around. From inside this typically Parisian cafe, I gaze out the window at a bridge spanning the Seine and reflect on where I am. There probably aren't any genius writers or painters seated next to me, waiting for the night to come and cast a spell of debauchery on us all, but this is Paris nonetheless. Eighty years ago this would be the case, but I'm excited anyway.
Despite the showers of icy globs of rain and the dancing trees twisting and bending and lashing the chalky skies outside, I want to go...somewhere, anywhere. We head for Sainte-Chapelle. Again, I know nothing of the history of this place--I've never even heard of it--but it has been regarded as one of the architectural masterpieces of the Western World.
On our way to Sainte-Chapelle we pass a small gothic church called Sainte Severin that is completely engulfed by buildings. In the spirit of spontaneous exploration we decide to go inside. What we find is one of the strangest things I have ever seen--inside or outside of a church. The building is small and filled with chairs rather than pews, and there are only a few people milling about. It is quite dark inside except for a bit of light filtering through the stained-glass, emanating from candles and several spotlights shining on frescoes. And then there is the main attraction, which is a wide-eyed female mannequin in a white robe, arms stretched upward towards a turning disco ball, standing in a herd of neon-colored paper animals and people. I don't think it's necessary to write more on this subject.
We finally find Sainte-Chapelle, which means "Holy Chapel," buried by other buildings on the other end of Ile-de-laCite'. We pay four euro and enter into a tiny chapel with low ceilings. Every wall and pillar and arch is covered in dark blue, red or gold and busy patterns of fleur-de-lis's and star-like shapes, resembling dusk and night skies: I felt like I was trapped inside a royal stationary box. The room is empty except for tables along one wall that are cluttered with souvenirs, and we immediately wonder what must be so special about this place that it cost four euro to see. We see others walking up narrow staircases that are somewhat hidden behind us in the corners of the chapel in the same wall as the entrance. We all let out a big, "Ohhhhhhhh!" and climb a narrow spiral staircase, waiting for the suspense to be over.
We emerge from a tiny doorway at the top into the upper chapel, an oval-shaped room supported by extremely narrow 50-foot columns, between which stained-glass panels depict more than 1,000 religious scenes. The columns, walls and ceiling resemble those in the lower chapel. The top of the staircases are jammed on both sides with open-mouthed tourists. Security guards ask us all to keep moving and we slowly and silently nod 'yes' without breaking our gazes. We are hypnotized by this nearly-hidden kaleidoscopic womb.
The chapel is lit by the blue glow of the stained glass panels, a dozen gold chandeliers, and by an immense rose window depicting the apocalypse in 86 stained glass panels, which we finally notice above and between the staircases behind us as we turn in circles in place like all the other tourists, jaws still hanging open. Other tourists are seated in flimsy plastic folding chairs circling the perimeter of the chapel, reclining, heads hung back, hands constantly moving through the air in front of them, quietly pointing out detail after detail to their fellow travelers.
Once described as a "gateway to heaven" by the devout in the Middle Ages, Sainte-Chapelle was built by Louis IX in 1248 in order to house what was believed to be Christ's Crown of Thorns and other relics (including a supposed piece of Christ's cross)--purchased from the Emperor of Constantinople. The lower chapel served as a worshiping place for commoners and servants while the upper chapel was reserved for the royal family. Whether above or below, worship here at Sainte-Chapelle must have been a truly intimate and spiritual experience. Even in retrospect, this is the most beautiful work of architecture I saw during my whole time abroad.
(Video at bottom)
It is dark in Paris and we've got our hearts set on visiting the Louvre. We see a Starbucks on our way there and the girls juice themselves up. It's strange to me that Starbucks is so popular in a city known for having great coffee--both stories of the place are packed with Parisians--but then again, they've got some crazy drinks with crazy amounts of sugar that taste crazy good and get you crazy hyped up. What more could one want?
(2 videos at bottom)
We glance over the map and have no idea where to start. We spend hours navigating and exploring the never ending coil of rooms. Then we go in search of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. The surprisingly small 30.3" x 21.7" painting hangs on a wall all by itself, protected by a 1.25" thick glass enclosure that is constantly kept at 43 degrees fahrenheit and 50% humidity. In front of the painting there is a constantly large, chattering, amoeba-like crowd. The setting is incredibly awkward and not the least bit intimate. If I had my iPod, were listening to the song "The Gulag Orkestar" by Beirut, and were standing front and center, I might have been able to create a memorable moment with the Mona Lisa. Next time.
~
For effect: "The Gulag Orkestar" by Beirut . . . copy and paste to listen . . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UJX0QpkhhU&feature=related
~
We move on and find the hall where Da Vinci's other works are hanging. It is much less crowded here and we take our time examining the entire room. I look for Jo and KIm and find them seated on a bright orange circular couch looking exhausted, and then it hits me: I am also exhausted, and the soles of my feet (which are squished into "cheap" Italian boots) feel like they might split open any moment. We haven't had a good night's sleep since Wednesday night and now it's Friday night. It's time to turn in and call it a day. . . A very, very good day. Outside we see a bright light atop a blue spike flashing in the distance like a light-house. I watch this while Jo and Kim take pictures and it hits me--that is the Eiffel tower.
"JO! KIM! THAT'S THE F*%#$N EIFFEL TOWER!"
1 comments:
This made me want to go there...immediately. You describe everything so beautifully. Thank you for a trip I have not yet taken, but will soon, I hope. B.R.
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