Two Days in Paris
When I went to Paris for the first time in 2004, arriving there in the late hours of a warm evening in July, one of the first things that I happened to see, moments after stepping off the Metro at the station in Pigalle, was a male prostitute in drag. He (or "she," or whatever other term is currently regarded as most appropriate and most correct in making reference to such a person) was standing alone on a corner in the dim light of a side street, wearing a short skirt and clearly seeking to attract a nocturnal customer.
As I quickly surveyed my unfamiliar surroundings, trying to determine which direction to take, I gingerly made my way past the transvestite streetwalker, being careful not to stare. I courteously nodded in greeting, while grinning to myself. (An awkward, unbecoming grin that, while utterly harmless in itself, must be acknowledged as being decidedly less than cool on my part.) Then I turned to my wife, who was walking beside me (also grinning, also decidedly less than cool), and said, "Honey, did you see the outfit that person was wearing?"
We had arrived in France after a long day and a stressful journey. We started in the morning, across the channel in England, where we had been staying at a hotel in Liverpool, near the River Mersey. From Lime Street in Liverpool we had taken a train down to London. We then spent the later part of the afternoon and the early part of the evening amidst the crowded madness of Heathrow Airport. After missing one flight to Paris, because of an unforeseen delay in our departure from Liverpool, we had succeeded in getting two seats on a second plane.
Our luck changed for the better once the plane landed. Somehow, with the use of a map, a smile, and the handful of French words that I still remembered from high school, I was able to solicit necessary information from several Parisians at the airport, who kindly offered their assistance. I finally got us onto the right train from Charles de Gaulle Airport to Montmartre. We had reserved a room in the Hotel du Moulin, a small hostelry on Rue Aristide Bruant, a few streets away from the Moulin Rouge, in the 18th arrondissement.
When we awoke the next morning, we decided that our first destination, after we had refreshed ourselves with a light breakfast of tea and pastries at a local cafe, would be the Musee du Louvre. On our way to the museum, we caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. It stood at a distance, coming into our excited view as we came up the steps from the Metro, near the Place de la Concorde. At that moment, we knew for certain that we were in Paris. We also stood on a nearby bridge and beheld the stately waters of the Seine.
For several hours, we wandered, wide-eyed and completely awestruck, through the extraordinary halls of the Louvre, getting brief looks at the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, and other renowned works of art. My wife, who has a longstanding interest in ancient Egypt, particularly enjoyed having an opportunity to spend time among the impressive displays in the Department of Egyptian Antiquities. We could easily have stayed in the museum for a week without ever being bored, but we were on a tight schedule and had to leave too soon for our liking.
After our morning in the Louvre, we headed toward the Champs Elysees in the afternoon. We eagerly joined a moving throng of tourists on the famous boulevard, repeatedly turning aside to poke our heads into the doorways of shops and bakeries, until at last we came to the Arc de Triomphe. Standing in front of its regal splendor, we rejoiced at being two footloose visitors in the City of Light. We then went back to the Hotel du Moulin, having seen as much as we could see in one outing, and ended the day by watching game shows on French television.
On our second day in Paris, we treated ourselves to a leisurely walk down the length of the Boulevard de Clichy. From there we allowed ourselves to ramble for most of the afternoon. We sauntered through the narrow streets of Montmartre, passing Sacre-Coeur Basilica. We frequently stopped, marveling at what we saw and taking many photographs, feeling as if we were two characters in a French film. Everything around us was touched with bold splashes of color and charm, bestowing the bright appearance of an Impressionist painting to the Parisian sidewalks.
The next day happened to be July 14, Bastille Day (la Fete nationale), an annual occasion on which the French citizenry celebrates its lively tradition of rebellious freedom, but unfortunately, we could not remain any longer. We had to pack our bags and get ourselves to the airport on that day, to board a flight back to the United States, so we were unable to join in with the public festivities. We went home in a happy frame of mind, however, filled with an honest affection for the people and the sights of Paris, along with a strong desire to return.
As I quickly surveyed my unfamiliar surroundings, trying to determine which direction to take, I gingerly made my way past the transvestite streetwalker, being careful not to stare. I courteously nodded in greeting, while grinning to myself. (An awkward, unbecoming grin that, while utterly harmless in itself, must be acknowledged as being decidedly less than cool on my part.) Then I turned to my wife, who was walking beside me (also grinning, also decidedly less than cool), and said, "Honey, did you see the outfit that person was wearing?"
We had arrived in France after a long day and a stressful journey. We started in the morning, across the channel in England, where we had been staying at a hotel in Liverpool, near the River Mersey. From Lime Street in Liverpool we had taken a train down to London. We then spent the later part of the afternoon and the early part of the evening amidst the crowded madness of Heathrow Airport. After missing one flight to Paris, because of an unforeseen delay in our departure from Liverpool, we had succeeded in getting two seats on a second plane.
Our luck changed for the better once the plane landed. Somehow, with the use of a map, a smile, and the handful of French words that I still remembered from high school, I was able to solicit necessary information from several Parisians at the airport, who kindly offered their assistance. I finally got us onto the right train from Charles de Gaulle Airport to Montmartre. We had reserved a room in the Hotel du Moulin, a small hostelry on Rue Aristide Bruant, a few streets away from the Moulin Rouge, in the 18th arrondissement.
When we awoke the next morning, we decided that our first destination, after we had refreshed ourselves with a light breakfast of tea and pastries at a local cafe, would be the Musee du Louvre. On our way to the museum, we caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. It stood at a distance, coming into our excited view as we came up the steps from the Metro, near the Place de la Concorde. At that moment, we knew for certain that we were in Paris. We also stood on a nearby bridge and beheld the stately waters of the Seine.
For several hours, we wandered, wide-eyed and completely awestruck, through the extraordinary halls of the Louvre, getting brief looks at the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, and other renowned works of art. My wife, who has a longstanding interest in ancient Egypt, particularly enjoyed having an opportunity to spend time among the impressive displays in the Department of Egyptian Antiquities. We could easily have stayed in the museum for a week without ever being bored, but we were on a tight schedule and had to leave too soon for our liking.
After our morning in the Louvre, we headed toward the Champs Elysees in the afternoon. We eagerly joined a moving throng of tourists on the famous boulevard, repeatedly turning aside to poke our heads into the doorways of shops and bakeries, until at last we came to the Arc de Triomphe. Standing in front of its regal splendor, we rejoiced at being two footloose visitors in the City of Light. We then went back to the Hotel du Moulin, having seen as much as we could see in one outing, and ended the day by watching game shows on French television.
On our second day in Paris, we treated ourselves to a leisurely walk down the length of the Boulevard de Clichy. From there we allowed ourselves to ramble for most of the afternoon. We sauntered through the narrow streets of Montmartre, passing Sacre-Coeur Basilica. We frequently stopped, marveling at what we saw and taking many photographs, feeling as if we were two characters in a French film. Everything around us was touched with bold splashes of color and charm, bestowing the bright appearance of an Impressionist painting to the Parisian sidewalks.
The next day happened to be July 14, Bastille Day (la Fete nationale), an annual occasion on which the French citizenry celebrates its lively tradition of rebellious freedom, but unfortunately, we could not remain any longer. We had to pack our bags and get ourselves to the airport on that day, to board a flight back to the United States, so we were unable to join in with the public festivities. We went home in a happy frame of mind, however, filled with an honest affection for the people and the sights of Paris, along with a strong desire to return.