DSCN0653
Originally uploaded by Decepticons Attack!.
9.5.05
Notes from Paris, Final
Our last day in Paris was like standing in the center of a rushing whirlwind, as the debris from the streets were picked up and spun around in large circles. Although we were in Paris to check stuff out, we were also there to collect data for L's thesis. She is a graduate student in sociology, and her paper is about urban exploration, or the subculture that arose from individuals exploring urban spaces deemed "forbidden." In Paris, there is a group known as "cataphiles," or people who explore the network of catacombs throughout Paris. Unfortunately, the catacombs are closed until June, so on our last day, after waking up as earlier as possible, we went our separate ways. L went to the catacomb's administration to ask questions, and I went off to finish the bookworm tour. After seeing Ezra Pound's and Gertrude Stein's flats, plus Hemingway's first flat in Paris, I checked out some of the restaurants the Lost Generation frequented, including the former Dingo Bar, where Hemingway and Fitzgerald met for the first time.
We met up later in the morning (the administration office was closed too, poor L) we nibbled on some tartelittes and took the metro to Notre Dame, which we climbed earlier, to check out the archaeological crypt just below the cathedral. The remains are displayed in situ, or left in their original position when they were found by archaeologists. The crypt had Roman and some very early medieval remains of streets, buildings and even a early home heating system! A furnace pumped hot air through ceramic pipes laid throughout the house, thus heating all the rooms during the winter. Very clever. I suggest to those interested in history and archaeology to visit this museum. We mysteriously got in for free. L met this interesting guy, who studied the Paris Commune for many years and had finished a DVD on the lives of one the Commune's heroes: Michelle Louis, or something like that.
After the ruins we took another train to a "sewer tour", a section of the sewer cordoned off for tourists. L knew that urban explorers also went into sewer tunnels, so she wanted to see how this part of the city is presented to tourists and locals alike, and how that presentation differs from the sewers as a "playground." This was my first time in a sewer. Sewers, as I imagined, smell terrible. Worse than a litter box in August. The Parisian sewer did not fall short of my expectations. Regardless, there is a strange beauty to the rusting pipes and darkened tunnels. The colours are very earthy, like multiple shades of brown (stop giggling) and green that meld together like a abstract painting. Coupled with the mysterious elements (as L and were taking a picture of a tunnel, we noticed a small pinpoint of light coming towards us, then suddenly was snuffed out. I was very creeped out) I can understand why people become enchanted by this kind of space.
I should also mention that L picked up some books in Paris related to her topic. And for a fraction of the price!
We did do some shopping. For mustard. But before that, we hunted in second-hand stores that sold cast-off designer clothes. We were not successful for two reasons. One, L found nothing she really liked. And two, even though the items were second-hand, they were still designer clothes. Sure, the clothes were, at times, 70% off their original price, but if the original price was 2,000 Euros, then, well, it can be beyond a student's budget. Just as we were going out to get mustard, fancy mustard no less, we had to dodge a torrential downpour that suddenly appeared. We ran from awning to awning, and took brief refuge in a men's clothing store. The owner invited everyone in, although when he saw me he detained me and jokingly said, "expect for you, sir!" I laughed and he patted me on my back as I walked into his shop. I love the French.
Our last stop was Museé D'orsay, and we finally got to see some of the most important Impressionist paintings from Renoir, Cezanne, Monet and Van Gogh. Stepping into the galleries was like visiting a sacred church that people make a pilgrimage to, and when I arrived I was in awe of seeing the complex brushstrokes that made their work come alive. I can't believe I crossed an ocean to just to look at some paintings up close and examine the movement and blending of paint on a canvas that is older than me, or anyone I know.
To wrap up, we caught our flight the next morning. I. Hate. Flying. The take-offs and the landings are the worst. My stomach shoots into my skull or plummets to my ass whenever the plane soars up or down.
Now I'm back, and that means I have to run some errands and go to work. Luckily, I like work at the moment. Enjoy the pictures.
We met up later in the morning (the administration office was closed too, poor L) we nibbled on some tartelittes and took the metro to Notre Dame, which we climbed earlier, to check out the archaeological crypt just below the cathedral. The remains are displayed in situ, or left in their original position when they were found by archaeologists. The crypt had Roman and some very early medieval remains of streets, buildings and even a early home heating system! A furnace pumped hot air through ceramic pipes laid throughout the house, thus heating all the rooms during the winter. Very clever. I suggest to those interested in history and archaeology to visit this museum. We mysteriously got in for free. L met this interesting guy, who studied the Paris Commune for many years and had finished a DVD on the lives of one the Commune's heroes: Michelle Louis, or something like that.
After the ruins we took another train to a "sewer tour", a section of the sewer cordoned off for tourists. L knew that urban explorers also went into sewer tunnels, so she wanted to see how this part of the city is presented to tourists and locals alike, and how that presentation differs from the sewers as a "playground." This was my first time in a sewer. Sewers, as I imagined, smell terrible. Worse than a litter box in August. The Parisian sewer did not fall short of my expectations. Regardless, there is a strange beauty to the rusting pipes and darkened tunnels. The colours are very earthy, like multiple shades of brown (stop giggling) and green that meld together like a abstract painting. Coupled with the mysterious elements (as L and were taking a picture of a tunnel, we noticed a small pinpoint of light coming towards us, then suddenly was snuffed out. I was very creeped out) I can understand why people become enchanted by this kind of space.
I should also mention that L picked up some books in Paris related to her topic. And for a fraction of the price!
We did do some shopping. For mustard. But before that, we hunted in second-hand stores that sold cast-off designer clothes. We were not successful for two reasons. One, L found nothing she really liked. And two, even though the items were second-hand, they were still designer clothes. Sure, the clothes were, at times, 70% off their original price, but if the original price was 2,000 Euros, then, well, it can be beyond a student's budget. Just as we were going out to get mustard, fancy mustard no less, we had to dodge a torrential downpour that suddenly appeared. We ran from awning to awning, and took brief refuge in a men's clothing store. The owner invited everyone in, although when he saw me he detained me and jokingly said, "expect for you, sir!" I laughed and he patted me on my back as I walked into his shop. I love the French.
Our last stop was Museé D'orsay, and we finally got to see some of the most important Impressionist paintings from Renoir, Cezanne, Monet and Van Gogh. Stepping into the galleries was like visiting a sacred church that people make a pilgrimage to, and when I arrived I was in awe of seeing the complex brushstrokes that made their work come alive. I can't believe I crossed an ocean to just to look at some paintings up close and examine the movement and blending of paint on a canvas that is older than me, or anyone I know.
To wrap up, we caught our flight the next morning. I. Hate. Flying. The take-offs and the landings are the worst. My stomach shoots into my skull or plummets to my ass whenever the plane soars up or down.
Now I'm back, and that means I have to run some errands and go to work. Luckily, I like work at the moment. Enjoy the pictures.
8.5.05
Add up events to build a day-pyramid
Tomorrow morning, as a promise to myself, I will write a good and proper update.
Got royally hammered with R last night, then made it for Free Comic Book Day with C. That same afternoon saw me in Chilliwack for L's mom's birthday, now I'm home to prepare for the week. I get to keep all my classes, and. . .well. . .I have good news, but that can wait until the next update.
Got royally hammered with R last night, then made it for Free Comic Book Day with C. That same afternoon saw me in Chilliwack for L's mom's birthday, now I'm home to prepare for the week. I get to keep all my classes, and. . .well. . .I have good news, but that can wait until the next update.
2.5.05
Haiku/Sketch
Café de Flore, sidewalk under maple tree
waiter points at my foot resting on stool
says, "monsieur, s'il vous plait."
waiter points at my foot resting on stool
says, "monsieur, s'il vous plait."
Notes from Paris 3
Passed by the yard behind the train station, the train cars were like long, silver snakes, glistening in the sun, lolling in the gravel under a discarded heap of metal and glass in a garden.
Sacré Coeur
The church is entirely composed of arches, linked together like sweeping brushstrokes. It is a strange mix of faith and commerce; tourists stroll around the church's interior while the pious sit in the pews or at the alters, whispering private prayers. Their presence can startling. One almost stumbles upon them as one casually examines the statues and mosaics, reminding the tourist that this is indeed a living church, rather than a museum.
We wandered into the Museé Picasso, and it was free! I gawked at Picasso's work, from his early material to his cubist period, than into his later years. Also saw pieces from Cezanne and Bacon. What's left: Museé D'orsay, shopping, and the remainder of the bookworm tour. And the Parisian depths! We will be exploring crypts and sewers too.
Sacré Coeur
The church is entirely composed of arches, linked together like sweeping brushstrokes. It is a strange mix of faith and commerce; tourists stroll around the church's interior while the pious sit in the pews or at the alters, whispering private prayers. Their presence can startling. One almost stumbles upon them as one casually examines the statues and mosaics, reminding the tourist that this is indeed a living church, rather than a museum.
We wandered into the Museé Picasso, and it was free! I gawked at Picasso's work, from his early material to his cubist period, than into his later years. Also saw pieces from Cezanne and Bacon. What's left: Museé D'orsay, shopping, and the remainder of the bookworm tour. And the Parisian depths! We will be exploring crypts and sewers too.
30.4.05
Notes from Paris 2
I'm still a little tipsy as I write this, the level of difficulty is compounded by this alien keyboard, so I will do my best.
We never ended up at the Picasso Museum, that's for another day. No, we ended up at the Louvre. I gotta say, never before have I seen such a magnificent homage to Western civilization. All the classics, acknowledged as inspirations for modern society on this side of the globe, were there in all their preserved glory: Egyptian, Greek, and European. All the pieces were displayed in massive, nausea-inducing halls, adorned with rich murals and relieves. I was dizzy most of the time. I spent a good ten minutes staring at the Mona Lisa. That bitch has a lot to answer for.
Yesterday, we ran a marathon. After meeting T for coffee at the train station (imagine those pictures of grandiose steel and glass structures for Victorian photos) before she departed for London, we returned to our room to rest up for our "bookworm" tour. This comprised of seeing Hemingway's old digs, a hotel and bar Ginsberg and Kerouac frequented, Shakespeare and Company book shop (both the new location and the original, whose founder edited, retyped and published Ulysses), James Joyce's pad, Picasso's studio, and a whole bunch of cool book shop. I found my favourite, called "The Modern Look" in English. Inside the cramped, tiny store were hundreds of books on trashy films, comics, deviant literature and of course, the Beats.
Then, after nibbling on crèpes (with tomatoe, lettuce and salty feta) and gelato (frankly, the best gelato in the known universe) we did the most tourist-y thing imaginable: we ascended the Eiffel Tower. Nice view. I'm not so good with heights, especially on human-made structures, but you know what? I did alright. Paris is one of the largest cities I've been to, the urban landscape just stretches out until it fades in the horizon. Even as we walk the cobbled streets, the roads, bordered by lines of sagging, old buildings, continues like a maze one is hopelessly lost in.
I hate ending sentences with a preposition.
We also boarded a boat that sped along the Seine, with some narration on landmarks and history. We quickly checked out Pigelle and swung by Moulin Rouge, which is like a watered down Bourbon Street. We made the last train home.
Now, I'm having trouble logging onto to my actual blog, is anyone else? Just email me.
We never ended up at the Picasso Museum, that's for another day. No, we ended up at the Louvre. I gotta say, never before have I seen such a magnificent homage to Western civilization. All the classics, acknowledged as inspirations for modern society on this side of the globe, were there in all their preserved glory: Egyptian, Greek, and European. All the pieces were displayed in massive, nausea-inducing halls, adorned with rich murals and relieves. I was dizzy most of the time. I spent a good ten minutes staring at the Mona Lisa. That bitch has a lot to answer for.
Yesterday, we ran a marathon. After meeting T for coffee at the train station (imagine those pictures of grandiose steel and glass structures for Victorian photos) before she departed for London, we returned to our room to rest up for our "bookworm" tour. This comprised of seeing Hemingway's old digs, a hotel and bar Ginsberg and Kerouac frequented, Shakespeare and Company book shop (both the new location and the original, whose founder edited, retyped and published Ulysses), James Joyce's pad, Picasso's studio, and a whole bunch of cool book shop. I found my favourite, called "The Modern Look" in English. Inside the cramped, tiny store were hundreds of books on trashy films, comics, deviant literature and of course, the Beats.
Then, after nibbling on crèpes (with tomatoe, lettuce and salty feta) and gelato (frankly, the best gelato in the known universe) we did the most tourist-y thing imaginable: we ascended the Eiffel Tower. Nice view. I'm not so good with heights, especially on human-made structures, but you know what? I did alright. Paris is one of the largest cities I've been to, the urban landscape just stretches out until it fades in the horizon. Even as we walk the cobbled streets, the roads, bordered by lines of sagging, old buildings, continues like a maze one is hopelessly lost in.
I hate ending sentences with a preposition.
We also boarded a boat that sped along the Seine, with some narration on landmarks and history. We quickly checked out Pigelle and swung by Moulin Rouge, which is like a watered down Bourbon Street. We made the last train home.
Now, I'm having trouble logging onto to my actual blog, is anyone else? Just email me.
27.4.05
More Later
Since I have nine minutes left on the computer, a quick update will follow.
After waking up a little late and having a shower in a bathroom that resembled one found in Beirut circa 1992, we had delicious tartelittes then café noir at the bar (which is cheaper than sitting down) and now we're off to the Picasso museum and the bookworm walking tour, which exhibits some of the literary landmarks in Paris. Our new hôtel is located in Marais, just across the street from the hôtel de ville and overlooking a bustling, downtown street.
After waking up a little late and having a shower in a bathroom that resembled one found in Beirut circa 1992, we had delicious tartelittes then café noir at the bar (which is cheaper than sitting down) and now we're off to the Picasso museum and the bookworm walking tour, which exhibits some of the literary landmarks in Paris. Our new hôtel is located in Marais, just across the street from the hôtel de ville and overlooking a bustling, downtown street.
26.4.05
and. . .
I should briefly mention how amazing the food is in Paris. Yesterday I had risotto forestier, very creamy with nuggets of earthy, buttery wild mushrooms inside the dish. We had a baguette with crusty goat cheese and a lively white wine in our hotel room, then I passed out.
Oh, in my comment to Bo, it is properly spelled petit déjeuner.
Oh, in my comment to Bo, it is properly spelled petit déjeuner.
Notes from Paris
It is cloudy today in Paris. Little flecks of rain hit my face, but I completely ignore it. I have been taking notes, and I want to draw some sketches and scribble more notes. I've been trying to finish a poem. Some of what I have so far:
The train into Paris followed a track that cuts along an overgrown, littered passage that looks neglected. We cut across highways, mysterious, large buildings with colourful smokestacks, then we pass into darkened tunnels to the underground, into the metro stops made up from oddly matched tiles: yellows, pinks, and grays.
The problem of writing about Paris, or using Paris as a backdrop to a story, is the mechanical problem of capturing the enormity of the city and the multitudes that intersect with one another. The city is a massive lattice, like the metro, but with more stations and tracks and far too many intersections. Paris is not a horizontal city, like most Canadian cities that spread over a stretch of land. Paris is vertical, or, the lattice is built upward, making it dense and concentrated. Paris thrives on the layers left behind by history.
The train into Paris followed a track that cuts along an overgrown, littered passage that looks neglected. We cut across highways, mysterious, large buildings with colourful smokestacks, then we pass into darkened tunnels to the underground, into the metro stops made up from oddly matched tiles: yellows, pinks, and grays.
The problem of writing about Paris, or using Paris as a backdrop to a story, is the mechanical problem of capturing the enormity of the city and the multitudes that intersect with one another. The city is a massive lattice, like the metro, but with more stations and tracks and far too many intersections. Paris is not a horizontal city, like most Canadian cities that spread over a stretch of land. Paris is vertical, or, the lattice is built upward, making it dense and concentrated. Paris thrives on the layers left behind by history.
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