Paris, Weekend Style

I do suppose that once upon a time, to be an American in Paris was perhaps chic or bohemian or such, now it seems that there are quite a few of us over here. A weekend getaway for those in London like myself, or a two week vacation, with no French required. I have yet to have someone correct my French as the traveler's tales warn us, but maybe that is because I don't speak any French. It is amazing that I can spend two days wandering about this amazing city, be taken where I need to go, be served in every and any establishment, and yet do not speak the language.  There are things in life for which no language skills are needed. Beauty is one of those language optional experiences. No matter how overrun with tourists Paris becomes, the tourists are here for a reason, as am I, and Paris does not disappoint us. It is a gorgeous city.

I am lucky enough to be staying at a hotel two blocks off of the Eiffel Tower with a beautiful view of the tower. Even two blocks away, I cannot fit all of the tower into my lens. It is an astoundingly large and intricate piece of work. Paris seems to have drawn the artists over the centuries who were bold enough to build and design works that were often either not in vogue or literally, ahead of their time. The Eiffel Tower is an example of beauty unappreciated. The story told is that the artistic community of the day railed against this monstrosity that could not seriously be called a work of art and, further, was vulgar and distasteful. The artist continued his project and I, and Paris, are now glad that he chose not to listen to the naysayers.

An enduring beauty is not always in vogue, there are times when it rubs against the grain and the beholder occasionally must look with a new set of filters in order to perceive it. Even better is to have the filters that have been created by years of preconceived patterns and notions removed completely. To take a fresh look at the world around us in order to see the beauty inherent in all of God's creation.

I have literally wandered around a large part of this city by myself, seeking nooks and crannies that will tell me the city's story, not just the monumental stories. I have heard my entire life about French food; we all of course know that it is supposed to be divine, don't we? Because we have been told it was so. Personally, I dismissed it as another overblown travel tale that could not possibly be so fantastique. Friday evening, alone, I took it upon myself to find an out of the way "authentic" French restuarant. I stopped in front of a restuarant that had no sidewalk tables and no screaming banners, much unlike the other cafes in the area. I scanned the menu and found very little Anglish. Just as I was about to move on, a waiter stepped outside. Parley English? In reply he held his finger close to his thumb to indicate a little, and shrugged. I want to eat, but I do not know French. A big welcoming smile and he waved his hand at me to follow him and silently seated me at a beautifully laid table.

Oh my. He found a English translated menu under the bar and brought it to me along with crusts and foie gras. A very good beginning I thought. The entire meal, which took an hour and a half in true French style of courses and appetizers and wine and sweets, was better by far than I ever thought food could be. And I do enjoy a good meal. I was the only English speaking person in the dining room. French families and couples and a business man or two, none of which were lugging big tourist cameras around. Absolute heaven. The restuarant seemed to be specialize in seafood, and so I started with "Crispy Deepfried Seacreatures", the literal translation for the best fried sardines I have ever had! Then on to Duck Breast and whipped potatoes with a thick slice of apple, broiled. I won't tell you about dessert, it was close to sinful, and I am ashamed of myself at my indulgence. Something to do with Bailey's Rhum Ambre from Barbados. Rhum BaBa! A tiny espresso with an almond scone for coffee. And then to my surprise, he brought a snifter, and filled it halfway with the Rhum Ambre for an apertiff. Oh my. Wait did I already say that? He laughed at the look of delight on my face and unbidden, filled it again when I finally finished the first one. I had to motion for another cup of coffee to finish the Rhum with.

 I have been so ignorant about French food. I am only beginning to understand now. Our British tour guide who picked us up from the train station told us that she had married a Frenchman and has lived here for 18 years. Then she laughed and said,

     I came for a man, and stayed for the food! 

Indeed.
My entire meal was eaten in silence, and whether or not you believe that part of the story, do believe that I am a believer now.


 I will wrap this post up with the beauty that I found in the Notre Dame Cathedral. I spent today first at Notre Dame for two and a half hours wandering and shooting gargoyles, (every one of 'em!), and marvelling at the beauty we humans have within us trapped and waiting to be expessed. Afterwards, I wandered through the Latin Quarter, St. Sevren, and along the Rue St.Germaine looking again, for that beauty expressed by the Creator in humanity, just as the builder of Notre Dame expressed the beauty inside of him through the glory of a cathedral. I found it in both places. And funny as it may seem, when allowed to wander through Paris alone, I did not choose to run from monument to monument chasing awe and wonder, I chose to find and experience the city's story, the story of a living, breathing, beautiful mass of humanity. God's people. You and I.



my place and time

It is indeed a chance to look through a window at a different world. This picture is of the scenery out of my dorm window and while it is not stunningly picturesque, it reminds me that I am in a different place and almost a different time. But London is a lovely place and this is time well spent.

The place I am in is old. 1776? Hah, many of these buildings predate that year by a few, but the age is not measured in buildings, but rather in a culture that has been multicultural longer than we Americans have existed. I am no Anglophile, I dearly love my land and my home, but neither am I opposed to learning a lesson or two from my elders. One of the first lessons I learned here was that the Brits as a whole are far more knowledgeable about America, and by a stretch more respectful of America than we are of them. It was rather humbling, and was obvious almost immediately. This is a land of beauty as well, from the architecture of city streets to rolling hillsides of wheat ripening for harvest and hay being mown. Thatched cottages and lead roofs, I find the beauty in diversity.

I find that I do not need them to be like me, nor do I need to be like them, and neither do I see their culture as the Other, rather I realize that they are me in the other place. And there is room for both of us. I appreciate being their guest for this time and place.

Time is different on the journey. I could lie and look wise by saying that this is a time of deep reflection, but the truth is that like all journeys, it is a busy time. So much to do and so much to see, I have contented myself that I will see what comes before me, as it is more than I would have seen had I not been in this place. I do reflections however, my professors demand that I do so! They act as if they control my grades. And so they do. So I turn away from trying to decide between Indian Cuisine and solid Pub fare, and instead ponder the significance of Mithras to the early Christians in post-Roman Britain, or the symbolism rampant in Tolkien’s invented Elven languages.

“Today by five you say! Bloody Professors! Taskmasters! They dare to teach me something new and wondrous whilst I try to be a good tourist!” I put down my bitter, and my nose goes to the grindstone and I put off blogging home another day and save another site for another trip, God Willing. And the time flies, and each day is rich with experience and sights to reflect upon.

Photographs, by the hundreds to be gone thru another time, some to become priceless, all to be mine. London is mine as well. I am learning her allure first hand. The noise and smells and vibrations, her visages and inspirations. The ability to come home to the King’s College in Hampstead alone on her massive transit system and not be lost, now that is priceless. An education in and of itself!

There will be more. This trip cannot be absorbed in a matter of weeks. This place and this time, they will become a part of me, and I will be a part of them. I need not write it upon a wall, I was here. July 2011.