My day began with a croissant as I strolled into the Louvre. Who am I pretending to be? Everything we do this quarter has felt absolutely absurd and this morning was cliche Eurotourist to the MAX.
We hit up the Mona Lisa, elbowed other tourists out of the way like pros, and took requisite pictures. We posed like some Roman statues, saw a giant sphinx, and flipped out nerdily at Hammurabi's Code. We watched a choir sing in a Grecian garden and then chilled in Napoleon's apartment - fully furnished with gold, velvet, and crystal galore. It was pretty average I guess.
Three hours, three wings, three euros for a shared audiotour, and three million times more in awe of the grandeur of art history, we left the Louvre with tired feet and blown minds.
We walked to Notre Dame, just a mere 5 minute stroll to meet Ari for more tourguiding around the city. We were starving, tired, confused, and my phone completely ran out of call/text capabilities. Thanks, vodaphone. I appreciate the advance warning - oh wait, there was none.
Somehow, we found Ari and her friend Ali like angels waiting to greet us in front of Notre Dame. We were saved, in front of Paris' (and maybe the world's) most famous church. Renewed faith?
We entered, walked through, saw pretty stained glass, took more pictures, and commented on how unphased we are by cathedrals at this point. Cathedrals are now as common as sandwiches in my life. About two to three a week. Take about an hour to digest. Make me wonder about the glory of man, art, religion, and higher powers. (Maybe that last part only applies to really good sandwiches.)
Ari then whisked us still on foot and still starving to the best felafel place in Paris, in the Marais district which we'd heard just rave reviews of. So chic, so up and coming, so great, you simply most go, etc.
Good thing all the restaurants were closed for sukkot, the harvest holiday on the Jewish cal. Turns out some Jews here are pretty flexible with their work/dietary/holiday observances, so we ended up with huge deli sandwiches on onion rolls with pastries at a corner deli boasting Yiddish cuisine. When I think of Yiddish cuisine, I think of stone soup or borscht. This was not that. This was hit-the-spot-after-four-hours-of-walking/Stef-eats-Kosher-meat glory. Mori ate tongue. We had fresh hummus on a baguette. The wonder of Paris and the wonder of Jewishfood met, and I was satiated.
We took our pastries to a sweet park in the corner of Le Marais and basked in the fullness of our tummies before wandering the streets to thrift shops and boutique shops. The same pair of shoes could be 15 euros or 1500. But you don't talk about money in France so form your own opinions about that.
We also saw French children who are all neatly dressed and adorable and will grow up to be cooler than me. Then we went to the Bastille neighborhood and walked through a highline garden, took silly pictures more, and enjoyed the cool autumn breeze.
After living in Sevilla, you really come to miss light jacket weather, leaves changing colors, and not sweating all the time.
As the sun set, we arrived in Montmartre, the Moulin Rouge hood, which is apparently a club only famous in America. Instead of going there, we went inside Sacre Couer at night and took in the view of all of Paris from atop this Mont(martre). The second cathedral was better than the first - all stained glass was swapped out for mosaics, one of which was a giant Jewish star. (Need to wikipedia that for an explanation.). We continued on our merry way to eat some french onion soup.
It's really silly to eat French onion soup outside of France and that bowl was so yummy, I probably will eat it more times here and never try again outside of these borders. Oui.
(Speaking of oui, much of the city smells like ouioui and there are many homeless people. Striking contrasts to the 'everywhere you look, something's beautiful' and tres chic menus and pricetags. Sorry, we're not supposed to talk about the unmentionable (dinero) but we're just SO spoiled in Sevilla when it comes to expenditures.)
We came home to figure out a night gameplan and were happy to stay in and enjoy our swanky habitacion but when Mori put on a black turtleneck, it was over. We had transformed into Parisiens at our finest.
Wandering around the 6th arrondisement bar scene with a gaggle of Northwestern girls we found in a basement where Hava Nagilah was playing. We barhopped a bit and somehow, Mori and I ended up attempting a conversation with a French man. While he was incredibly attractive, his faculty of English was weak and ours with French, still non-existent.
The night ended with a French man yelling at me poorly pronounced F-bombs and "You talk to my wife?!" I was just confused and not insulted. He was mad because I told him I really didn't know French and he didn't believe me. Oh well. I was honest. And he was eager to show off his equally failing English abilities. No, I did not talk to your wife, you authentic hipster.
While Coco Chanel may have set the global standard for Parisien - nude and sepia fashion palette, high heels, short sentences, minimal eye contact, lots of pastries, I have a newfound respect for the way HipsterParis is - the Marais' thrift shops to the 6th bar street man yelling awwkard curses while dragging on his cigarette and tossing his oily long hair.
Either way, that's culture pride. And I'm culturally impressed. Even the mouse who ran through our courtyard seemed to be prancing about.
Bon nuit (see, I'm learning!).
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