We have had a few interesting visitors recently…
One pigeon.
Two pigeons.
Three cats.
We have had a few interesting visitors recently…
Muse played in le fan zone this past Tuesday; we were there.
I should know by now that when I am trying to travel somewhere faster (for purposes of this example, let’s say work) due to some mitigating circumstance (because it’s pouring), I should just stick with the original plan.
Normally, one would think that taking a taxi from l’hopital americain would be painless; it’s all of about 10 minutes from the main cab stand in La défense, and while I have been corrected almost every time that I state my destination (CNIT is nominally k’nee, though that changes to k’neeT depending on the cabbie, so I have made it a habit of swallowing the back half of that t), I hopped in the one cab that had no idea where CNIT was.
Oh, and he didn’t really know the La défense area.
I was welcome, however, to give him directions.
It was suggested that I take another cab, however, when I explained that I did not really know the road system in La défense (translating my mental maps to English is difficult enough; my French is certainly not up to the task).
Flummoxed, I hopped in the next cab (I should have just taken the bus back to Porte Maillot). I then had to explain how the other cabbie didn’t know where CNIT was, and that I don’t know the roads well enough to navigate. The first cabbie, apparently a pal, got out of his car and groused at the new cabbie about the fact that I didn’t have a street address for fucking CNIT, the location for which everyone (even the dumbass Über drivers) knows, and which was in La défense before it was La défense (thank you Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine).
Pulling away, I tried CNIT both ways, not expecting to be corrected once more: snit.
Having been subjected to varying levels of soccer hooligans every night for the past two weeks, we decided that Saturday was an appropriate time to check out their den of iniquity (known as Le rendez-vous des fans à Paris in French), helpfully located just a few minutes from where we live.
Here is what we found.
Sometimes we fuck up.
Tonight was such a night; it is why I am sitting in our flat listening to the funeral march of Louis XIV as opposed to sitting in the Chapelle royale at Versailles listening to the requiem for Louis XV.
Oops.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, given our current collective mood, our Saturday jaunt to Les invalides was infused more with melancholy than our previous Invalides excursions. Typically being more along the lines of “hey, let’s go to Invalides,” after which we happily bound off into the sunset and through the entrance gates, we entered what is usually one of our favorite haunts under overcast skies, the normally glowing dome of the tomb shrouded instead in a blanket of grey.
Having been through the permanent collections several times, we came exclusively for the current temporary exhibition, a small but poignant chronicle of Napoléon’s life of exile on the island of Sainte-Hélène. Along with video of the island in its current (still beautiful, in a harsh way) state, the exhibition featured artifacts from the main house in which the ex-emperor and his entourage stayed, as well as artifacts such as his shaving kit, a chessboard, and a table service setting that had accompanied them to the incredibly remote island. Also present was an extensive account of the exile as experienced by his entourage, the activities of the whole crew through his death, and the fight to define his legacy to history (which was the ultimate thrust of the exhibit; these years were spent writing the history of the time, attempting to place them within a historical context, and attempting to get in front of the narrative that would be up for grabs [and an obvious target for politicization] as soon as Napoléon died).
I do not think that either of us had expected to spend nearly two hours on such a small exhibit, but its thoroughness and thoughtfulness proved too great a pull, so we did.
Today marked my first experience with teargas.
Hopping off of the 13 at Invalides, an acrid smell hung in the air. At first I though it was a technical issue with the train, as the smell strongly resembled that of very hot metal (something I’ve inhaled my fair share of, due to periodically having been in close proximity to a welding or grinding station), but as I made my way towards the station exit (or the 8 that would take me closer to home), the thought leapt in to the back of my head: this is probably teargas.
Indeed, as I was in the corridor leading to the exit (so very close), a mob of RATP police came in the opposite direction, yelling at those of us in the hall to move back. Hearing a loud popping sound in the background, my suspicions were confirmed: shit, this is teargas. Hoping that it was simply a case of hooliganism gone awry (the 8 leads to the Euro2016 fanzone near us), I turned around and headed towards the long passage to the RER C, in hopes that this other exit would be clear.
I realize now that I should have hopped back on a train (any train) when the first exit I tried was blocked; I did not, and headed out the exit in time to notice a large crowd on the raised terrace near the Air France café, and watched dumbly as the group of strikers carrying CGT flags walked in my direction. It was at this point that I heard several loud pops, and the teargas canisters started coming down, blocking my way back in to the station.
So began an hour or so of attempting to stay ahead of the CGT crowd, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and then moving just as gas was launched in the vicinity of where I had just been. I watched strikers squeeze past the (massive) police barricades and down along the Seine, mixing in with a group of hapless tourists, the entire lot of which were dispersed via three (very accurately) placed gas canisters. I heard the dreadlocked kid with the gas mask around his neck cheer and start applauding (provoking further applause from a similar crowd) as he yelled (in French, obviously) “Gas the touriusts.” I listened as an older California couple whined to one of the CGT organizers about how very inconvenient all of this was, and noted his wry smile as the woman kept asked only “Why? Why? Why?” I watched as a fat American waddled up to one of the police in lobster gear (the Purrito and I’s preferred term for the plastic plate that riot police here are equipped with), waved his passport at the cop, and then hurriedly waddled in the other direction when the cop indicated (via a not-exactly-subtle repositioning of his riot shield) that he would find no passage through the police line.
While I wound up punching a hole in the Amazon box that I was carrying around (said box containing a tub of K’nex that I ordered for work-related purposes) due to using it as a makeshift head protector (no sense in taking any chances with my head; French cops apparently fire teargas up into the air as opposed to at people’s chests, like I’ve seen cops do in news reports in the States), luck was finally with me, and I managed to get back to the exit that I had originally come out of just as the CGT (and thus the teargas) headed back in that direction.
After an unexpectedly long RER C ride (due to the next two stations being shut down due to the grève) and another métro ride to get me back to our quartier, and I was home, some nearly two hours later than intended.
Here’s to new experiences.
While feeding a pigeon that visits our balcony, the baguette in the Purrito’s hand was intercepted by one of the cats.
After we looked at one another and said “no, he wouldn’t,” she held the baguette still, and the furry little bastard did.
Now I know who is responsible for gnawing on the bread when I make the mistake of leaving it on the table.
Bread-munching bastard.
As more or less everything in the vicinity of the Seine has been shut down due to the flooding, we wandered down to the river to see how bad things were…
It will come as a surprise to precisely nobody that The List remained untouched this past weekend; while six weekends might not be statistically significant from a trend standpoint (then again, given the data set…), we have been lousy followers of The Calendar (read: The List, evolved).
That said, Saturday was spent gathering materials of a last-minute nature.
Monday evening saw us return to Versailles yet again, though this time was a touch different; not only was Versailles closed, we were in “quality baroque costumes” (as evidenced by the deposit; 1700€ between the two of us) for the fêtes galantes, otherwise known as a-bunch-of-adults-dress-up-like-Louis-XIV-era-French-aristocracy-and-run-around-le-château-de-versailles.
We had quite a bit of fun.
While the original plan entailed getting ready at home (clothing of the time period: very heavy), heading over to Versailles via the RER C, partying, and then heading back home, we modified the plan such that we grabbed a hotel room in the vicinity of the château. Our plans to ride the train over there were further modified when we cemented our status as rain totems (it has begun flooding in Paris while it continues to flood in Texas). Thus we climbed into the Uber with an unholy number of (heavy) bags and proceeded to check into the hotel, which is where we ended up readying ourselves for the fête.
The actual party was a whirlwind.
We
Food was the sole disappointment of the evening; while our tickets said unlimited champagne and access to the buffet, and the champagne proved to be indeed unlimited, the buffet was limited to lousy apéros, and there was not a macarron to be seen (food-wise, I was expecting at least a roasted chicken and maybe pheasant). We largely abandoned our original champagne consumption plan, though it was actually quite good (Deutz, to their credit), due to our mostly-empty stomachs.
I would undoubtedly shave my legs, wear tights, grow a beard, shave said beard (I needed the louis xiv moustache), wear makeup, and slog to the château in the rain again.
I would just make sure to eat right before we arrived.
Fezzik In Paris 