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Paris Part Trois

Ok, so the travelogue that never ends is down to this post and one more with some drink tributes to the soldiers.

The Landmarks

– The Eiffel Tower is just a heaping pile of scrap metal. I remained just long enough to take this picture then I went looking for a bar.
– The Arc de Triomphe is lovely- for about five minutes, three if it’s rainy, cold and windy (which it was). I snapped a picture then hit a bar.
– I visited the Cathédrale Notre Dame and La Basilique du Sacré Coeur and didn’t burst into flames at either church so if there is a God, I suppose that’s a good sign. I went to Sacré Coeur close to sunset when dark clouds covered the sky so it had a very spooky vibe to it, which I thought was kind of cool. Outside there’s a panoramic view of the city, which I checked out for about five minutes then I headed to a bar (are you seeing a pattern here)?
– I strolled through the Ritz Carlton (on my way to the bar, naturally) but the drink menu didn’t include prices and I was scared that one cocktail would force me to sign over ownership of my car so I turned tail and ran.

– On my first night I met a guy who’s a director at the Louvre. He offered to give me a private tour and since he looked like David Duchovny with glasses I accepted. I decided to go on a Wednesday when it’s open during the evening and I gussied up for the occasion- I wanted to look like I was there to buy. Unfortunately, any convincing swagger I might have exuded was lost somewhere between my hotel in the ghetto and the cramped Metro ride. At the last minute I decided against the private tour. Even though museum geeks are kind of sexy, he was a bit too serious and I was worried I might get stuck hanging out with him after the tour. So I did it alone and right off the bat made a beeline to the most famous of all the Louvre’s paintings, Dogs Playing Poker.

Just my luck it was out for restoration so I settled for the Mona Lisa instead. I don’t know what I expected of the Mona Lisa, perhaps it would be in its own dark room where the glory of the painting illuminated itself while bullet-proof glass allowed you to get close and personal with the big ML. Nah, it’s in the middle of a big bright room with guard rails that keep you back about 15 feet. It’s one of the smallest paintings in the Louvre and I had a better view of it in my program.

After the Mona Lisa, I headed over to see the Venus de Milo, which looked no more spectacular than the plaster replicas you can buy at those street shops that also sell Jesus candles and tiger print seat covers. From there I whisked through the gay porn section (which would be almost every section). It’s amazing that gays are still fighting for equal rights when clearly there were plenty of ‘mos all the way back to the Renaissance. I actually lasted over an hour at the museum, although the last 20 minutes of that were spent trying to get out because apparently at the Louvre the French word for exit (sortie) means “Here’s yet another gallery to bore you.”

What I’ve finally come to accept after this trip is that I don’t have much interest in merely looking at things, particularly when viewing something up close isn’t any better than seeing it in a picture or on video. I did appreciate the spectacular architecture but that was something I could check out on my way to or from the bars. I suppose to some my bar hopping may seem like a waste but I met so many different characters and thoroughly enjoyed the Parisian experience that way. And if anybody ever wants to know about the nightlife in any Paris area, I can tell you about ALL of them (Bastille was my favorite).

The injuries

When I’m home I very rarely get injured or sick aside from the occasional migraine but of course on vacation I had a couple problems. About midway through the trip, I poked my eye and scratched my cornea. I was comfortable self-diagnosing it because it happened once before, which was probably a good thing because it saved me from wasting an afternoon in a French hospital. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it feels like you have a big piece of sand in your eye and the slightest eye movement is excruciating. Luckily it healed very quickly this time but for two days I was sporting one completely bloodshot eye with constant tears streaming from it (but bless those horny Frenchies, even that awful look didn’t deter them).

On my last day, I woke up with a bad sore throat and I had the chills. By this point, I was exhausted and I just wanted to go home and I dreaded the 16 hours of travel ahead of me. I took the high-speed train to Frankfurt then I had to switch to another train for the short ride to the airport. It was a tight squeeze to make the second train and even though I’d piled all my luggage on pieces with wheels, it was still a lot to handle. Two women ahead of me boarded the train and then they stood there. I didn’t know the German word for “excuse me” so I said it about 10 times in three other languages but the bitches wouldn’t move. Even if you didn’t understand what someone was saying, wouldn’t the loud repetition of a word make you turn around and see what’s up?? I was afraid the door would close on me so I started to wheel my carry on bag into an open space and what I didn’t realize was that the entrance sloped downward. So my bag rolled down the ramp and pulled me with it and as I attempted to get my footing on the train, my leg slipped between the platform and the train and I bashed my shin on the side of it. Sure, THAT’s when the ladies jumped out of the way. At least if I’d gotten the 7-10 split with my luggage I would have derived a little pleasure from the situation. Instead, I ended up with a massive black bruise and a big bloody gash that six weeks later hasn’t completely healed. Between this incident and the one with the smoker blocking my entrance and one or two others I’ve heard about, I’ve come to the conclusion that Germans and trains are not a good combination.

I have never been so happy to return from a trip in my life. It was so great to return to warm weather and go to my familiar 7-11 where I could speak English to the Pakistani cashier who doesn’t speak English but dammit, I didn’t have to feel guilty for not speaking his language. And it felt wonderful to sleep in my own bed with my own down comforter that I could freely touch without worrying about its festering semen content. It was good to be home.

Twenty four hours later I was on the horn trying to book another trip. What can I say?

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