Warm October sunshine and freshly washed air sent me into a new day. The Metro in Paris is a cinch and I easily found my way to La Tour Eiffel. I elevatored up and oohed and aahed at the view. Since I'm not a fan of crowds, especially crowds of tourists, I duck and avoid them where I can. So I walked down, down, and more down to street level.
When I think of Paris, I think of its parks. Lovely, green, open spaces with inviting armchairs scattered under trees. Children riding on carousel horses or giggling at marionette shows. Old men flipping through newspapers and tossing baguette crusts to pigeons.
Or the small overgrown glen where I discovered benches and curvy walkways. I settled for a picnic lunch of camembert, bread and red grapes. Purchased, I might add, with the requisite angst of terrible language skills. I got everything wrong and suffered the disgust of various Parisian shopkeepers. They threw their hands in the air at this American stupey-dupe. Had I not been prepared for the snobbery, I might have taken it personally, but much has already been written about this and I was right at home playing my part. No...money goes here, not there....No, no, no...you pay for the fruit there, not here....No...that's not enough....
Lord, kill me now. I thrust my palm forward with a wad of cash. Take what you like, just give me some lunch.
I did not go to the Louvre. Crowds. I did go to the Musée d'Orsay and highly recommend it. Housed in a former train station, the museum is dedicated to the Impressionist period with a dazzling collection of furniture, sculpture and paintings. I was entranced for hours.
The Jardin des Tuileries provided a satisfying rest stop to people-watch and sip hot chocolate. I took a spin on La Grande Roue, the giant Ferris wheel, and marveled at the city from on high. The white stone buildings and lush green of tree-filled parks far below made me want to stay, study and converse in flawless French. This would, of course, not happen and as I examined Paris from that high-flying perspective I was reminded that observation was the task and assimilation a mere fantasy.
I was only able to book my hotel room for two nights, so I arranged other lodging for my final four nights. I moved into a hostelry for thirty-five dollars a night, including breakfast. I opened the door to an attic room perfect for one person. I smiled at the slanted walls and the single, tiny paned window. Not only was it cheaper, but it was also better and cleaner.
No two ways about it: I'd found my "American in Paris" garret. Off the bedroom, an itsy-bitsy bathroom with a sink and shower for, again, an ice-cold dousing. A water closet was situated down the hall, which wasn't a problem because no other guests were on the floor. The room, cozy with flower-patterned wallpaper, had a staying-at-Grandma's feel.
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