Europe: A Journey (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1 

The Streets of Montmartre (Paris, May 8-12, 2012)

It is near midnight as I sit at the departure gate for my flight to Charles De Gaulle. Already I feel in a distant land - even though I am still in Malaysia the character around me has changed. I hear the French and see those waiting to return to their homeland. Are they happy, or sad? They greet each other and I try to pick out a few sentences with my woefully limited grasp of the languages I was supposed to learn before travelling. Bonjour, Ca Va. Au Revoir. That was about it. I sigh and slowly file into the plane.

The flight could be best described as mildly torturous. I had done 12 hour stints in chairs in my previous workplace, but this was even less pleasant. Even as an averagely tall person the seats were puny. Now I understood why people shelled out thousands more for Business class. It’s the stretching room. The sweet, sweet legspace. 

I pass by many lands on the way there, lands I could dream of walking on. I see scattered cities, lit in the night, arteries of light leading into its glowing heart. Once, I looked down and see what I thought was the ocean. I look at the map and realize that it is, in fact, a moonlit desert. 

Sleep was elusive with only the cold window to lean on. Finally though, we arrive and are greeted with a cold spring rain. The plane lands smoothly on the tarmac. I look around. It looks...normal. But here I am.

I expected some questioning at customs and passport patrol. None of that, thankfully. The officer takes one look at my passport, stares at me for a brief moment and stamps it. “Bonjour,” I said to him, reminding myself of my manners. It is early and the airport is still mostly empty. Making my way to the Tourist Information booth, I stand by and watch as the lone employee sets up for the day.

“Bonjour” I greet him and purchase a tourist pass (meticulously calculated by me to save some money. Considering the exchange rate, it helps to pinch every Euro). Then the came the train. Excitement, dread. Paris, here I come.

The train ride was anti-climactic of sorts. Your scenery on the way from the airport into the city will consist of generic graffiti sprayed onto dilapidated buildings. I could only imagine how uneasy those at the Tourism office must feel, considering those are the first things visitors to the city will see. Or maybe they just don’t care.

I pull into the station and get my first taste (and smell) of the Parisian metro. Damp air and urine are its hallmarks. I don’t mind, really. With my smartphone app I plan my route to my hostel, in Montmartre.

As I walked up the steps of Lamarck-Coulaincourt I realize that I had not seen the city itself - my journey had taken me from the outskirts into the tunnels. So with bated breath (from all those stairs!) I exit into the streets of Montmartre. 

It is...beautiful. The rain had stopped and only the damp morning air greeted me. I see the half open shops and vendors on the sidewalk. I turn around and a sense of deja vu (ha) fills me. Where have I seen this before? I look at the stairs that up and around the entrance Metro station. And ah, yes. I have seen it before. From a movie called Amelie. Just like the movies, then.

As I entered the hostel I was to stay I braced myself for that legendary Parisian rudeness. Surprisingly though, the reception was kind and helpful and directed me to a place where I could store my luggage as being rather early I could not check-in yet.

I had supposed to meet up with my brother who arrived the day before (a quirk of Air-Asia’s rebooking me on another flight). Being rather inpatient and not sure whether he was in or out, I was on my way within minutes. Guess what was one of my main destinations that day?

Well, Le Musee du Louvre. It’s practically the reason I’m in Paris. The art, the history, the monuments. All within one huge complex that would take days to explore entirely (I went there twice and only just scratched the surface). 

Bypassing the huge queue I made my way into the pyramid entrance, but not before having a baguette sandwich next to the pigeons. My museum pass conveniently allowed me to walk past the long long line (the Louvre has many entrances, some with no queue at all. Most people are content however to enter through the glass pyramid. Because reasons.)

I enter the pyramid and go down the escalator into a huge hall filled with people. Already I am lost in the size and sea of choices to go. North, East, South or West? I pick up a map and search for the good stuff. Near East, Renaissance. 

The Louvre was unusually cold that day, the structure perhaps built to trap cold (and heat?) in. I wonder through the sometimes crowded, sometimes deserted hallways. I spot a 1500 year old stele written in another language. I gaze at it in wonder. It is left there, unprotected. I could simply reach out and touch it but decide not to. No one is there. Just my conscience. 

Then I enter the room of paintings. It is like entering a dream. Paintings of all sizes line the hallway. I look left and right and realize already that this is too much. I am on the verge of being desensitized by their greatness. And so I go on.

The prize of course that everyone seeks for is the Mona Lisa. But as someone told me, you don’t go to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. You go there to see people seeing the Mona Lisa. I was reduced to standing from a far, looking at a painting almost insignificant and banal surrounded by a throng of admirers. Was it a replica or the real thing? The Mona Lisas were rotated around. Did they even show us the real thing? It’s the experience I guess, another thing to check off the bucket list. What really grabbed my attention though was the piece opposite of the Lisa, the Wedding at Cana. It is splashed across in grand scale with only a handful of viewers looking briefly at it. Surely this is the underrated piece of art here.

I walk out, senses still overloaded. I realize that I had only been there for less than two hours. Nowhere near enough to see all the Louvre has to offer. I resolve to come back again and go to the third museum for the day.

Did I say the third? The morning I arrived I had dropped my bags and decided to have an appetizer. The Musee Rodin. It was a quick entry with my pass and decent escapade. The gardens were lovely, the Thinker was alright. Already out of place in a world with little time to engage in such activities.

I leave the Louvre and have another snack at the Jardin Tuileries. The wind blows cold and I already feel somewhat comfortable doing what others are doing - sitting down and enjoying the gloomy day.

The Orangerie is small and understated, somewhat I suppose, like the pieces of art it holds (with perhaps the exception for the sprawling Lilies of Monet, but even then they seem tame compared to the Wedding at Cana). 

As expected, the abstract art piqued some of my interest but flew past me for the most. I figured I’d call it a day. Going to the toilet, I wonder where the handle for the faucet is. I look around and someone helpfully points out I need to step a button on the ground. Another thing that flew past me.

I settle back into my hostel and meet my brother who has already made a friend, a shaggy haired Spanish-African busker. I am tired, jet lag had been kept at bay for the day but not much longer. I sleep.

Clouds still shield the sun as I get up. I don’t mind, really. From Malaysia where heat is the order of the day, overcast skies are a respite. But in Europe, as I find out later on, you soon wish for the sun.

I learn the day before that while I was admiring the masterpieces at the Louvre my brother was driving one. He splashed out some cash to drive a Lamborghini around Paris. Different strokes for different folks, I suppose.

On the itinerary today were two more highlights, the Notre Dame and the Eiffel. We head first for the Gothic church. On the outside, from a distance the facade seems underwhelming. Go close though and the intricate details come into view. As you enter you are astonished at the size of the cathedral, seemingly being able to create space from nothing.

We walk through the cold church along with a soundtrack of choral chants from the morning prayers. It is strangely peaceful. If there is one thing I enjoy about the Cathedrals in Europe is that despite their Grandeur they are usually open to everyone most of the time. A far contrast perhaps from our megachurches with strict opening hours. A pity then, that such architectural magnifience draws more tourists than worshippers - a result of Europe’s secularism (so we are told).

I slowly begin to get the hang of Paris. The Metro systems, arcane at first, become easy to navigate (thanks in due part to a handy smartphone app). The multiculturalism allowing some comfort amid the crowd (unlike, say, in certain parts of Germany where I was met with stares). Once, while I was in the Metro, I noticed I was the whitest person in the entire carriage. Africans tend to cluster here, and I do wonder how uneasily native (white) Parisians view them. Somewhat perhaps, like how we view our immigrants in Kuala Lumpur.

I am walking out now from the Metro, up the steps and into the light. My pace is slow, I am unsure of my surroundings. Then I get my bearings, head up some more steps and am greeted with an iconic sight.

Probably the best way to approach the Eiffel Tower is through the Trocadero. There, the Tower stands grand and symmetrical as you walk along the wide expanse. It is breathtaking, and for a few moments Paris regains it’s fabled magic. 

We walk to the base and linger. We are too cheap to take the elevator, too lazy to take the stairs. So we watch and wait for the sun to set and realize that here the sun doesn’t set at 7 in the evening (like it always does in Malaysia!). It is nearly 9 at night when the sky darkens and the Tower is illuminated with light. Again, fleeting glimpses of beauty before we return home through the dank underbelly of the Metro.

In my itinerary I figured a break from the city would be nice, and me, my brother and a fellow traveler from New Zealand headed off on a side trip to the Chateau Vincennes in the outskirts of the city. The weather has taken a turn for the worse, but it was manageable. We made our way into the muddy grounds and skulked around. I took a quick peak into the interiors. Nothing to shout about. We snuck into the Chapelle to enjoy the view. 

The weather was better and we continued on to the Bois de Boulogne. There I parted ways, I had pulled a muscle and decided to call it quits for the day. Travel hazards. I head home, rest and ponder on the city.

Paris Syndrome is a so called culture shock that strikes tourists, most often the Japanese. The incongruities of the Asian tourist, accustomed to politeness and fed with images of an enchanted fairy land struggles to reconcile his perception of Paris against her reality. My images of the city, idealized though may be, were (thankfully) informed by some films that did not shy away from Paris’ darker side. I came prepared.

But despite the graffiti, the stink of urine in the Metro and Paris’ infamous level of customer service, it still held a certain charm for me. As I sit on the train that would take me to the Orly Airport, then on to Rome, I feel a small tinge of regret. Yes, I would be returning to this place in a month. Yet I had only scratched the surface. Such is travel.
------------------------------------
Previous Posts

-Prologue