Dogs can go everywhere--on the Metro, on regional trains, inside cafes. This is really a dog-friendly place.
On Saturday evening, after our walk through Pere Lachaise, Helene and I cooked dinner for Helene's friends Marie, an English professor who sounds like a Brit when she speaks English, no French accent, and Stefania, an Italian immigrant and healer. What amazing women! Because we had a late dinner, I had to hook up before we ate, but no one seemed to mind that I was attached to a dialysis machine via a long cord.
The next day, Sunday, June 6, Helene was suffering from vertigo, so I went exploring on my own. I walked and walked and walked, again getting very turned around at Notre Dame and the Ile St. Louis. Finally, after many wrong turns, I ended up at the Orsay Museum. The first time I was there, I was also alone, in 2002, and I was moved to tears by Manet's "Olympia." The sheer power of this woman looking out at you, defiant of social conventions, daring the viewer to hold anything but awe for her. Once again this painting moved me.
Many others had the same effect, including Cezanne's "Card Players" and Renoir's "Moulin de la Galette." The woman looking away from the action, the one in the foreground, strangely touches me, as if I knew her, or was her.
After many bouts with Stendahl syndrome, a psychological and physiological reaction to too much beauty, an aesthetic overload, I headed for the Metro. It had taken me more than three hours to wind my way to the Orsay. I wanted to make better time coming home.
As i negotiated the Parisian streets and its subway system, I noted how much more confident I was this time in Paris than I had been in 2002. Then I had come to the French capital by invitation of Lionel, a Frenchman I had met for dinner when he was traveling in the U.S. Every so often, he would call me, and finally he asked me to visit him for a week. Like all my dealings with men, this arrangment with Lionel was strange and unsatisfying. We only had sex twice, and both times I had to initiate. His style was as far from romantic as one could get without it qualifying as rape. Then during the day, he treated me like I was his little sister, an annoyance that our mother had said he must allow to tag behind him. He refused to allow me to take a picture of him, as if he wanted no record of having been with me. Very odd. I wondered this time whether I was so put down by Lionel's treatment that I felt I couldn't make my way alone in Paris, that I was held hostage by Lionel, or was it that I am just generally more confident? Either way, I had no problem asking directions and smiling widely.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Pere Lachaise
On Saturday afternoon, June 5, Helene and I explored Pere Lachaise, the Paris cemetary where loads of famous people are buried. High on our lists were
* Jim Morrison
* Modigliani
* Oscar Wilde, whose grave stone is covered with kisses and messages
Poor, sensitive Oscar was pulled through the mud at the end of his life with a sodomy trial, ostracization from the socialites he had so grandly entertained, and sentenced to a two-year prison term. Now his grave is Mecca for gay men and for all those who value his wit and his courage.
Even if Pere Lachaise lacked celebrity graves, it would still be worth a visit. Very relaxing. A pleasant respite from the hustle of the Parisian streets.
We did, however, overlook the grave of Victor Noir, a journalist who died in a duel. We did not know anything about him until Marie, Helene's friend who is an English professor in Paris, told us about his well-visited grave. His stone is complete with an erection and has been rubbed by countless women over the years in the belief that doing so will make them fertile, improve their love lives, and/or get them a husband within the year. Oh, well, Victor, see you next time!
* Jim Morrison
* Modigliani
* Oscar Wilde, whose grave stone is covered with kisses and messages
Poor, sensitive Oscar was pulled through the mud at the end of his life with a sodomy trial, ostracization from the socialites he had so grandly entertained, and sentenced to a two-year prison term. Now his grave is Mecca for gay men and for all those who value his wit and his courage.
Even if Pere Lachaise lacked celebrity graves, it would still be worth a visit. Very relaxing. A pleasant respite from the hustle of the Parisian streets.
We did, however, overlook the grave of Victor Noir, a journalist who died in a duel. We did not know anything about him until Marie, Helene's friend who is an English professor in Paris, told us about his well-visited grave. His stone is complete with an erection and has been rubbed by countless women over the years in the belief that doing so will make them fertile, improve their love lives, and/or get them a husband within the year. Oh, well, Victor, see you next time!
I've Returned!
I got back from my travels late Tuesday night, thankful that I had no emergency room visits or hospital stays.
Flying first class was a real treat. Because Helene is an Air Canada retiree, she gets several passes each year, but she decided to splurge and use her guaranteed first-class tickets with me. We flew Halifax to Monteal and then to Paris. Great food. Good service. And a private cubicle that made into a bed. That's the way to go.
Helene and I spent six days and six nights in Paris, renting an apartment near the Temple Metro station, a half hour's brisk walk from Notre Dame. The apartment had a full kitchen, private bath, garden view, washer-dryer, and plenty of quiet. Perfect.
Getting all the Baxter boxes from the concierge to the apartment was quite an ordeal. After we'd settled in, we walked to Notre Dame, taking our time, as I was tired. We got really turned around on the two islands, walking and walking and coming back to the same spot an hour and a half later. Too many bridges. I began calling this area the Bermuda Triangle.
The next morning we explored the flea market. I was surprised to see so many black figurines, something that would have been considered racist in the States.
I spotted a man whom I considered handsome and pointed him out to Helene. I also thought that he looked like an older version of the archangel I'd seen 10 years ago. I really wanted his photograph and asked Helene if she'd ask him if it's OK. She was embarrassed, so I approached him. "S'll vous plait?" I asked, gesturing with my camera. At first he thought I wanted to take a photo of his artwork, but when he understood it was him I was interested in, he became a bit shy and said in French that no one had ever asked to take a picture of him before. I was upfront and told him that I had told my friend that I felt he was handsome and wanted to remember him. Rugged good looks. Hard to come by these days.
Speaking of good looks, it was such an incredible treat to be in country where people are trim and stylish! In the almost two weeks that I was in France, I saw perhaps a dozen heavy people, most of them Americans. The overweight French were nothing like overweight Americans. I mean, they were still walking around and doing chores, not confined to a scooter. In the States it is very difficult to find a man over 50 who is in shape. There, they were everywhere.
People walk instead of drive or take the Metro with its long flights of stairs. I didn't see any junk food or candy bars. If you want some chocolate, you go to a choclatier. It's a special treat, not something you mindlessly shove down your throat. Food tastes so much better because so much of it is organic and locally grown. Good wholesome food and lots of walking make for trim, good-looking citizens.
Flying first class was a real treat. Because Helene is an Air Canada retiree, she gets several passes each year, but she decided to splurge and use her guaranteed first-class tickets with me. We flew Halifax to Monteal and then to Paris. Great food. Good service. And a private cubicle that made into a bed. That's the way to go.
Helene and I spent six days and six nights in Paris, renting an apartment near the Temple Metro station, a half hour's brisk walk from Notre Dame. The apartment had a full kitchen, private bath, garden view, washer-dryer, and plenty of quiet. Perfect.
Getting all the Baxter boxes from the concierge to the apartment was quite an ordeal. After we'd settled in, we walked to Notre Dame, taking our time, as I was tired. We got really turned around on the two islands, walking and walking and coming back to the same spot an hour and a half later. Too many bridges. I began calling this area the Bermuda Triangle.
The next morning we explored the flea market. I was surprised to see so many black figurines, something that would have been considered racist in the States.
I spotted a man whom I considered handsome and pointed him out to Helene. I also thought that he looked like an older version of the archangel I'd seen 10 years ago. I really wanted his photograph and asked Helene if she'd ask him if it's OK. She was embarrassed, so I approached him. "S'll vous plait?" I asked, gesturing with my camera. At first he thought I wanted to take a photo of his artwork, but when he understood it was him I was interested in, he became a bit shy and said in French that no one had ever asked to take a picture of him before. I was upfront and told him that I had told my friend that I felt he was handsome and wanted to remember him. Rugged good looks. Hard to come by these days.
Speaking of good looks, it was such an incredible treat to be in country where people are trim and stylish! In the almost two weeks that I was in France, I saw perhaps a dozen heavy people, most of them Americans. The overweight French were nothing like overweight Americans. I mean, they were still walking around and doing chores, not confined to a scooter. In the States it is very difficult to find a man over 50 who is in shape. There, they were everywhere.
People walk instead of drive or take the Metro with its long flights of stairs. I didn't see any junk food or candy bars. If you want some chocolate, you go to a choclatier. It's a special treat, not something you mindlessly shove down your throat. Food tastes so much better because so much of it is organic and locally grown. Good wholesome food and lots of walking make for trim, good-looking citizens.
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