I clearly made that statistic up, but really, it's kind of incredible. I'm not sure if people kiss in public in Paris because they're just that in love and passionate or because they feel some kind of obligation--"Hey, we're in Paris, it's just what you do". The department of tourism probably pays people to do it just to keep up the image...
Before getting to Paris, of course, I had to be driven to the train station and take a train to Le Mans, where I had a two hour layover before the train to Paris. And frankly, I was incredibly bored. It was a sleepy Sunday morning, and there were very few people on the streets. I walked around a bit, but there wasn't much to see except a street full of toy shops.
Finally my two hours in purgatory were over, and I arrived in Paris in the early evening. I went to where I was staying, outside the city in Achères--about 30 minutes by train. My grandmother's cousin's daughter (3rd cousin?) Dina lives there with her boyfriend Marc. My plan for Paris was to see a few friends and get my Russian tourist visa (fingers crossed). I went into the city Sunday night and met two friends from college, Maddy and Stevo. Maddy is an au pair outside the city and Stevo teaches English at a high school on the south side of the city.
We met at Place St. Michel, near Notre Dame, and then found a nice cafe next to the Seine for dinner. I was able to look out the window straight up at the cathedral, lit up for the night. After dinner, we went to a store to take advantage of the legality of drinking in public. We bought some nice French beers and wine and began walking along the Seine.
A long way from Evanston
In Paris, there are normal sidewalks beside the road next to the river, but there are also wide walkways below that, closer to the river, that were built during the time when commercial boats filled the Seine. The giant iron rings used to tie boats up remain in the walls though primarily unused. Now, most of the boats moored on the Seine are the gigantic tourboats, and at night the walkways are mostly empty. We walked along, listening to a far off saxophonist and catching up on things as we passed below some of Paris' innumerable bridges.
Eventually, it was time to head back, and I made my way to the station to get back to Achères. After all, I had to get up early the next morning if I was going to get my visa.
Acting on what turned out to be faulty information, I headed into the heart of Paris at around 9:30 to find the Russian consulate. I arrived at an area full of gendarmes (police) who had set up gates around several of the embassies for some reason. But none of them seemed to know where the Russian embassy was... Eventually I went to the American embassy to find out where to go.
I talked to the first doorman, and he didn't know where to find the Russian embassy. He had a book with embassy information in it, but it only listed the address of the embassy of the U.S.S.R. It was out on the edge of Paris.
Wanting to point him towards a newspaper stand to discover how much had changed in the last twenty years since he got a new book, I continued to the embassy itself to get a definitive answer. They looked through my bag and took out my camera, my memory card reader, and the bottle of Listerine I had bought that morning. God forbid I freshen anybody's breath.
I continued inside with the rest of my bag and took a number. I told the woman in the room that I wasn't there for visa services or adoption services or political asylum, but just to look up the address of the Russian consulate in their database. She still made me sit and wait like everyone else. When I got to the window I stated my request, and then waited for ten minutes while she typed a bit, then called someone, then typed a bit more, then printed out NINETEEN pages of information on Russia, highlighted the address on the first page, and pushed the whole mess out to me.
Smiling politely through gritted teeth, I saw that it was the address on the edge of town. A couple metro lines and a 15 minute walk later, I was standing in front of a locked door. The time? 12:25. Hours for visa services? 9:00-12:00. Merde.
I slowed my breathing a little and thought things through. I wasn't leaving till the evening on the 6th, so I could go the next morning. At least I knew where it was now.
I had planned to meet up with another friend (Peter, a counselor from camp who is teaching English in the countryside) on his way through Paris at 2:00, so I went there and we talked for an hour until his next train was set to depart. Then I made my way to a pre-arranged meeting point with Stevo.
We decided to look around Monmartre, home of the Moulin Rouge and Sacre Coeur. The light began to fade, so we climbed the hill for this:
All those people are sitting on the steps listening to a French guy do an abominable version of "Imagine".
But really more for this:
The area was filled to the brim with tourists at this point, and to get this particular view, off to the side of Sacre Coeur, people (including me) were climbing up on a fence like rabid dogs.
Stevo does a great impression of a tourist.
Maybe that's an overstatement, but I felt extremely self-conscious of how touristy I was being.
We walked down the hill and more to the west to see a little bit of the Montmartre Cemetery. Paris has four or five enormous cemeteries, each amazingly ornate--each tomb is a work of art.
As nighttime was fast approaching, the cemetary was closing, so we made our way out and walked down the main drag of the Red Light District. Since we didn't feel like paying 100 Euros for the Moulin Rouge revue, we found a nice bar/cafe/disco to have a drink before I had to leave for my other dinner plans.
If you notice, my camera did the right thing and focused on the sex show place behind us instead of us.
For dinner, I had gotten in touch with a woman who was a conselor at my camp when I was 12. I saw her last when I was 14, so it had been 8 years, more than a third of my life, since I had seen Gaelle. She works for Le Monde, the biggest French newspaper, now. She invited me to a small, out of the way restaurant where she and her husband Guillaume are friends with the owner/bartender. It was fantastic to see her again--we had a lot to catch up on and we talked as quickly in French as I could to cram it all in.
I had rabbit for the first time, in an incredible sauce with mashed potates and bread on the side. We had an apertif, some great wine, and an apple liquer to finish. To top it off, the owner picked up the bill and threw it in the trash. Too cool.
8 years ago, I was considerably shorter than Gaelle...
It was fantastic to speak that much French, and to feel myself improving at an amazing rate. I felt the same way with Lucie, where sometimes I couldn't remember if we had been talking in English or French--an exhilirating feeling.
I said goodbye to Gaelle and Guillaume with reluctance and went to catch the train back to Dina's apartment.
The next day, I had a date with destiny. And Russia.
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