Saturday, Feb 19 ---
--- I wake up, shake off the bits of sleep and hangover that are tickling my brain, chow on some breakfast, and then head off for a bus tour of the city. First we drive by the famed Moulin Rouge, which is right down the street from us, and learn that it was inaugurated in 1889, the same year as the Eiffel Tower, and it is one of the three windmills left in France (“Moulin Rouge” means “red windmill,” in French). The windmill used to be used for grain and flint grinding, and the road that leads directly to it got its name thusly: the merchants, when they would carry away carts of the gypsum ground there, often spilled some going down the hill and coated the road with white chunks of the rock, thus lending the road to be called Rue Blanche, or the White Road, a name that still stands today.
After some aimless meandering in Paris’ early morning traffic, we finally arrive at the first stop of the day, the famed Arc de Triumph, that sturdy gateway of the city. It’s 164 feet high, 147 wide, was built starting in 1806 under Napolean and finished in 1836. It has the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier underneath it, and is really a focal point of the city, with twelve main streets emanating from its suicidal roundabout (it’s so bad that insurance companies won’t cover any accidents that happen in it -- you just have to grin and bear it (or go get that bastard back. Either one...))
While continuing our cruise, we are bombarded with facts about the city of Paris itself: it holds 2.2 million people within its limits, and another 8 million outside of it. In all, 20% of the entire population of France lives right next to or in this legendary city. (I guess you’d call it Parisland, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Chicagoland.) The city is organized into 20 different districts, emanating out from the zero point just outside Notre Dame in a spiral shape, sort of like the petals of a flower (they call these arrondismos, and I’m sure I just butchered that spelling, so forgive me.)
Some more random facts about the town, in rapid fire procession: There are 164 museums in Paris, the last one coming this past November, and it’s appropriate to where I’m staying -- it’s just across the street -- the Museum of Erotic Art. The main waterway in town, the river Seine (sounds like Michael Jackson’s favorite rat, Ben), which is Latin for ‘serpentine,’ has an amazing 38 different bridges crossing it. Speaking of incredible numbers, there are 108 churches in town (the answer to today’s uncertain world of turmoil and conflict) and 41 McDonald’s (the answer to today’s uncertain world of gastrointestinal turmoil and conflict.)
The kids don’t go to school on Wednesday, but go on Saturday morning instead (“No cartoons for you, Pierre...) There are three Statues of Liberty in Paris, each of differing heights, including one in a garden and one on the river itself (the first sighting of one of these was quite a shock. Needless to say, I did a rather large double take) The city is divided into two stylistic halves -- the west with its modern buildings (including the Little Manhattan section on the outskirts of town, the only part of town where skyscrapers are allowed (and their definition of skyscraper makes me laugh. These things wouldn’t even come up to the shins of our giant, the good old Sears Tower.) and the east side, the historical side. The guillotine, that old plaything that’s so much fun you’ll lose your head, was given to France under the name of The Philanthropic Machine by Dr. Guillotine himself. (He found the machine in Italy where it was called The Infernal Machine.) Whew!
The next stop is the Eiffel Tower (long time, no see, buddy) and besides being built in 1889, here are some of the other facts we learn about it -- it’s 1050 feet high, has 1789 steps leading to the top, is made of 15,000 pieces of metal welded together, and weighs over 7000 tons. It was built for the World’s Fair in 1889 and was to be taken down two years later, but it made such an impression on the people -- you either loved it or hated it -- that they decided to let it stay standing. (On this point, Oscar Wilde has a great quote: “The best place to be in all of Paris is inside the Eiffel Tower. Why? Because that’s the only place in town where you can’t see it.” It gets repainted every seven years, and it takes roughly 60 tons of paint to complete the task (and 30 months of labor to go along with it.) For the big Millenium celebration, the Tower was covered with 100,000 little twinkling lights (the ones whose effects we saw last night) and they go off for the first five minutes of every hour.
After passing the Dome des Invalides, the place where Napoleon’s tomb is -- it’s a giant domed building, and the dome itself is covered with shiny gold leaf (problem is it’s so thin that it tarnishes and fades really quickly. They just finished regilting it a year or two ago, at a mammoth cost to the unhappy taxpayers, and it’s already starting to deteriorate again. Money well spent...) we make the final stop of the tour: Notre Dame, that famed cathedral of Quasimodo.
It was built in 1163 and finished in 1330, a very rapid construction indeed (most cathedrals of this stature took at least 200 years to complete. Its altar is oriented to the East, some say so it can face the rising sun, others so it can face the Holy Land of Jerusalem. “Notre Dame” means “our lady,” and is thus dedicated to Mary. It has statues of 28 Tudor kings on the west entryway (the heads of which got cut off and buried during the Revolution, only recently being retrieved), and it has three ornate rose stained glass windows, only one of which is the original (the one in the north of the building).
The way the building is set up, the south of the building gets direct sunlight, and thus the stained glass windows here have warmer colors and show scenes of the New Testament. The original window in the north, then, gets no direct sunlight and uses colder colors to show scenes of the Old Testament. And another interesting thing regarding these windows happens on June 21, I learn. This is when the summer solstice occurs, and for eight special seconds, the sun hits the window in such a way that the glass makes an egg appear on the ground, and then a red heart. And then it’s gone. One day a year, and for only eight seconds -- kinda cool.
After this, it’s off to the Pantheon, a massive building whose dome slightly resembles that of St. Paul’s in London. There are 22 columns in the front of the building, a place which is 360 feet long, 272 feet high, and the house of a bevy of great paintings, both in size and quality, upstairs (my favorites are the series on the demise of Joan of Arc) and a crypt in the basement that holds the tombs of several famous people, including Victor Hugo, Voltaire, and Emile Zola and the crypt is pretty creepy. It’s dimly lit, very cold, and some of the tombs are just downright eerie. They’re covered in flowers, pictures, medals, and others have nothing. Just dank, chilly silence.) The building upstairs is situated like a Greek cross (it used to be a church) and it is now a secular temple.
Next, it’s the mammoth museum, the Louvre. There are over 500,000 pieces here, enough to take you a lifetime to see, but I try to cram it all in in a matter of hours (and I see everything I want to, it’s just a matter of being selective.) It’s the largest collection in the world, one that is housed in a fortified palace built in 1190 and that was used as a king’s hideout in the Crusades. Louis XIV changed it in 1793 to its present state, and it houses a ton of great ancient art. This isn’t really my cup of tea, but there’s so much here, it’s impossible not to find something that you like. There are the quartet of Archimboldo’s, a strange group of quasi-portraits where the faces are made out of fruits. Pretty neat. There’s the Nike of Samothrace, a cool winged statue with no head that sits atop a great staircase. There’s the Venus de Milo. The Mona Lisa. And tons of others. The museum closing, I stagger to the door, passing by the giant glass pyramids that sit in the middle of the grand plaza of the building outside (these really are kind of ugly and out of place. They seem to fit in as well as Luciano Pavarotti at a Marilyn Manson concert) and head off to dinner.
Where, in this storied city, do I decide to hang my hat and gobble some grub? One of the 41 -- McDonald’s, of course. (Now don’t laugh -- I had to hurry to meet some people, and this was the fastest way to eat. So stop it. Seriously. STOP!) I have the Massive Man Meal (they don’t really call it that, but they should -- look at all the food I get!) -- a Big Mac, cheeseburger, fries, and a drink -- and eat it in a hurry. This is one of the nicest McD’s I’ve ever eaten at -- polished wooden walls, marble decorations, pictures of jazz greats on the wall -- quite cool.
I rush off to meet some people in the shadow of the Tower and then we go on a canal cruise. It’s a bit chilly (I have frostbitten nipples for the next two days, which is really quite unpleasant. Every little movement sends those buggers into “Owie” mode. They’re sensitive little things...), but quite beautiful. We learn more of the same from the bus tour, but it’s nice and relaxing to be on the water and it’s a rather pleasant evening out as well.
After this, it’s off to drink some more overpriced beers while listening to our good friend Thomas play. This guy is just great. We close the place down this time, staying until four in the morning and leaving exceedingly drunk. The best part was that as the night wore on, we started to get everyone to sing along to the songs -- and I mean everyone, Americans and Parisians alike -- at the top of their lungs. We were all standing there in drunken circles, belting out classics at high decibels, and Thomas just loved it. F.W. De Clerque, the former sovereign of South Africa, was there (I swear to GOD it was him. He looked exactly the same -- he was white, he was a man, he was balding -- it was him.) and I got him to stand up and sway drunkenly with us while singing “It’s the End of the World as we Know it.”
Then, to take the evening to another level, Billy, our wee Scottish tour guide walked in, and we proceeded to get him blitzed on Guinness and singing along with us (best memory of this was Billy and I standing there next to Thomas, the three of us belting out Janis’ classic “Bobby McGee” while the rest of the place joined in. Awesome.) As the bar finally closed -- the manager actually forced people out and turned off Thomas’ mic so we would leave. (How stupid is this? The bar is full of people buying drink after overpriced drink and you actually want them to leave? “Roger, we’ve got a Section 4.18 spotted in Sector 9 -- that’s right, a Big Dumb Idiot has been located -- over.”) -- we get congratulated by a bunch of different Frenchmen on our partying capability. Honest. “You guys really know how to have a good time. You’re the best!” Needless to say, that’s the first time I’ve actually been complimented on being a big, drunken idiot...
Sunday, Feb 20 ---
---Not much to report today as we leave the city rather early. I wake up, have some grub (and some much needed liquids -- I’m a little rough around the edges today. (Luckily, Billy is, too. I see him and a big grin comes across his face. “How are ye, pallie?” “I’m hurting a little, Billy. You?” “Ay, my head feels fuzzier than a cotton ball right now.” Thank goodness. (He does make a god point, too. He tells me that it’s good to have evenings like that from time to time -- “You don’t want to be lying on your deathbed and thinking, ‘Shite. I really wish I would have done this. Or that.’” So true -- that’s pretty much my mantra for living: no regrets.)
After this, we run off to the Musee d’ Orsay, the great impressionist Orsay Museum. This is situated in an old train station and is filled with great sculptures and paintings, including a slew of great Degas’, Van Gogh’s, Toulouse-Lautrec’s, Renoir’s, Monet’s, and Pissarro’s. Degas’ paintings really grew on me, as did Monet’s (I never have been all that fond of them, but that’s slowly changing), and you get to see such classics as Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles, one of his Self Portraits, and Whistler’s Mother. Very cool. (Another interesting sight is the works of Jacek Manczewski, who has to be the world’s most egotistical painter -- he’s in virtually every one of his paintings. And not hidden in the back, almost obscured from view -- that would be a rather forgivable sin. No, he’s right in the center, big as can be, almost daring us not to look at him. He does this in at least three dozen paintings, if not more. Now that takes some brass...)
I grab a hot dog in a baguette, run past the endless used book dealers on the side of the Seine (too bad they’re all in French -- I could have spent days looking at all their stuff) and jump on the bus. A short drive and ferry ride later, we’re back in London, and I’m back in bed, exhausted, as usual.
Tuesday, February 22 ---
--- Start today rather than going to work by going to an art exhibition opening at the National Gallery. Entitled Seeing Salvation and housing various works on the representation of Christ throughout time, I get to see it before it’s open to the public. It’s hosted by a BBC TV man who hosts the television special by the same name (a delightful chap I talk up, only later finding out his true identity) and is split up into seven differently themed rooms.
Here’s what I learn: there were no images of Christ in Judaism or in Roman religion, only symbols. The pictures of Him as a distinguishable man come thanks to Catholicism. The earliest representations of Him are found in a Roman catacombs from around 200AD, and it contained the symbol of the Good Shepherd, a popular representation of a man with sheep around him, and often one slung over his shoulder. (There also was a symbol of a fish, another popular representation of Him, but the usage of a lamb to represent Him doesn’t come until later.) (Another popular symbol is that of the Greek letters chi and rho overlapping each other inside a circle, often with the letters alpha and omega, one on each side, which represent the beginning and the end, and thus Christ fills everything in between. (The reason for chi and rho is they’re the first two letters of His name in Greek.))
I pass by Hunt’s Light of the World painting, a nifty work of a man, supposed to be Christ, knocking on a closed door with a lantern in his hand. This is made even more interesting thanks to the symbolism held within -- the closed door is said to represent the closed mind of so many people, the bat flying around in the background is said to be the ignorance of said people, and the weeds surrounding the door are to be representative of the neglect these people exhibit.
Other symbolism I learn of include the triple threat of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, which represent kingship, divinity, and death (since myrrh is an ancient embalming substance), respectively. Swords in certain religious paintings are to represent justice, while lilies are to be mercy. I see the earliest portrayal of a crucifixion, a tiny ivory thing that once was on the side of a relic, and dates back to 420AD. And I also learn a little of my heritage -- Ludolph of Saxony was a 14th century mystic involved in some of these paintings. Good old Gramps...
After this, it’s off to work for all of an hour, and then I’m off to Stringfellow’s, a strip club that is throwing a lingerie party. (I don’t know why they sent me here, but once I see the girls walking around in their underwear, I stop asking questions.) I start off standing there, trying not to ogle the women, but having a hard time from helping myself. I’m just eating the appetizers they’ve got and drinking the free champagne (which I normally don’t like, but it tastes pretty good, is supposed to be expensive, and is completely free, so what the hell?)
Getting tired of standing there looking like an idiot, I start talking to some of the waiters. “Do you like working here?” (at which I get a shocked look of disbelief on their faces. “Um, hello? Do you see what we get to look at while we work? Most people stare at PCs all day -- I get to stare at nice Cs and Ds.” Good point...)
After this, the champagne starting to kick in (along with more boredom and frustration -- how can I look at the girls without looking like a lecher? Impossible? Oh well, then stare away...) I start talking to some of the business people that are there. They turn out to be the designers, manufacturers, and distributors of the products the girls are wearing, and after chatting up the CEO, the chief designer, and several other noteworthy people, I realize I’ve run out of people to talk to.
Not true, I realize. There’s one group of very important people I’ve been neglecting -- the girls. The champagne really starting to take hold and my inhibitions rapidly departing, I brassly walk up to one of the hot girls not dancing and begin to talk. Long story short, I got her number (Bridget from Sweden -- a lovely girl. Kudos on the clothes...) and chatted up about a dozen other girls by the end of the night, including the Angel of the Year (apparently the title for the best table dancer of the year) and the club owner himself (who liked me so much, he invited me back for dinner that night.)
I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Why? I had a concert to go to -- the Counting Crows at the Royal Albert Hall, that circular concert venue in town. The show was stellar -- they played all my favorites, their rarer tracks that the MTV clan doesn’t know of -- and I slide back to the box after quite a day indeed.