Year of the Dragon

It’s funny, the way we travel now. Most of the time, we go to places we have seen in movies and pictures, or at the very least read all about in a travel guide. There are, in theory, not many surprises, and few places are more predictable than Paris. I knew exactly what monuments I would see in this city, the names of the neighborhoods were familiar, and I could already imagine the smell of fresh baked baguette coming out of the ‘boulangeries’. I had this idea, coming to Paris, that it would be a little bit of a disappointment,  a sorry copy of its own cliche. 

I was so wrong. Paris has really managed to surprise me. It is bigger, more beautiful, and a little grungier than I expected. Primed by the disappointment of seeing things like the Statue of Liberty or the Disney World castle for the first time, a shrunken version of their own built-up image, I was prepared to feel the same here. Contrary to expectation, the Eiffel Tower was gigantic, and stunning when it sparkles at night, every hour on the dot. The galleries of the Louvre seemed positively infinite, and Versailles made my brain hurt with its unthinkable oppulence (I would have revolted too). 

I only had one week to explore Paris, but, in part because I was lucky to have friends that had already carved their place out in the city, and in part because I speak enough French to get over the big invisible barrier, I felt like I a got a much better crack at the soul of the city than I would have expected with just a week. 

I did not eat at any world-famous restaurants, and most of the great French food I had came in €0.85 still-warm baguette form. I did not wait in line to climb on top of the Eiffel Tower. And in fact, I may have been too cheap to hang out in the famous Montmartre cafes. But I had a midnight picnic and wine at the Channel St. Martin and tipsily rode public bikes at 2am with little hairy French guys yelling “Putain!”. I had coffee in tiny cups in the apartment of a gay vet that makes beautiful oil paintings at night and lives in a building with the smallest elevator I have ever seen. I had a little Asian girl tell me in impeccable French to ignore her little brother, who was just a baby speaking “gibberish,” when he tried to speak to me in what I presume to be some sort of Chinese. I walked past the open door of the apartment of an African immigrant family, where I saw at least 5 small children and their completely topless and very large mom yelling at them. I saw Indian women with bowls of fire on their heads. And most importantly, I had time to sit and stare in whatever garden or river bank I chose, for as many hours as I wanted, until I got sick of it. 

I like Paris. I like the deliberate aesthetic intention in everything she does. I like her creative vandalism. I like her wonderful postcards, and I like her interracial couples holding hands. 

But… on we go. Barcelona!

(Sorry for the long and pointless post. One gets bored in a 15 hour bus ride with weird men staring the whole way.)

I am staying at a friend’s apartment in the 18eme Arrondisement, one of the areas of Paris with the greatest concentration of immigrants. Today, the Hindu community celebrated the festival of Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of prosperity and good fortune.  

I had a dot drawn on my forehead with an orange unguent held in a coconut shell, I bought a garland of jasmine buds for my hair, and I had what seemed to me like some sort of Indian crepe for lunch. 

Check out some of the pictures. Hard to believe that was in Paris, right?

I especially like this one because the second woman looks like she is cooking a blonde baby in her fiery bowl. 

This dancer is not so happy at this point. He only has like 4 more hours to go. 

One of the traditions is the smashing of hundreds of coconuts in the street as an offering to Ganesha. I loved the sound of the smashing coconuts (also, perhaps a good name for a tropical cover band)

And this is what trying to take a look at the Mona Lisa looks like:

I was, of course, one of the hundreds of people using elbows and teeth to try to take a closer look. Yet 99% of us would not have glance twice if she weren’t the famous Mona Lisa. But why is she famous to begin with? Who decided this?

I honestly had more fun looking at the people trying to look at— no, take a picture of— her. I think she was pretty amused too.