Day 4 - Paris: New friends, new questions, and new threats.

It's day four and I'm out of clean clothes. After a frustrated attempt to do laundry in my room's sink I decide to walk to the nearest laundromat in hopes of getting it wrapped up quickly, meet some people, and possibly catch up on the blog.

The laundromat was small and all the signs were in French but after struggling through the operation of the machines with the help of the app Word Lens (expect a review soon) I was up and running. Fortunately this place isn't very busy at the hour I went there so I was able to sneak off the pair of underwear I was wearing and throw on my workout shorts I was using for pajamas without any fanfare. While the wash ran I walked to the nearby bakery to buy a baguette, a bottle of water and hopefully get some change to use for the dryer.

Farmer tan pride.

When I returned an old man who either was either partially blind or illiterate asked me for help with the machines. I demonstrated my process, gave him my extra tab of soap, and split the baguette and water with him. Grateful, he raised his bottle to mine to toast. We laughed and I resumed my writing.

Another fellow hostel mate from New Zealand came in a few minutes later and also requested my help with the machines. While assisting him a local gentleman (who requested that I not use his real name on the blog who will here-forth known as "Guy") looked up and asked if I was American. We began talking and we each revealed that we worked in technology; he in marketing and I in operations. I won't go into detail of our shop talk but it was clear that we had very similar views on innovation and workplace culture.

Guy then asked about my trip, where I had been and where I was going. I asked him for advice, stating that I was seeking places most tourists would never go. He recommended a laundry list of places and restaurants I should visit. Most notable of his suggestions were a Paris restaurant called "Le Petit Zinc" and a town by the name of "Auxerre," where I could find a place to rent a bicycle to ride through the country towards the vineyards. We exchanged information stating that we "definitely should meet again."

One of the last things Guy mentioned was that I should avoid the buses today because of a protest that would be taking place near Invalides. Walking back towards the hostel I noticed a long line of white vans along the road with police standing outside of them, riot police. I requested a photo of them with their vans but they quickly declined and asked me to leave, which I did.

Curious about the protest I took the metro to as close to Invalides as I could. While walking towards the monument I noticed a lot more police setting up as if there were going to be several thousand people here. Police stand at each border entrance to the monument grounds, denying access to anyone with protest materials including t-shirts or signs. Tourists flow in and out of monuments and meet no resistance. I snap a few photos of the police presence from a distance; they notice me but do not abandon their posts.

I take a moment to speak with a few people with organizer shirts that read "logistics" across their backs. I ask them about the nature of their protest to which they claim it is to express frustration about the recent law that was passed by their president legalizing homosexual marriage in France. I asked if the protest was against gay marriage to which they responded: "We support gay marriage. We are protesting because there wasn't any kind of debate regarding the law, it was dictated." They then offered me a shirt and sign to join their protest. I declined citing that I should not become involved with a cause that I don't fully understand the nature of. A good personal rule that has served me well over the years.) I wish them the best and move on.

For the last day or so I had been suffering from a sore throat and runny nose. Out of fear that I was getting sick I decided to duck into a pharmacy to buy some drugs to relieve my symptoms and a multivitamin suppliment since my diet has been fairly meager since my arrival. I sit down on the bench across the street from the police and pop one of the chewable multivitamins in my mouth and begin to chew. I lose myself in my thoughts about the iminnent protest. I prepare to swallow the masticated bits of vitamin when I feel a tingling sensation.....

These aren't chewables, they're seltzer tabs.

I spit the foaming tabs on the ground and imagine the hillarity which might have ensued had I swallowed the tablet. "A strange man photographing police before a protest falls over vomiting foam." What could possibly go wrong? I chuckle at my ignorance and recklessness in not reading the label.

I continue on to the Eiffel Tower to cross it off my bucket list as well as to view the protest. (What better vantage point is there than a 360 degree view of the city at was once the top of the man-made world?) After 40 minutes of pushing my way through the ticket line and the train of people between me and the top, I made it to the summit.

I snap a few photos of the different arms of the march converging on Invalides and a few of myself. In the distance I hear a speech taking place were I originally photographed the protest setup. I decide Iit's time to get moving before anything gets crazy as the march continues on.

Several people leave locks with their names etched in them towards the top.

Obligatory.

 

Back on the surface, the protest's chants and cries thunder over the tourist buzz as cars with loudspeakers blast upbeat music between organizers' chants. I pause to take a few photographs and some video, doing my best to capture the event to share with my readers. I still don't understand the full nature of their protest but I fear that is likely due to this argument being more complicated than the one we are having in the states. Suggestions of this complication come from the signs people are carrying many with Darth Vader's face and others featuring pregnant women with washing machine doors on their abdomens with pricetags. What do either of these images have to do with marriage equality?

A quick selfie during a break in the protest march.

Feeling overwhelmed by the protestors and tourists, I decide to take advantage of the perfect weather by revisiting Promenade Plantée, this time starting in Bastille and walking to the end. As I wait for the next subway train I notice a man dressed in what appears to be a military uniform, not fatigues but more like an officer's uniform. A few minutes later he arrived at my platform. I greet him and ask if he's part of the military. He lets out a loud laugh and replies, "I'm a colonel in the Empire's navy, headed to a convention!" After a quick salute and photo-op, I shout "HAIL LORD VADER!" as he boards the train. He laughs and returns my salute as his train pulls away.

For those who have been to Paris but have never ventured to Bastille, you have done yourself a great disservice. Bastille, while on many tourist maps, does not seem to pull much of a tourist crowd. The vast majority of the people I saw appeared to be locals just getting out to enjoy the day.

Against the Seine river is a rectangular platform where a group of skateboarders are riding around, practicing kick-flips, jumping the stairs, and other casual tricks. I pause for a few minutes to watch them and escape my thoughts regarding the protest. If you didn't already know, I LOVE watching skateboarding. Skateboarders are a great example of how I try to view the world. They scan their surroundings through a completely different lens; where most people see a curb, stair, or handrail, they see something completely different and then wonder, "How can I ride my wooden toy down that?" It's a beautiful process to watch.

Checking the time, I decide it's time to grab a beer and relax for a few minutes before starting my hike. I spot an "American" pub on the corner and decide to give it a try. I order a berry flavored Affligem beer (my second beer by this brand, still delicious) and sit down to take in the atmosphere. Playing loudly from the speakers overhead is a medley of Michael Jackson, Cee Lo Green, and The Clash. As I pay the bill, Tenacious D's "Fuck her gently" plays uncensored. I chuckle and take it all in while doing my best to not sing along: An American pub with a motif similar to Red Robin that doesn't sell American beer, resides in Paris, and is playing one of the crudest (my favorite) songs to come out of the USA in the last 20 years. Odd place.

Surprisingly the French have a similar level of pen technology.

I leave the pub and find the entrance to Promenade Plantée, which is easy to miss if you aren't looking for it. As explained in an earlier blog post, back in 1984 the Bastille train station was demolished so that the Bastille Opera could be built in its place. The remaining railway was eventually repurposed as a walking path. The first portion of the path is about 50ft above the street on a concrete platform. The pathway is surrounded by greenery and flowers and segments are interrupted with archways and benches.

As I walk the path I lose myself in how peaceful it is. Friends gather for a late Sunday afternoon stroll, families take their children out to play on their scooters, and lovers lay in each other's laps on the nearby benches. This is the true Paris: people finding harmony in what could easily be mistaken for a cold, lonely, and depressing city. Monuments and carbon-dated messes of paint can only tell you so much.

After 3 miles of walking and taking in the diverse scenery provided by Promenade Plantée I reached its end. I looked up directions to the closest metro station and started making my way in that direction. Along the way I smiled and greeted a man sitting on a bench, "Bonjour!" The man returned the greeting, smiled, and asked where I was from in very broken english. I paused and told him I was from the states and that I was on a trip through Europe. We introduced ourselves (for the sake of this story I'll be referring to him as "Paco") and chatted briefly until he invited me to his apartment for a beer. Tired, thirsty and excited to meet yet another local, I accepted his offer.

The two of us walked back to his apartment building which by the looks of it could be over 100 years old (obviously not uncommon in this part of the world) and had a decent sized courtyard garden that all of the units faced. We arrived at his place. I took my shoes off out of respect and set them next to my bag by the door. Paco gave me a tour of his apartment which wasn't messy but definitely had the markings of a bachelor. I asked if he was married to which he quickly responded "it's complicated." Fair enough, it's none of my business.

Paco then went to work on making a margarita for me while we continued to stumble through our conversation of shattered english, french and spanish. He ushers me to the couch, we toast, and continue talking. As the conversation progressed, Paco began making casual advances towards me such as brushing my arm and trying to tickle me. He asked if it was ok to which I expressed discomfort in hopes that it would stop and that we could resume talking about our lives and culture.

Paco nodded as if he understood he was making me uncomfortable but then became more forward in his advances. I continue to deflect as it becomes very apparent that I have made a terrible mistake coming here. Maintaining my casual demeanor and keeping him occupied answering stock questions I scan the room for anything out of the ordinary or dangerous which is when I notice the bottle of lotion and roll of tissue sitting inches from my drink on the coffee table. He shifts his body closer to me, breaking my view of the door.

"Yes, I enjoy skiing," I reply while doing my best to plan for the worst case scenario while at the same time blocking out images of Zed's dungeon in Pulp Fiction. My passport, iPad, camera, wallet....everything is in my bag, I can't leave it. Shoes? Throw them over the wall towards the promenade and recover them after you escape. Avoid breaking any glass since you're barefoot. Position your foot behind his, use your height and weight to push him over while covering your torso. Keep hands close to disable any kind of weapons. Use elbow strikes to the face to cause the most damage with the fewest number of blows. Be quick, efficient, methodic, and don't stop moving. Nobody knows I'm here. Nobody will come looking for me. I AM ALONE.

Baffled by how the scope of this shared cocktail has gained the potential for some of the most brutal violence I have ever intended upon someone, I take a breath and explain to my host, "I'm sorry but I have a dinner date in fifteen minutes. I must be going." As he fails to stall me and generate further conversation, I already had my shoes on, drink finished, and bag on my shoulder before he could finish his sentence. I wave goodbye and begin to run towards whatever people I could find. Get me out of this place. I need a friend. Where's Romy?

When I reach the hostel I am still shaken by the day's events. I roll a cigarette from the tobacco I had been carrying to share with people, (Relax, I don't generally smoke. Rolling a cigarette allows more time to start a conversation than just handing one off in exchange for a simple "thanks".) and contemplate on the hostel steps. New connections, confusing protests and imagery, the French aligning with the Empire, and the harsh (yet necessary) reminder that I am alone.

 

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Day 3 - Paris: Forging a New Friendship

After another sleepless night provided by the booking fiasco combined with my still-adjusting sleep schedule I shambled downstairs where I met with Romy for breakfast. After a brief shared rant about the events from the prior evening she offered that I accompany her to a few monuments, museums, as well as meet with her boyfriend's sister Stefi around 3pm.

Our first destination was Les Deux Magots, a cafe which was a popular destination for many famous figures of including American author Ernest Hemmingway. Today, the cafe survives as a hot spot for tourists looking to experience a piece of classic French culture. Romy, however, has an even deeper connection to the spot as 20 years ago she had her photo taken in front of the cafe with her mother and sister. Per her request, I took a similar photo of her in front of the cafe. You will find the two photos below.

Romy in 1993

Romy in 2013

After a short drink at a nearby cafe to savor the temporary nice weather, the two of us set off towards the Louvre museum through the beautiful Jardin des Tuileries. Along the way we continue to talk about our lives, the things we appreciate about Paris, and poke fun at the "achievement" tourists who run up to a monument, take a photo and sprint to the next one as if on some global scale scavenger hunt. Deep into our conversation, Romy walks right into a deep puddle to which I inquire if they have puddles in Argentina; she assures me they do not.

As we approach the Louvre's main entrance we see a large crowd gathered. Pushing our way through to get a view we discover that a Dutch men's choir is performing on the street.

Looking to kill some more time we sit on one of the walls between the Royal Palace and the Louvre's glass pyramid entrance, we have a small snack and chuckle at tourists snapping the stock "pinching the pyramid" photo. After a short wait we are joined by Stefi and the three of us set off to find a more substantial meal than the hostel croissants I had been carrying.

Romy attempting to catch an invisible something.

Our next stop was Centre Pompidou, a beautiful industrial-style building made of glass and metal which housed multiple modern art exhibits and film screening rooms. This was by far the most impressive overall collection of modern art I have seen in Europe. The variety is unmatched ranging from product design to wild sculptures to confusing paintings to sickening interactive exhibits. The exhibits constantly remind me of my unmatched freedom that comes at the cost of loneliness as well as the ways technology and design have leapt forward so much far forward that our society struggles to keep pace. We forget that we too are animals evolving in this world which is expressed in our thoughts and tools. If you love modern art then come spend a day here, it's very thought provoking yet grounding.

Artist: Simon Hantaï

HP Designed Watch

Distracted by the exhibits and they by their conversation, I lose the girls and have trouble contacting them with my flaky mobile connection. It is late in the day and the rain has once again returned so I stroll past Palais de Justice (Paris' justice department and monument) and St. Chapelle to catch the metro back to the hostel.

I check into my new room and greet my new roommates, three American girls in their early 20s (Alex, Kay, and Tampi) who had went their separate ways but were reunited for the sake of their trip. I introduce myself, joke around a bit, and overhear that they're trying to find something to do with their evening besides drink in the hostel room. I offer up Batofar from the previous evening which is an instant sale.

I lead them towards Batofar, shooting the obligatory "girl trip" pics, and finally made our way into the club. Tonight's event is UK electronica label "Fat Records'" release party. The music was vastly different from the previous night (90's alternative) and consisted of smooth electronic tracks with occasional jumpy and exciting moments. The crowd wasn't as big as the previous night which left a lot more room for me to dance like the imbicile I am. After a few hours of the four of us dancing akwardly we decide it is time to head home and get some rest for another big day of Paris.

A relaxing view from the deck of Batofar

Tomorrow I will say goodbye and likely never see them again. Have fun girls and be safe.

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Day 2 - Paris: Party on a Boat.

Despite having yet another near-sleepless night, I had ambitions to knock out the Lovré and whatever other points of interest nearby I could find. After a quick breakfast, I sailed the subterranean sea of rails over to the museum only to find that the rain had come back which, unfortunately, didn't deter other fellow tourists.

Tired, cold, grumpy, and resistant to the idea of standing in line in the rain for 20 minutes I decided to try to find a reasonably priced cafe nearby. (Spoiler: There aren't any.) Per the recommendation of my friend Alisa I sought out Angelina's which turned out to be one of the less expensive cafes in the area where you can buy a standard croissant for ONLY five Euro!

After turning down that mind blowing bargain (not bitter at all) I decided to channel my rage towards absorbing what I could at one of Paris' many modern art museums. I set sail for for Musée d' Art Moderne which was a bit of a gamble because it required a little over a kilometer of walking plus the frustrating search for the metro station that would get me there. Their signs for the metro seem to differ depending on which arrondissement you're in, but I'm still not even sure if that's entirely true.

Upon arriving at my metro destination on Champs Elesees I noticed a beautiful frosted glass storefront adorned with a massive Mercedes logo, it was the Mercedes Gallery. Deciding to take another detour to avoid the humbling precipitation I indulged my inner petrolhead and design snob.

Inside, I found not just beautiful cars but also many other examples of Mercedes' uncompromising design including clothing, scale models, timepieces, badges, and countless other items that a Mercedes fan would drool over -new and old. Along with the displays were passages from a story about a young princess riding a 12-cylinder "beast" through the Black Forest in the face of trolls and giants where her potential suitors lacked the courage to venture. Marketing? Definitely, but well worth the experience. It's free and you should definitely go if you're in the area. Using unknowing tourists as models for prepping my tripod I quickly hit the timer, pushed them aside and took a couple fun photos. At first they were puzzled but when the flash went off they had a good laugh as did I.

Being an American tourist in Europe I'm finding the fastest way to squash any feelings of resentment is to be polite, humble, and not be afraid to make jokes at your own expense. Contrary to popular belief, the French like Americans, just not loud obnoxious ones which, unfortunately, are the ones who are most easily noticed. Too complicated? Lets dumb it down: Don't act like an asshole.

After finishing my photo shoot at the Mercedes Gallery I continued my trek to my destination only to be distracted momentarily by a supposedly aftermarket-tuned Fiat 500:

Hustling along, I arrived at Museè de Moderne which happened to be next to Palais de Tokyo, another art gallery. I poked my head into Palais de Tokyo to see what they had and found that the majority of the building was under renovation, however, Chanel had turned the upstairs into one of a five part exhibit which is scattered throughout Paris. This particular exhibit featured the five primary components of their fragrance "Chanel no. 5" which could be examined individually on stainless steel platters that had been exposed to their oils. Accompanying the scent components were samples of the source flowers, spices, etc as well as numerous art related books which were available for the public to thumb through.

Upon exhausting what the Chanel exhibit had to offer I went next door to my intended destination, Musée d'Art Moderne. I purchased a ticket to access all of their exhibits, which for more dedicated art buffs might have been worth the extra 4 euro but I found that one collection, Keith Haring, overshadowed the other two exhibits.

If you are unfamiliar with Keith Haring (http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith_Haring) he was an artist and activist in the 1980's who contributed to campaigns such as technology robbing us of our humanity, the plague of crack cocaine, AIDS awareness, racism, and sexuality equality. The exhibit consisted of extensive examples of his street art, murals, and sculptures; partitioned based on the cause they were most representative of. The most sobering of the sections was the one associated with his personal battle with AIDS, ending with a seemingly half-finished painting to represent his inevitable untimely death; "heart-wrenching" doesn't even begin to describe it. Below are a few shots I took of his work.

And here are some the other exhibits and one of me standing in front of the pools behind the museum:

 

After a quick snack in the museum cafe I walked in the rain through the gardens towards the Eiffel Tower. Along the way I snapped a candid photo of some vendors walking home from the tower. Upon arriving on the tower I immediately gave up my sight seeing for the day due to the overwhelming rain and tourists. Rain + bitchy tourists = a bad time.

One of the best choices I made regarding this trip was that I planned to not plan. This meant no extended stays were booked at hostels so that if I wished I could stay in different neighborhoods in Paris if I wished or if I had a bad experience at a hostel I could easily get out of that situation the following day. Fortunately the second hostel I found, "Oops Hostel," had been pretty good so far so I decided to book another couple nights but was told that no one room had consistent availability meaning I would have to change rooms and roommates every day. While they saw this as an inconvenience I saw it as an opportunity to meet more fellow travelers and hear their stories.

Unfortunately my new roommates weren't terribly social with me, especially the fashion designer from Dallas, TX. Fortunately the Swiss roommate, Fabio, who she had been chatting up wasn't as cold and allowed me to poach him from her to go to dinner with my friend from the previous night, Romy of Argentina, who also happened to be born in Switzerland. We shared a bottle of wine on the patio of a nearby cafe, shared stories, joked around, and shared a post-meal cigarette. (Relax friends and family, I don't smoke.)

Contrary to my plan for not planning I DID do a small amount of research on dance clubs in Paris and found one in particular that was popular with locals and had a unique venue. Batofar (http://batofar.org) is a restaurant, venue, and night club located on a boat (motherfucker) in the Seine river that flows through Paris. I bought two tickets with the intention that I would invite a guest and fortunately I was able to convince Fabio to accompany me. (Romy would have joined but we were unsure if tickets were available at the door.)

My breach of the "not planning" rule paid off as Batofar ended up being better than I could have imagined. The DJs were incredible, playing a mix of 90's and early 2000's alt-rock. Folks who grew up listening to Portland's 94.7 would have wept sweet tears of awesome at the spectacle. The DJ booth was front and center with TVs relaying an overhead view of their DJ kit. As the night went on the crowd grew in numbers and blood alcohol content the dancing got wilder causing the boat to lean side to side in the water, a feature that traditional dance floors are desperately lacking.

Around 4:30 am Fabio and I decided that we should probably head home and get some rest despite the 6am end time for the club. (Nobody, in my experience, knows how to party like the French.) We hailed a cab since the metro closes down at 1 am and for an insignificant 7 Euro we got home safely.

A long day capped with booze and hours of dancing like a white person, which apparently is the style here (Grinding is replaced with no-holds-barred PDA.), resulted in the best four hours of sleep to date.

Yeah, four hours. Party on.

Some shots of Batofar:

Random guy I convinced to take a photo with me.

 

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