Holy Crepe

I don't think that ever in my life have I seen a city as beautiful as Paris.

Everything drips elegance, even the subways have enormous advertisements placed within yellow ceramic frames. The metro itself was so easy to use, I've never enjoyed spending so much time in the basement of a city before, if that's any way to call it. Another thing I noticed was that there were actually kids my age as well as children. In Florence there is, unfortunately, a decreasing population--all the younger generations move away and have children somewhere far from this tourist town. Being in Paris, it was so heart warming to be reminded that out there in the world there are laughing six year olds kicking soccer balls between the trees and babies rolled up like scrumptious little pastries in their pink and cream blankets, being strolled down the wide, open streets under such wide open skies.

Starting at the beginning, my class and I took the night train which was not my favorite mode of transportation. The second we stepped up into the narrow hallway of the train car we were overwhelmed and overtaken by the strongest, thickest air reeking of body odor, cigarette smoke and piss. Not surprising, we had been placed in a car full of rowdy French high school students on their way back from a trip to Florence. Feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable as I squoze my body and my bags past the hall lined with rambunctious Parisians, I was delightfully surprised to find that my particular cabin was occupied by three of their elderly professors who were much less smelly and much more polite. A few very curious and odorous of their students came in after a length, leaning in the doorway and falling into our room to see if they could get a rise out of my very valley girl roommates while I hid behind my book- nose plugged, in the corner. Linguistic skills being tried, it wasn't long before we ran out of things to talk about so we pulled down the seats, turning them into bunks, and attempted sleep- this was a trial of its own. I spent the first twenty minutes listening to the sounds of the creaking, shuddering train and the snores of the large professor on the top bunk before remembering my iPod in my bag below me. After the third song faded I lost track of the lyrics and was out like a light... well... at least on and off like one.

9 AM we arrived at the station, jammed ourselves into the metro car, fell out of it at Poissonere and walked to our hotel. Unfortunately for us, with our hair askew and our bodies nearing the aroma of our train companions, the rooms weren't ready. We changed quickly in the restroom, a group of twenty or so girls, and left our bags to head out immediately for lunch and then our FIVE HOUR TOUR OF THE LOUVRE. As we approached the building stretching along the bank of the Seine, I was really overcome with the grandeur and beauty of this city. Everything was so... Graceful, even glorified in the most decadent but not gaudy kind of way. We could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower just over the buildings to the other side, each one of us jumping and pointing, squealing and even spinning in circles when it came into view. "There it is! There it is, can you see it?" I felt like I was a kid lost within the endless wonders of a Chucky Cheese playground, but better.

The great glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre was just within the arch of the building, reflecting the bit of sun that was fighting its way through. Our tour was a blur, and being so tired I hardly remember what I saw! The "Mona Lisa", "Venus de Milo", "Winged Victory" and many, many others passed before our eyes along with countless rooms of jewels, sculpted vases, painted artifacts and wild mythological ceiling paintings. The Louvre was endless and seemed to contain pieces from all places and times. I couldn't tell you what my favorite part was because there was simply so much art! And in case you were wondering, it's true what they say-the Mona Lisa was a little anti climactic but nonetheless I appreciated getting to see it for myself. It was everything you would expect. Hours later we shuffled out on our aching feet and went in search of a meal to fill our angry stomachs. All that's left to say about this day is that later that night I had my very first crepe and HOLY CRAP! I could eat them for the rest of my life...

Day number two we had an outing to a small city called Chartres. We had a few minutes to walk around and and as soon as the words, "ten minutes" were pronounced, every one of us scattered off to fill the shops with their windows full of candies and chocolates and the most heart breakingly scrumptious French pastries... I bought two just for myself. We returned to the center square and went inside the Cathedral, famous for claiming to own the shirt that Mary wore when she gave birth to Jesus. Thousands make the pilgrimmage to this location with its stunningly vibrant stained glass windows that let just enough light in so that looking up at them, they seem to waver and spin like a mirage over the darkness that surrounds them. It was freezing out, and the wind picked up as we stood outside to view the architecture and the sculptures. We huddled in close as Professor Hatfield reviewed the meanings and styles while those who came unprepared ran up the steps to hide in the archways where they could better escape the bite of the cold. Soon, we were released from our lecture and we all dashed off in search of a warm place and a warm meal. A few girls and I eventually found a small restaraunt with English translations of the foods, and there I had my first Croque Monsieur: a sandwhich with ham and cheese served buttered and toasted. Need I say more? Before we knew it we were back on the train, bound for Versailles.

I'm afraid that Versailles is one of those things that simply cannot be justified with words. It's gilded gates and entrance shone so brightly it seemed as though if there were a heaven, entering it would look like this. We suffered the tail end of a rainstorm which, receding far beyond the palace, highlighted its pale stone, making it appear straight out of a dramatic Renaissance painting. Walking up to the doorway with bruised clouds beyond us in one direction and blue sky in another, the experience felt incredibly surreal and if I hadn't been a tiny bit miserable and wet, I would have thought that I was dreaming. We entered the apartments and they continued, room after room after room of bright colored, laurel leaf covered wallpapers and dazzling chanderliers and draperies and portraits and beds with towering canopies. Through the tall multi-paned windows you could see the fresh, green gardens and the sparkling fountains covering an impossible expanse of land. I have never wished so longingly to be part of another time and experience first hand the life that must have filled this palace and the gorgeous, languid days that one could spend walking through those gardens, on all that land, and never, ever get bored.

We passed through the hall of mirrors, every surface shining, and made our way to the property out back. This was my favorite part. Beyond the rosy cheeked gardener who had been shielding his head from the rain with the plate of his shovel, a wide rainbow began growing at an incredible rate. All of us scrambled for our cameras and the poor gardener, caught in the crossfire of our snapshots, could do nothing but laugh. I know this sounds too much, too ideal, too fake, too story-like, but this was really my impression of Versailles. I was so in love I even took a rock from the gravel of the walkway out back. I'm such a nerd.

The train ride back to Paris was easy enough. When we arrived, my girlfriends and I were determined to see the Eiffel tower before anything else. It was late, the sun was down, the vendors out selling their mini plastic Eiffel Towers glowing pink, blue and green in their hands and beyond it all- the tower grew. With every step, the sheer hulk of its structure became more and more apparent and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Every inch of its slowly tapering form was lit a soft, yellow-white and I could hardly believe that I was actually standing where I was. We bought tickets to the top floor and waited in the longest lines as they crammed people like cattle into the large square elevators (no stairs after sundown). The higher we went, the colder it got and the more the wind reached beneath our coats and pinched our toes. We were chilled, we were hungry, we were tired, and I was surrounded by couples all ooey gooey for eachother and I felt what I knew I probably should not. I felt excited as we reached the top, I felt overwhelmed and awed as I looked out at the sliver of a moon smiling over the sprawling lights of the city; its other landmarks spotlighted and the searchlight of the tower reaching out to graze the clouds. But on top of the breathlessness, on top of the happiness, I also felt sadness. I also felt alone. A moment like this truly reveals to you the love you have for those people who are most important in your life, and how much you wish they could be standing there with you, looking out at a city so gorgeous and bright. The moment was slipping by too quickly and I had to memorize everything I saw, I had to recognize every emotion running through me because around the corner the other girls took their angled photos, smiling coyly into the lenses of their self portraits and I stood looking out, knowing this moment was caught in too quick a current and it would be all I had until the day I visited again, if ever in my life I would. I shared this moment with myself. And now, I share it with you.

We discovered few open restaurants once we found ourselves back in our hotel's district. We settled on a loud bar, and found ourselves mesmerized in our exhausted daze by the scandalous music videos on the television over the counter. The meal was a blur. After what felt like an enternity we stood, myself being reminded of my wet socks, and with half closed eyes I followed the girls back and don't even remember brushing my teeth before falling into bed.

I know this far I've written a novel, but I promise this is the last part of this particular journey. Its the last day, and Professor Hatfield leads us like a trail of ducklings to the Musee d'Orsay, my favorite museum of my abroad experience so far. A remodeled train station, it contained all of the great impressionists that I love, including VanGogh, Monet, Degas, Renoir, Seurat, Cezanne, Cassatt, Manet and more. There is not a chance that I could pick a favorite. I could have spent hours in front of each painting, getting to know it, falling into it, but sadly it was not to be. After what seemed like a few mintues it was time to leave and I could not have been more disappointed or desperate to stay. It sealed the deal for me- if only to visit this museum, I MUST come back to Paris. We were off again behind the skinny, gray haired man and his worn leather shoulder bag, and bought tickets to gain entrance to the Monet museum. Giant, modestly framed canvases decorated the walls, but they did far more than merely decorate, they transported. The lilies, the colors, the gesture... looking into his paintings I swear you could hear the sounds of the pond and feel the stippled light as if you were sitting underneath the willow where he sat. I think only the rough, unrefined borders of his paintings where the bare canvas came through, reminded me that this was not my world, that this was only paint and I was was standing before a framed vision. Again, the time stole away from us and we made our way back for lunch. I need to find a recipe for tomato and marscapone soup, because I DEVOURED it at the organic cafe we had eaten at on the first day. We left, I bought my final crepe avec nutella, managed the metro all on my own to get back to the hotel (I had run out of tickets...oops, too many sites) and met up with my classmates to board the train bound for dear Firenze. This time, I took a dramamine and woke only once.

Now, there are 27 days left until I return home. All this travel has shown me more than I could ever have dreamed of and I feel adjusted finally. I feel so appreciative. Spring is finally here and there are certain spots in this tight packed city where I slow my pace to catch the sweet earthiness of the gardens that is so very rare. The man who stands in the loggia of the church in the piazza S.S Annunciata, with his long charcoal gray hair and matching beard, bellows at the passing locals and tourists and sometimes at nothing in particular. He startles them, they turn, they laugh, they stare. I however, have been here long enough. I have seen him quiet, munching on a kebab at the Mediterranean restaraunt and watching the soccer match on the TV over the refreshments. What must this lonely man think all day? He speaks to certain folks, easily and familiarly now and again, and I think that if I had only so many to talk to over all this time within these claustrophobic streets, I would be yelling too. Now I look around me and the loneliness means nothing anymore. I am friends with my host family who treats me so well. I have people to call if I feel I need to get out for a gelato or piece of pizza. I look at the hills on the horizon, over the streets and think, "Soon I'll be seeing the cobblestone and the canopy of trees over my hometown streets". I do not take this for granted. I have learned so very much. I am ready now to leave, and I know it will be a bittersweet goodbye.