“Well,” said Oxbridge reasonably, “we’re only trying to get to Waterloo. We won’t be coming back to London for some time.”
“Oh, you’re not from around here, then,” she said, apparently ignoring the fact that our accents were what had started the conversation in the first place.
“No, California. But thanks for all the help,” he added. “We’re a bit jetlagged still.” This was followed by my feeble attempt at humor with something about trains only allowing “wheel-lag”. See, they’re not airplanes, so they haven’t jets, get it? Oh, never mind.
At this point the lady looked right at me and said, “The Mexicans claim your soul only travels as fast as a donkey. Only when it catches up with you, can you truly rest.” She went on with some biographical information about how she once was a travel agent, and knew all about aviation since she’d met some test pilots once. But for a brief moment, she had been filled with wisdom and spoken the truth.
My soul is still in Glastonbury, I think.
By all accounts, my soul’s donkey should be dog-paddling the Atlantic, but I feel it has settled itself as an ex-pat in Suffolk somewhere. Perhaps it was clever enough to book passage in “an approved animal carrier”.
If that’s the case, I hope it finds itself capable of buying a Eurostar ticket for the Chunnel, as I think it would have tremendous fun here. But I still feel oddly out of synch. I really can’t blame it on jetlag, there only being an hour difference. Yet I woke before dawn today (a problem Oxy doesn’t seem to have). A quick kiss on his slumbering form (well actually… redface ) and I was charging up Montmarte to catch the sunrise over the fog shrouded city.
Then it was charge, charge, the rest of the day. First order of business was to see Notre Dame up close.
We almost snuck into the back to hear the Mass, but even though we’re not practicing Catholics, we find it rude to barge into somebody else’s service. The music sounded lovely from outside, though.
Notre Dame promised an evening concert, so we decided to come back later. First off, we stopped at Shakespeare and Company, Paris’ largest English bookstore.
As odd as that sounds, I highly recommend the place. It is a thoroughly proper bookstore, built in an ancient wine store. The books are piled high, well selected, and there’s even a second floor library with bedlike couches (!) you can sprawl on. And frankly, sometimes it’s just good to hear your mother tongue. Definitely a stop for the travel weary.
Then it was a quick chocolate croissant lunch (hey, I’m on holiday! domokun ) and tea at a lovely little café and off to see the Museum of Cluny, truly one of the most amazing collections of medieval art I’ve ever seen.
It was originally a Roman Bath house, then it was converted into a hotel (I think sometime in the 18th century) which made for some spectacular architecture of varying periods.
I wish I had more shots of the collection, but once again, flash photography was forbidden and it was just too dark in most of the exhibit for un-flashed photos (if I could ever figure out how to turn the darned flash off rolleyes ). I did get a couple of shots of recovered statuary from Notre Dame, however. (No comments on the second statue, m'kay? razz )
Anyway, by the time all was done, I had hit the wall. It’s odd, but a roomful of artifacts would take me a day to view. Medieval artists had this wonderful ability to cram amazing detail into very small objects. You can look at a “simple” ornamented lock, and after a few minutes notice it has little animals playing instruments lined up on the sides, a biblical scene carved across the top, and the faceplate itself has twined leaves and vines in a curious mathematical and three dimensional fresco. And that would be just one artifact. Fill an entire hotel with things like that, and it’s just enough that I can believe I can see it all. My mind rapidly grew numb, and towards the end, my soul back in Glastonbury decided to hit the pub.
We decided to hit a small Spanish restaurant for an early dinner (quesadillas in Paris, who would have thought?) where I managed to completely flub French until a waitress (a Spaniard) snapped, “You can order in English”.
Startled, I said “Oh! I didn’t know you spoke it.”
“Well, of course,” she said, with a dismissive shrug.
I tried to stammer something of a compliment about being impressed by multi-lingual people since my French and Spanish were so bad, but she ignored me and wandered off. Perhaps I should add that Oxbridge doesn’t remember her being quite so rude, but fellows can be oblivious to that sort of thing. Or at least the sweet ones like Oxy tend to be.
Fortunately, the actual waiter was much nicer, but frankly at this point, I was so fatigued I was about ready to cry. Sorry, I get like that sometimes. Don’t worry gentle reader, Oxy has learned to deal with it, and you don’t have to live with me.
The wonder that is Oxbridge then saved the day by deciding against returning to the throngs of tourists at Notre Dame, and instead looking for other, smaller but often equally beautiful churches. We found a fair number of other churches, including the oldest church in Paris (12th century).
We may go there tomorrow night for a Chopin/Liszt concert, but today we went to the Saint Severin Church for an organ recital. (addendum: I'm getting conflicting information on the "oldest church in Paris". Looking that up on line, I saw Saint Serverin listed as the oldest church. *sigh* Well, it's all bragging rights. Both of them are astounding beautiful 800 year old buildings)
The music was lovely, although there were some timing issues with the string quartet. Mostly, it was just very restful to sit there under the high vaulted ceiling and soak in the sound of the 18th century organ reverberating off the stone walls.
Tonight we had planned for a prix fixe dinner, but Providence, or at least French custom interfered. The planned restaurant was closed for Sundays, and all the rest only served “midi” dejeuner, not dinner. A few laps around the Montmarte area later, we gave up and popped into a patissiere for ham sandwiches (made as only the French can make them) and a pear tart. I winced as the owner spotted us for Americans and started trying to help us in English (I’m probably way too sensitive about this, but really, I feel it’s their country and we ought to speak their language) however, it quickly became apparent that it was simply hospitality. He seemed rather excited that we were actually from California (hey, for a few minutes there, I was a “glamorous surfer girl from California” biggrin ) A quick, somewhat odd, political discussion followed, as he wanted to know if we thought we could get Clinton (who he loved) back in office (oh, c’mon, what do you think he thought of the current occupant—you know, Mr. “insult one of your country’s oldest allies whenever you can”?). I try to make a practice of staying politically neutral abroad, but we did have to inform the poor fellow about our two term limit for presidents. He seemed philosophical—his hero couldn’t return, but at least the world would be rid of his replacement soon. Politics aside, it was nice to let someone over here know that most Americans are not jingoistic French haters. And you know something? That tart tasted an awful lot like homemade apple pie. If you know what I mean mrgreen
V.
