After three years of intensely studying every French word of ill repute I could think of under the tutelage of Madame Klohs at Anoka High School followed by approximately 18 years of barely speaking a word of it, I finally got the chance to go try my tongue at the French tongue where it was invented, France. Having heard stories about the legendary scorn the French reserve for those who dare to speak their language poorly, I was happy to be seated next to Martin, an eleven-year-old French unaccompanied minor (I could tell by his loneliness and the little light on his hardhat) on the flight over, so I could dust off my French in a low pressure situation. I figured I'd start off simple, so I asked him, "Habites-tu a Paris?" He said my mother was a dog and put his cigarette out on my hand. All in all, I thought it went pretty well.
Since I was in Paris to attend ans speak at the International Conference on Alzheimer's Disease, I got to spend the first several days living and working like a local, taking the subway, wearing non-tourist clothes, and showing impatience with the slow walkers. I upped my French speaking ante considerably at the opening night reception at a very cool place called the Museum of Fairground Arts when I asked the carousel operator in what year his carousel was built: "Savez-vous a quel ans votre carrousel a ete construit?" Took a wild guess that carousel was a homonym, got lucky. I apparently did well enough that he went into a long explanation into the carousel's origins. When I stared blankly, he pointed to the plaque on the wall saying it was built in 1900.
Then, Liz showed up, I gave my talk, and we were ready to take Paris like Nazis, and we found it easy to surrender to its charms (obligatory). I had bought an off-brand travel guide, "Dick Sleve's: Paris?" A lot of the "facts" in the book seemed a bit suspect, and most of the hotels it recommended were actually in Belgium so I can't 100% guarantee the accuracy of the information to follow, but hey, a deal is a deal.
Liz vetoed my idea to just get seven day passes to Euro Disney and call it a trip, so after much pouting and many tantrums, I agreed to do it her way and see fruity cultural crap. So, the first day we went to some palace outside town. Not sure what it was called, but the book said its opulence went over really well with the peasants. It rained a bit, but we strolled the grounds, saw a hallava' lotta' mirrors, and had a nice picnic.
In case you were wondering if they sell wine at French McDonalds, we have no idea, but they do have glasses that will hold wine.
The next day we went to the Orsay museum, which had lots of paintings and sculptures. My favorite painting was this one, Dante and Virgil in Hell, as it was badass.
Then we walked around the Latin quarter and saw several other churches, gardens, and a game of bocce. That night, we went to a carnival near our hotel and rode the ferris wheel and sky swing. Then we went to the food tent where, I kid you not, the daily special was foie gras and they had champagne. Yes, Parisian carny food is foie gras and champagne.
The next day we got the most out of our museum passes and went all out in the search for culture and foot discomfort. We climbed to the top of some apparently famous church:
I kept asking people what it was called but they kept saying something about sharing my woman. I had to fight 16 French people (including women and children) to preserve Liz's honor. The book said it took like 1800 years to build and is made entirely out of actual gargoyle flesh.
And hey, they had a statue of that chick from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which was surprising since she must have lived a long time to be around during the construction of this church and also to film that movie. Oh wait, time travel. Of course.
Then we saw a bunch of other boring museums followed by an awesome one containing Ralph Lauren's personal car collection. It lacked Pintos, in my opinion. Then we went to that museum from the Da Vinci Code (the movie, not the book) and saw the Gummi De Milo:
...and a painting of some dude in drag. For centuries, idiots have pondered the meaning behind that smile, shoved their way to the front of the line and taken pictures of it using their flashes despite it being behind glass.
That night we went up inside some cell phone tower that people were all excited about. I guess it was pretty cool, especially since Liz let me have a Heineken at the top.
The next day was thankfully the last day of the museum passes but we still had to see a bunch of boring churches, stained glass windows, paintings, and sculptures. This Rodin guy was a pretty good sculptor, however, and he liked to sculpt people doin' it and/or pooping.
His "Gates of Hell" were pretty badass also, but nobody answered so I didn't get to see hell itself.
We even had to see modern art, which is the worst kind of art of all.
The next day we were on our way to McDonald's (I'm Louvre-in' it) when some bike race broke out. A bunch of guys were chasing some other guy in a stupid looking yellow shirt. They must have biked all over France based on how tired they looked.
We took several other walks, ate some pretty good food, and got pooped on by birds on separate days crossing the exact same street. I can't say for sure whether it was the same bird, but the poop tasted pretty similar so I think it probably was. We even got to see that nightclub from that movie where Nicole Kidman sings all those songs about dying from consumption. Liz and I had different opinions as to its merits:
My proudest French sentences were, at the cafe below our apartment, after some snotty big nosed waiter pretended to squirt the ketchup I'd requested on me when he brought it over and after Liz went up to use our own bathroom: "Elle m'a quitte, elle a dit qu'elle ne pourrait jamais aimer une homme qui mange du ketchup" (She left me; she said she could never love a man who eats ketchup). When we left I said, Bon soir, et vive le ketchup. And also, at a restaurant specializing in cured meats, cheeses, and terrines: "Nous devons revenir quand nous avons plus de faim parceque nous aimons les viandes preservee" (we must return when we are hungrier because we love preserved meats). Later, on that our last night, we shared a late night bottle of champagne outside the Da Vinci Code museum and bid adieu to gay Paris. All in all it was a pretty good trip.
And now, some funny pics/captions:
Don't smoke, or you will grow a stomach penis and pull a hammy running to the hospital.
Don't smoke, or you will grow a stomach penis and pull a hammy running to the hospital.
"Garcon, what does a gay cherub have to do to get an espresso around here?"
No caption.
