The Western European Blitz: Day 9 - Paris, Paris, Paris
September 29, 2019
Is there a better way to spend a rainy Sunday morning in Paris than being lazy in bed? Time to cool down the engines and bring this operation to cruising speed.
Sike! We’re still putting in 20,000 steps today, but it feels like a breeze.
Breakfast at noon. The Brasserie around the corner from the hotel is our stop. A buttery croissant, café latte, and egg omelet sounds just right. Oh, it’s noon?! Right. Okay, change that croissant to I guess some bread and butter then. Michael Scott carb loading engaged.
We’re rocking and Liming down the Rue de Grenelle towards Musée de l’Armee. It’s a fun street with shops and cafés and easy eye candy for a dreary day.
What we think to be the entrance of the museum is packed with news cameras and lines of people. It doesn’t look like we can get in and there are no signs of what’s going on. We pass the questions to a local news duo; a man and woman;
“English?”
The woman replies “Yes”
“What’s going on?”
“Jacues Chirac is dead.”
“Oh” “oh no.” (“Ingrid, Google Jacues Chriac” - Famous French President) “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes, the people are here to pay their respects.”
The man chimes in. “You can get into the museum around the front. (It’s a big building. Around the front is like 4 blocks.)
“Merci”
The procession into the courtyard will last all day. There are black cars lined up at the front and we spot some military uniforms across the courtyard before the museum guard shews us on. The military is running security. We find ourselves in the middle of quite an event.
Before we enter the Army Museum, we head into the Tombeau de Napoléon ler. We have been spotting the gilded dome from all over the city. The interior is a display of vast importance and regal status. There are a number of tombs with Napoleon’s centered and rising almost a story high. It’s located a floor down, but nearly stretches to the 2nd level.
The tomb is a shade of purple that represents royalty. For such a small man... compensate much Emperor?
There is a proper shuffling to enter the museum. The hall is crowded with attendees for the viewing. We flash our pass and are skirted around the side.
This was more of an adventure to see Napoleons tomb, so we aren’t sure what to expect in the museum, but we’re in for a satisfying and overwhelming surprise.
The first exhibit we see are full suits of armor in glass cases surrounded by 17th and 18th century weapons. This is right up my alley! Carnage baby! Walls lined with three musketeer swords?! (As a child and slightly less as a grown man I’ve had an obsession for swords. It’s in-explainable. (Or is it? I watched the cult classic, “Willow” starring Val Kilmar as Madmardigan, the greatest swordsman who ever lived, roughly a billion times as a kid. If you have not seen it, it also casts famous Ewok and lead from Ricky Gervais’ internet show “Life’s Too Short”, Mr. Warrick Davis. Just watch it.))
Again, we get lost in the realism of it all. Men actually suited up in the actual armor we are looking at and hacked away at each other with the actual weapons we are looking at. I get that’s how museums work, but it’s still fascinating, terrifying, and unbelievable with out overstating the word unbelievable. It’s actually unbelievable.
The sheer amount of artifacts is impressive. At one point we walk past an armory basically. Swords, guns, cannons, suits of armor. It could suit a small army. Most of it was recovered from King Louis XIV’s collection including what they called gifts from the orient. Weaponry and armor from Asian warriors.
What strikes me about the history are these wars that happen during times of technological advance. The idea of soldiers in Louis the XIV’s era for example. Swords AND guns?! Or more so in WWI The French began the war with their Calvary still on horseback rocking Napolean’s uniforms as the German’s mowed them down with 30,000 pound guns. The wasting of lives due to incompetence and egos of men in power truly lack a date of origin. This museum reminds me of that.
There are two more floors taking you through the major conflicts of French history capping with WWII. We speed it up a bit and make our exit.
“How far is the Orsay museum?”
“Only 17 minutes” We walk. It starts to rain.
Fortunately, on the way is the Rodín Museum. It’s on the list so we just book it. Let’s make that museum pass worth the Euros.
Sculptures and other pieces of art are flooding every corner of the home renovated as a museum. We spot a couple famous pieces including “The Thinker” which is out front in the gardens as you walk in. You can view the sculpture gardens from the windows in the back of the house. Gardens are closed today because of high winds. I’m not sure what the danger of wind is in a garden, but maybe they have had some toppling sculpture incidents? Regardless it’s still raining a bit so we take shelter under a tree and map out the trip to Orsay. Seventeen minutes is getting longer and longer.
The lines to get into The Orsay Museum are less than inviting. It seems everyone has purchased the “skip the line” pass resulting in a non-skippable line. Never the less we are hear and another 17 minutes is not in the cards right now.
Surprisingly enough it moves with some speed and we are in. Starry night and Portrait of the artist top the list here, but the impressionist exhibit is full of famous pieces. Monet and Van Gough provide our favorites again.
The Louvre will not be visited on this trip. We fail at making a reservation and there isn’t a single Frenchie willing to point us in the right direction. Southern Hospitality is reserved for Spain and all you can drink bars on Tybee Island apparently.
“Juice” has been an issue for us in Paris. The long days and constant Google maps are a draining affair for a five-year old iPhone so there have been a number of pop in charging moves. These always end up being at a bar for one reason or another. We meet a nice young French man from the countryside who is trying his luck in the city. He has only been here 6 months. The city cynicism hasn’t sunk in, he’s very kind and charges us to completion over a couple biers.
Storm clouds roll in, so we duck into the metro. We’ve stumbled upon an underground mall. No time for shopping Ingrid! We must find Falafel!
It takes a staircase and escalator to break away from the mole people. Once we reach the surface, there is a calculated risk with the rain, and we take off down the boulevard. The daring behavior has blessed us with clearing skies and we get another dramatic Paris evening sky.
Down a narrow corridor we reach Ma-vi-mi. It’s the recommended best falafel in the city.
It’s P-A-C-K-E-D. People waiting to eat on the street, tables literally on-top of each other. It’s looking dismal, but Ingrid works her “pretty American” magic and we are seated. We get the feeling this is a soup Nazi operation - you get in, you order correctly, you leave. Our guard is up.
We’re sat in a small back room bumping elbows and sharing sauces. Another French menu, thanks google translate. Two huge pitas filled with hummus, cabbage, eggplant, Ingrid falafel. Rich’s a meat patty thing. We got the hot sauce and the yogurt sauce from our elbow neighbors and go to town. Everyone around us is young and lively and provide an experience per usual - we stuff ourselves and then try to squeeze out of the restaurant without bumping bottles or belly’s.
The selected route home is the long way over the island to explore another section of town. We pass by Notre Dame. The construction walls inhabit the view. Such a shame. I remember hearing about the fire this past summer and watching live. Seeing how large of an impact it has on the city’s landscape and sky line, not to mention historical significance you can understand the devastation.
Time to go home. Early evening. Versais in the morning. But wait! A piano bar! Oui oui we must!
Two spots at the bar will do just find. It’s a narrow establishment stretching back into a dark corner. The Piano takes up most of the of the bar and a madam is dressed in a long silver gown with a messy updo is giving her performance soulfully into the microphone. Perfect.
Aprol spritz and draft beer s’il vous plait. She bounces between French and English songs. The Americans in the corner are leading the crowd in participation. I hear the bar tender talking to the girl next to us. “Americans, yea?
“They know how to have a good time I think, No?”
Fuckin’ A’ right buddy. Poor another.
The girl next to us is Australian. Laura. Talk about knowing how to have a good time. She’s on holiday traveling Europe solo for a month. We share our Paris experiences while participating in the show. It’s discovered that the singer was born in California and it all makes sense now. She caps a set with a tri lingual Despasito. The crowd goes wild. No topping that. Time to head home. Aurvoir Aussie. Aurvoir California. Aurvoir Frenchies.
A crepe to head home with. Ingrid’s final verdict: crepes are over rated
The window stays open tonight. Cool breeze. Sweet dreams, Paris.
Champaign awaits in the morning.