The City of Love

 As much as I love being in the woods, hiking, putting myself through hours of physical exertion to be rewarded with breathtaking views, I daresay I am intrigued by history, culture and beautiful buildings. Europe boasts of every one of these and I only had a taste of it while visiting London and Wales the previous winter. Although I was concerned that the weather would not be perfect during December, it hardly took my friend in Toulouse, France any time convincing me to agree to stop over on the way home. The day before Thanksgiving last year, a friend drove me to the San Francisco airport. It was the first time that I had a ride and I had slyly earned this one mentioning how nobody ever gave me a ride. In my opinion, you can claim to have true friends here only if you get dropped off at and picked up from the airport. I had apparently made it halfway there, nearly five years after I first arrived.

 I landed in Paris sometime after 9 in the morning with an entire day to spare before flying to Toulouse that night. I had spent considerable amount of time googling “what to do in 8 hours in Paris” and most of the posts I read suggested it was too much to even try to go and see the Eiffel tower, let alone climb up, the Charles de Gaulle airport being one of the busiest and having to learn to navigate the metro making it even more difficult for tourists, especially the ones like me without any hold on the French language. I was confident I had enough time and decided to try. Traveling to and from the USA at least once every year has made me wary of the immigration process wherever I go and it was no different as I stood in the queue to get my passport stamped, worried. However, it hardly took a few minutes and I wonder if the officer even took a proper look at my photo or me to confirm that I was indeed the same person.

 Some of my colleagues had warned me enough about Paris for me to rush to the nearest mall and buy a fanny pack the day before I left. It was apparently the solution to all the pickpocketing troubles. By the end of this trip, all it had contributed to was to accentuate and add to my belly fat underneath all the layers in the cold. If the point of a fanny pack is to hide your passport et al, I was grossly uncomfortable and adjusted it every chance I had, surely gathering the thief’s attention if he or she was nearby on the train. I listened intently to the announcements, perplexed that the names of the stations sounded nothing like how I read it out. Nevertheless, the delight of being in the city of love and romance all by myself got the better of me and I kept my worries aside and gazed outside at the changing skyline, taller buildings giving way to historic structures as we neared the heart of the city.

 It was a cloudy day and there were not many people around as I walked along the Seine waiting to catch a glimpse of the iron lady. One look and I wondered what all the fuss was about. Perhaps I would feel differently if I had seen it at night, lit up. It was still the tallest structure in the city of Paris and warranted an unobscured view. It being winter, I was on my way up the stairs that would take me to the second floor with a few others as opposed to the huge number of people who waited for the lifts. There were funny signs both encouraging and informative at every turn, in case we find the steps daunting. The cold had not thwarted the spirits of the tourists as I had thought. I waded through the throng on the second floor to click some pictures and was pleasantly surprised to hear what seemed like a news report in Malayalam. I suppressed my chuckle as I watched a fellow Malayali excitedly speaking into his phone while filming the surroundings. He seemed the least bit bothered by any of us though. His lack of adjectives for the view sums up what I feel now. Once I was back on the ground, I strolled about in the Champ de Mars, the park promising clear views of the tower. Blame it on my lack of sleep on the flight the previous night, the gloomy weather or just plain disillusionment about the huge iron structure, I now hardly have any beautiful pictures. Another slightly smaller regret is that I felt quite out of place amid all the well-dressed people on the tower and stopped myself from asking anybody for a picture of me. So, I do not have any proof that I was atop or anywhere near this wonder of the world! Perhaps this was because I was in one of the fashion capitals of the world.

 I had had enough of the tower and yearned to look at something else, a few hours left before I would head back to the airport. The Arc de Triomphe was apparently at walking distance. It took me a while, but seemed like the perfect way to see the city. The Eiffel tower was still visible, tourists gathering anywhere we could photograph it, especially on bridges across the Seine. Every now and then, I paused to look at the buildings around that appeared regal, grand and old. Some office buildings commanded more attention than they needed. The Arc de Triomphe, touted to be the world’s most famous arch, stands tall at the junction of twelve avenues, of which the Avenues des Champs-Élysées, the world’s most beautiful avenue, is one. It would be intimidating, would you not think, to be amongst the world’s best? It is only human beings that make us feel that way, I imagine. Be that as it may, it was human talent and craftmanship that was on display here. The arch was constructed to honor those who fought and died for France in the French revolutionary and the Napoleonic wars. By the time I bought tickets and stepped inside the arch, my pedantic mind took over and wanted to be at the airport although my flight was to be delayed by half an hour. I quickly climbed up the stairs to the top for more views of the city, this time glorious, with the Eiffel tower visible not too far away. My phone camera and my scanty photography skills did little to capture the magnificence as we neared sunset. I rushed through the museum inside the arch, tracing its history.

 All that scampering was in vain, I thought as I waited at the gate wondering when my flight would take off. It did, not too much later than the scheduled time. As soon as I got on my Uber ride to my friend’s apartment in Toulouse, the driver spoke and I responded, “I am sorry, I do not speak French”. I quickly realized that he had, in fact, spoken to me in English and I mistook it due to his heavy French accent. I looked at him sheepishly and asked him to pardon me, wishing I could hide myself. He discreetly steered the conversation away to his family and whereabouts. He pronounced Paris as PAhree, reminding me that that is how it is to be said.

 A week later, I boarded a bus to Paris from Toulouse for a 9-hour journey. This is how the nationwide protests against the pension reforms affected me, cancelling the flight I would have taken instead, later that day. I looked forward to spending the day reading a book since my usual motion sickness did not seem to bother me in Europe. I had booked the bus ride only the previous day, costing me a fortune for one of the most uncomfortable seats on the bus in the last row. It was a gloomy day and the three nice ladies around me came back from each one of our breaks smelling of cigarette smoke making the long day slightly more arduous for me.

 One of them struck up a conversation with me as we neared Paris. She is American, studying in Paris. She scoffed at the French people for being lazy and claimed they contrived some kind of strike or protests every year during this time simply because they were too lazy to go to work in the cold. That seemed to go with the general perception, but I laughed in response, not sure if I should endorse that view. I was worried about identifying my ride at the bus station. She accompanied me all the way to the pickup spot and made sure I was fine. One of the many examples of how I get by with abundant kindness from strangers who know that we will probably never cross each other’s paths again. During the course of my stay, I had picked up another French expression – “Au Revoir” (pronounced nothing like how it is written!) which means ‘goodbye until we meet again’. I like how the French make it sound like they would like to see us again. Maybe I would see her again? She also helped me learn how to pronounce ‘Gentilly’, the name of the place my hostel was at, to the south of Paris. The hostel was much more spacious than the one in Barcelona and had a fully functional restaurant. The least bit curious about my roommates, I flopped on my bed soon after I familiarized myself with the surroundings.

 Thanks to the strike, my plan to visit Brussels, Belgium for a day was foiled too. My father always said we should not fret about our expenditure and ruin our time while on a trip since there is a stark difference in the economy, even in different regions in India. This meant that he almost always indulged any and every food craving we had while traveling and boy, have I and my brother exploited the magnanimity. I thought about this trying to push my pecuniary concerns due to the cancellations to the back of my mind while I was on vacation.  

 One of my friends suggested I visit Versailles and that is where I went, taking an Uber since the trains were not operational on the weekend. While enjoying the breakfast at the hostel, I had overheard some others talking about an app that suggested strike-free options to get around the city. I did download it immediately, but it was not of much help since Versailles was quite far away and it would take me much longer. Versailles houses the palace where the royalty of France resided until they were forced to leave during the French revolution. I had bought the entry tickets online, arrived there about half an hour before opening time and joined the crowd in front of the gate. Something was not right and I realized what it was only after moving ahead to see a sign that said the palace was closed that day. I was flabbergasted. What would I do, where do I go now? Will the other places of interest be open? Till that moment, I did not know how serious the protests were. However, I am glad I stayed around for a bit and asked one of the guards what I should do with my ticket which is for a designated day. He said they would decide whether to open the palace in another hour or so. I was relieved and joined the line. Just like any other day that I spent in France, it was cloudy.

 The gates opened in a while and we rushed inside like cattle waiting to be let out to graze. I spent the next few hours truly in awe of the Château. Never had I ever seen such opulence. Every nook and corner bespoke sheer grandeur. The workmanship was commendable, not a single work of art out of place. The hall of mirrors is, without a doubt, my favorite. I had visited the rooms of the Windsor castle, an official residence of Queen Elizabeth II, that are accessible to the public and compared everything I saw at Versailles to whatever I could recollect of the royal estate of the British. Clearly, the French were a class apart when it came to displaying their pomp and splendor. Maybe it is just that the access to most rooms of the castle was restricted since it was still in use. I stepped outside and walked through the gardens to the other parts of the estate where there were lesser known getaways that some of the kings liked better than the splendid life in the main palace. My legs bore the brunt of the vastness of the gardens, beautiful even in winter, sans the flowers. I visited the gallery of coaches nearby. There were some fine carriages on display, reminding us that not only did they have grand bedrooms, they traveled in style too, even after they were dead and gone. I waited for my ride back to the hostel admiring the handsome features of Louis XIV far longer than I would have liked, his bronze statue which I seemed to have missed in the morning, placed at the perfect spot.

 My last day in Paris would be spent at the Louvre, the world’s most famous museum! The girl at the reception of the hostel wondered why I was headed out so early in the morning on a cold and rainy day when I asked her for advice about getting around. It was still dark as I walked to the bus stop. The bus driver signaled at me to get inside when I showed her a twenty euro note to pay for the ride. She did not have change and did not care. It was not the only free ride I would enjoy that day, partly owing to the crowds on the few buses that operated in spite of the strike and partly because I was not proactive about it.

 I waited in an already long queue in front of the glass pyramid at the Louvre, braving the rain, withstanding the temptation to buy an umbrella from the vendors trying to make a buck from unequipped tourists like me. I made it inside within half an hour of the opening time. Once inside, I was overwhelmed to say the least, not sure which direction i should go in. I did not take the audio guide assuming it would unnecessarily hold me up even if something on display did not pique my interest. I realized how wrong I was, rather late. Throughout the museum, there were hardly any signs or information in English. I spent the first hour or so browsing through decorative arts, making sure I did not miss a thing. And then I remembered all that I had read about how long it would take someone to see everything at the Louvre even if you barely spend a few seconds for each one. I had to prioritize. Nervously, I googled ‘the best things to see at the Louvre’ and chose a list of ten. I would cover them all and whatever I could in between while walking from one to the other. That sounded like a plan, the only one I could think of to see the biggest museum in the world for the first time. One of the wings of the museum was named Richelieu, stirring memories of the evil man in Alexandre Dumas’ “The three musketeers” that I had read more than a decade ago. Some villains definitely do leave a mark! Wicked or noble, the real Cardinal Richelieu was evidently responsible for consolidating power and strengthening France.

 Nearly all the crowd in the museum was in the Paintings section, leading up to the Mona Lisa. Standing in line to take a picture of her up close, I wondered why she was mounted on what looked like a giant notice board. I assumed she would have a room of her own and also that she would be much bigger, but never mind. I wanted to get away from that room and did not care to check if she was really smiling at everybody around while I clicked the mandatory photo.

 I was incredibly surprised to see that the law code of Hammurabi was here! How and when did France manage to do that, and why would anybody give it away to another country? There were many more surprises. I spent ample time staring at the ‘Lamassus’, the Mesopotamian genies with a human head, a bull’s body with five legs and wings that guarded their capital. Soon enough, I was captivated by the Great Sphinx of Tanis, a granite sculpture. I am yet to find anything more intriguing than Egyptian antiques in a museum. With coffins, the older, the better. Until I go on a tour to Egypt, I have to make do with museum exhibits.

When I finally stepped outside the museum after nearly six hours because I was exhausted and could not focus anymore, the day had brightened up, as if to charge me up enough to visit some other attraction. I had a city tour of sorts on the crowded bus that took me all the way to Butte Montmartre, a charming village atop a hill, north of Paris. I walked up to the beautiful white domed basilica that towered over the village. I had seen many churches in that one week and was considering not stepping inside, but was lured in by a guard who made a funny song out of what he had to announce all day, that the entrance is free etc.

 I ventured to walk back to the Eiffel tower, the wish to see it lit up still intact and thought it would be an hour-long sunset walking tour of the city of lights. I am yet to meet another person who loves walking as much as I do, but the dingy streets questioned my resolve now and then as I clutched my purse. Once I was on the wider streets lined with boutiques and branded stores alike where everybody seemed to be on a shopping spree, I was relieved. Seeing the yellow lights of the tower in the distance brightened my spirits and I walked with renewed strength. There were lots of tourists around, unlike during the day. I seemed to have come upon it on the wrong side, taking the couples on stone benches nearby by surprise. I repeated my walk to Arc de Triomphe, this time with the goal to stroll in the Avenues des Champs-Élysées. The avenue looked brilliant, as it should, but was only a profusely long commercial hub. I am not sure what else I expected. I grabbed dinner and made my way back to the hostel, cursing my boots, supposedly the most comfortable ones ever, still not making a day full of walking any easier for me.

 The airport was a good 30 km away from the hostel. The day I was flying back was a day of superlatives for me. I waited the longest I ever had for a ride, paying the most I ever did for a ride. It was pouring cats and dogs and the few minutes that I took to help the driver load my luggage and get into the car was enough to make me cold to the bone. The driver put all my worries at ease, greeting my “Sorry, I do not speak French” with “I speak a little bit of English”. I bid Au Revoir to him and Paree, sad that my trip was over, but also relieved that I was going home.

 I had happened upon the word “bourgeoisie” while in France and it was quite the Eureka moment for me to realize that it is not a Malayalam word since I had always heard it in relation to the Communists in Kerala, referring to the capitalist class. How we had made this concept our own, so much so that I never probed the etymology. This is probably something travel is supposed to teach us, that we are not as smart as we think, at least not enough to come up with this beautiful sounding, not so well-meaning word on our own and also that people everywhere are so alike; what someone in another continent thought of is as effective at home as it was where it originated.