City Fiend

So, Paris.

Here’s the thing. I’ve been reflecting, and I don’t really want to tell the whole story, as I’ve done before and will do again. It isn’t because I don’t want you to know the whole story, or because it’s not worth telling. It is simply because there is so much to relay that I just want to tell you what’s important. It would mean a lot to me if I could have you know the basic truth, and know it well, so that’s what I’m going to go for.

First of all, just to get this out there, we did everything you’re supposed to do in Paris. We saw the Champs d’Elysee, l’Arc du Triomphe, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur and Montmartre, the Moulin Rouge, Versailles, the Musee D’Orsay, the Louvre, and of course, the Eiffel Tower. We saw it all, and it was an out of body experience. The sights and the sounds and the walking and the shopping and the eating and the living. This is the city of cities, everyone who travels to Europe passes through Charles de Gaulle, it has four different train stations, and combined that’s more train traffic than any other city on the planet, it’s been around for thousands of years, it gets more tourists in a month than Cleveland has seen in its lifetime. It’s just one of those places that you have to breathe to believe.

And it’s dirty and smelly and overwhelming and unreal and it’s all made for tourists and no one who goes there is actually interested in speaking French and you can basically drown in the homeless population. But it’s Paris. Come on.

I love the Metro. Everyone takes the Metro. It’s fast and easy, and it goes everywhere you could ever want to be. It’s the easiest way to see people. I did a lot of writing during the trip, I finished another section of my notebook, and almost all of it took place on or concerned the subway. These people speak all of the languages you’ve ever heard and are looking at each other in such mind-blowingly original ways that you will never, ever get enough. It nice, to be surrounded by people you don’t know, when there’s no pressure to meet them. I take comfort in the fact that they only see, they do not care. It’s pretty individual. And the thing is, it doesn’t work that way anywhere else. The Metro and the buses in Rennes, nothing like that. It’s a different atmosphere, and different reality. Paris is one of a kind.

I would go back just for the Metro.

Except that the real reason I’m going back is for the Baths of Apollo at Versailles. God, I wish I could get to the pictures right now. So, Versailles is this enormous chateau about half an hour outside of Paris that was constructed by Louis XIV to get the aristocrats away from the true affairs of the government. So it’s designed to make you want to stay, to get you away from real life. And, just FYI, it does that very well. The chateau is absolutely astounding. Unbelievable. And then the gardens, which are almost four times as large as the chateau itself. Just beautiful, even in the off-season. And we were wandering around in the woods, and there’s clearing, with a pond. And behind the pond is a rock face. And there are three caves carved into the rock, with Greek columns embedded into the walls. And then there are three beautiful, white marble statues, one in each cave, of beautiful naked women and Apollo’s chariot, and Apollo himself. I’m not kidding in the slightest, it was the most magical place I have ever seen. Dusk was settling, and the moon was casting its reflection into the pond, and I would not have been surprised if Oberon and Titania had materialized in the shadowed grotto. In fact, I’m sort of surprised that they didn’t. Sean! Chelsea! What happened there?

Otherwise, good stuff. Had my portrait drawn on the streets of Montmartre, by a man who spoke perfect English, and told me I was beautiful, and then gave it to me for free. And we went to a wax museum. Dude! I have a picture of myself chilling with J.P. Sartre! And I saw Paris at night from the top of the Eiffel Tower, and would’ve been happy with dying right then. And I wandered with my family down the street of the Moulin Rouge at midnight on a Saturday, I don’t know exactly why, and witnessed the slow opening of all the strip clubs and X-Rated movie theaters in France, and had Annie drag us into the Museum of Eroticism. I’m not kidding. I thought Pierre was going to cry he was so uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, could not stop laughing, which only drew unsettling attention from the surrounding unsavory public. That neighborhood is not a smart place to be. Philippe went into macho man mode. I laughed some more. All in all, I could not have had a crazier trip.

To be truthful, it was one of the hardest weeks of my life. Things with my sister reached an all time low, the apartment was one room, and we all slept in it on the floor, together. IE Too much togetherness. It was lonely, it’s a lonely city if you are not there for love. It will always be that way.

But still, thank you Paris. I’ll see you again soon.

So, everything else? A quick re-cap:

I HAVE A NEW BABY SISTER.

Tonight, Grace and I are cooking fajitas and guacamole and cheesecake for our families.

I might get to go to a conference in Berlin for a weekend in early December for students studying abroad who want "Bring the World Home." It's on the rocks...

Yesterday was Philippe’s birthday. Friday is Annie’s. Combined, their presents cost me 43 euros. I bought a paperback book and some little doodad guys. WHAT IS THIS COUNTRY TRYING TO DO TO ME?

We have to read Candide in French for Lit by the beginning of December. I wish I had been in Stacy.

The top group AP lit class is reading L’Etranger. Oh, the irony.

I’ve gotten two packages and two amazing letters in the past few days. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I saw a concert with the Portuguese version of Dispatch. It was awesome, by the way.

Grades come out on Friday.

I don’t have school tomorrow. Armistice Day.

I’ve watched Notting Hill five times since Saturday.

It hit me today that I won’t be baking Dangerfield Christmas cookies.

I can’t believe we’re already in the DOUBLE DIGITS of NOVEMBER! It’s too fast and it isn’t fast enough.

I still can’t speak French.

Alright, adieu for now.

I love you all.

Until Next Time, “And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free.”

COUNTDOWN to return: 203 days

ps: Pictures on the way. I promise.

pps: SOMEONE KICK GEORGE W. BUSH FOR ME, kay, thanks.

ppps: If someone could ask an English teacher at Hawken when the deadline is for the McCreery submissions, I’d be much obliged.