Loch Ness Blog

From Truly

Morning over Paris sighed and was pink and soft and buttery. The city blushed with the kind of beauty that makes everyone in and around it feel pretty. Last weekend was my first time in Paris and also the first time an urban space has ever made me feel lovely.

While I love many things about city living–the culture, the art, the diversity, and the sense that the whole world is right outside your doorstep–there are more than a few aspects of city living that deeply affect me.

For starters, there’s the dog shit, pigeon shit, human shit, vomit. Broken glass, dragging ass, drunk piss-pants-ed homeless. Gum gunk, reeking junk, rats in the alley. There’s roaches in the basement, silverfish in the drain. Leaking pipes, landlord gripes, lease hopping hopeless. There’s used rubbers on the shoreline, needles in the sand, bikes with stolen tires, keys laced and ready in your hand.

And worst of all: spat-out sunflower seed shells. There are actually people in the cities of this world who consume bags of sunflower seeds on public busses, and like vile animals, they spit the black shells directly onto the bus floor. As if everyone didn’t have enough disgusting things to contend with.

I’ve learned to look beyond these more gruesome aspects of city life and most days I do a pretty good job of it. But visiting Paris, a city that didn’t have anything disgusting to look beyond, was shocking. Inspirational, even.

You know when you get a new sweater and you really love it and you take great care to follow the washing instructions with utmost precision? That’s the type of pride that Parisians have in their city. People do not litter. They do not shove on the escalators of the metro. They refrain from eating or drinking anything on public busses. Cigarette butts are snubbed and binned. Packs of people are not roaring drunk in the streets. Nothing stinks. And out of all the millions of statues I came across while wandering the city, not one of them was coated in a crust of pigeon shit. People do not graffiti parks. Paris is clean and fresh and lovingly tended to by its inhabitants. It is by far the most civilized urban place I’ve ever been to.

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

Anyhow, the reason why we were in Paris last weekend was that Shaun was on assignment to write up The Angoulême International Comics Festival for an online magazine that he is a contributing writer to from time to time. I just went along to see a city that I’ve always wanted to see; if money was being spent on a hotel room anyway, I figured that I might as well get in on the action.

While I was enjoying my Saturday in the cleanest city on earth, here’s what Shaun was working on:

• A review of the festival.
• An interview with the amazing Alison Bechdel, an amazing author/artist who created one of the best books I’ve read all winter: Fun Home.
• An interview with Peter Kuper, a regular contributor to MAD Magazine’s “Spy vs. Spy, as well as illustrations for The New Yorker, Newsweek, and Mother Jones.

Friday evening, we checked into our sparse but cozy hotel near the Porte d’ Orleans metro, had a nice meal at a neighboring restaurant, and slept soundly on our two twin beds pushed together in European style.

Saturday, Shaun took the train into Angoulême and I took the metro to Raspail, where I read about a delicious Saturday morning farmer’s market near Edgar Quinet Blvd.

On the way, I stopped at Cimetiere du Montparnasse and saw a pair of Japanese tourists reading Satre aloud to each other at the dead author’s grave.

The graveyard was cluttered and crammed full, a city of dead people. Creepy.

After walking a little while longer, I came to the farmer’s market. Actually, I smelt it before I saw it. Glorious rows of roasting chickens rotated on spits, filling the air with the most mouthwatering smells. Every type of vegetable was on display, including massive slices of pumpkin. Sharp cheeses mingled with ripe green grapes and apple tarts snuggled against walnut raisin breads. All sorts of meats and fish were for sale, both cooked and raw. I even saw a whole pigs head for purchase! For my lunch, I bought a small stick of bread with little dots of ham baked inside, olives, a soft goats cheese, a Clementine with its leaves still attached, and a pear tart.

Walking a few miles further, snapping photos along the way, I found myself in a park called Jardin du Luxembourg. Runners and joggers and families and readers and sketchers and journal writers filled the gorgeous park. After walking around a while, I sat next to an Asian girl around my age that was reading a Japanese book. We smiled at each other but sensed conversation was pointless–language barriers. Our bench was near a fountain pond with frozen edges and we watched a little boy chip away at the frozen bits with a stick. An older brother (18 or 19) counted as his kid sister (12 or 13) jumped rope. An old married couple paused to kiss at the edge of the walkway. I ate my lunch and have never tasted anything so good.

***

After lunch, I walked a few more miles to the Louvre. I can’t describe the rush of emotion that flooded me upon walking into the courtyard at the Louvre. Surrounded by massive buildings, containing countless works of art was incredible. You could almost hear the muses giggling in the shadows.

***

At the Louvre, I fell in love with Botticelli’s A Young Man is Greeted by the Liberal Arts. Actually, the entire Italian renaissance left me breathless. So much so that after seeing so many beautiful men and women offering themselves with passion and energy, stumbling upon the Mona Lisa was more than a little anti-climactic.

The Mona Lisa is small, surrounded by massive crowds, and the entire wall it is exhibited on is covered in bullet-proof glass. An Australian man next to me turned to his partner and remarked, “it’s so much smaller than everything else here. What’s the big deal over this one little painting?”
I spent five luxurious hours getting lost in the Louvre and I didn’t even see a quarter of it.

***

***

***

***

***

When the closing bell sounded, I was sad; I never wanted to leave. I wanted to cuddle up in the patch of afternoon sun flooding the Roman bath and fall asleep there.

I walked a few miles further to the posh shopping districts, where I went into a chemists to buy a tube of toothpaste (we were out) and was appalled to see the price was 9 euros! Posh indeed. Soon after, my tired feet were on a bus back to our hotel.

I ate my evening meal at the same restaurant that Shaun and I dined at Friday, relishing a refreshing 1/2 bottle of Riesling, a really yummy avocado, corn, and crab salad, and a fantastic book called Enduring Love that I finished right there at the dinner table. For dessert, I went to a crepe stand and ordered a fresh Nutella and banana crepe, otherwise known as a bundle of steaming hot glory.

After his late train ride back into the city, Shaun needed a good sleep-in on Sunday morning. But soon enough, we were munching fresh croissants and sipping heavenly coffee and on our way to explore the city together. We fully intended to go to the Musée d’Orsay, but after walking there, we found that we just weren’t in the mood. Instead, we found ourselves stepping into a fancy restaurant with Art Nouveau flourishes crawling over every nook and cranny.

Unfortunately the food was not a pretty as the decor. Shaun’s dish was okay, but I somehow ordered a cold slice of eggplant soaked in vinegar and plopped in the centre of a gigantic and otherwise barren plate. It was really funny and all too stereotypical. We decided that a “lunch: take 2″ at a nearby cafe was in order.

Lunch: take 2 was a delight. I ordered a slice of spectacular French bread smothered in ham and cheese. Shaun got a cheese crepe. We shared a 1/2 bottle of house white. We had a brilliant time at half the price that my shivery eggplant cost.

With most places in Paris closed on Sunday, we had little to do but wonder the city, marveling at its beauty. After a few hours, we found ourselves at the Eiffel Tower. I never knew it was in a park!

***

At 10.30 Sunday night, we were back on a plane to Glasgow. It took a while to get used to a regular city, with regular city grime again. But we are adjusting. The weather has been cooperative and the sun is starting to stick around longer. No matter how lovely Paris is, at least for now, Glasgow is home.