For a day that started out looking like it was just going to be the last 24 hour waiting period between me and the concert of the month, it has turned out remarkably well.
I thought I had class today, but after a thorough analysis of all factors involved, I decided it was about an 20/80 chance of my class actually meeting, and that was simply not worth getting out of bed for at 815am. So I slept till 9, when I woke up naturally, convinced that, though I never actually liked math, Wajima did me good somewhere if I am using prob and stats to determine that I don’t have to go to class anymore.
This country does nothing for my work ethic.
So instead, I went to the university (the third world country one), where I had to drop off something for a professor. I did that, then wandered Chinatown for awhile... despite the fact that there’s not much to do in the neighborhood, I found this amazing abandoned building about a mile from the University that I like to walk by sometimes and look at. Someday perhaps I will work up my courage and go in... though that is doubtful. I have this dream of buying the place and turning it into something amazing. It’s 5 stories tall, with the most amazing graffiti around all the windows– a dog howling, whose mouth is the window, a beautiful photo frame surrounding another, women leaning together to form a roof over a third... but what makes it amazing is that, on one corner there is a giant turret. Now before you get all carried away thinking I have found a medieval fairy paradise in the middle of Chinatown, let me clarify: it’s a turret, no way around it, but it’s a fortress-like turret, and I am convinced the building had to have been some kind of fortress or really awesome Bastille-inspired prison at some point.
Anyway, I went and visited the building, then wandered down to the Seine and to Quai de la Gare, where I caught the Metro to Pasteur. I decided to go to the Musee d’Orsay for awhile...
I don’t actually like the Musee d’Orsay. I mean, if it was in, like, Atlanta, I would probably be quite partial to it. But since it is here, it just seems like Paris could do so much better. I know Paris can do better. The Musee d’Orsay has only been around since sometime in the mid 20th century. It’s in an old train station, which was abandoned when the Metro was built in, like, 1908. Then the French started storing "reject" paintings by losers like Picasso, Matisse, Manet, Degas, and Cassatt at this old train station because it’s not that far from the Louvre, and obviously the Louvre would not want anything to do with tosser artists like that. But then eventually the French realized that all those works could feasibly be worth something, since they are French and nothing the French do is ever worthless. Someone is always willing to pay for it. But before they could capitalize on this idea, the continent broke into war, and the Louvre really was in danger, and so a lot of really valuable works of the Louvre got stashed in the basement of the Orsay, where they were promptly forgotten about. (If you have ever been to the Louvre, you understand how this is quite possible. It’s like trying to keep track of every book in the Library of Congress with absolutely no organization system, because they are French.) After World War II, when France was finally picking up the pieces, they were going to turn the Orsay back into a train station, and when they finally opened the place up, lo and behold, they hit the jackpot. All they had to do was bring in some hammers and nails, and boom, a museum is born.
The story is cool, but the place pretty much bites. For some reason, they think high-glare glass is the wave of the future, and all the works are surrounded with it. It’s the only museum I’ve been to in Europe that actually uses glass at all, except for certain works at the Louvre that are covered by slightly tinted matte glass to protect the paintings. So to begin with, you can’t really see anything except yourself reflected in the lovely frames, and then it’s kind of disorganized and stuff is randomly placed everywhere. Some Monet is on the fifth floor with the Impressionist room, but then some more is down on the rez-de-chaussee, the ground level, just... for good measure? But they do have a really cool ballroom where I would love to have my wedding reception. I had kind of forgotten how much I dislike the place, and once I remembered, I thought maybe I should give it a second chance, since saying you dislike the Musee d’Orsay as an art history student is like saying you hate Shakespeare but are a student of the English language. So I am chilling on the top floor of the museum, headphones in, of course, hiding behind the giant clock that overlooks the Seine and looking for a path to the roof. But I eventually reach a dead-end with only a staircase downward. At about this point, I realize I am starving, so I might as well leave. I get to the bottom floor, and happen to meld with this tour group, quite accidentally. And the men at the door (museum bouncers) are rapidly ushering that tour group out of the way. They start gesturing at me, but not wanting them to think I am lame enough to be part of a tour group, I purposely don’t make eye contact and try to slow down enough that I can separate myself from the group. I get to the exit doors and realize that this tour group is really big or something, because it seems there are an awful lot of people following me... and an awful lot in the big stone court... at which point I hear an announcement, in English, from the museum, warning us to "leave the building immediately for the sake of our health." Bomb threat. Great, I try to give the lamest museum in Paris another chance, and what do I get? Bomb threat. Deciding it would be best not to stick around for the results, I leave and search out a creperie. Here is where the day gets good.
I find a touristy crepe stand on Rue du Bellechasse, and, after ordering, notice that their nutella crepes (my lunch of choice) are 4Euro– a true sign of a tourist trap. Everywhere else in Paris sells them for 2,50. I am tempted to tell the guy that, but he was being so friendly I hold it in. He hands me my crepe, and it’s all rolled like a taco instead of just folded up like a fan the way they normally are. This, I learn as I eat it, is genius, because it keeps whatever is in the crepe from dripping out the bottom into the paper cone and then onto your woolen jacket, which is usually how it goes. So then I take a bite, and I realize this guy has gone all out. I think he must have emptied his jar of nutella into that sucker, because it was full of chocolate. Like, to the point that I would take a bite, get it all over my face, and not be able to lick it off because my mouth was so full of Nutella I was making that weird face dogs make when you put peanut butter on the roof of their mouth. I finished the crepe, without a drink, and realized that the meal was not complete because there was no Dr. Pepper to go with it. I’ve been craving Dr. Pepper lately, as always, I guess, because I can’t get it here.
I decided, upon finishing the crepe, that I didn’t want to get right back on the Metro, so I was going to walk a little. But when I got out my map to make sure I was going the right way, it turned out I was on almost a direct route home (this is the nice thing about living close to the Eiffel Tower– you can get yourself home from nearly anywhere). So I start trekkin’, and remember pretty quickly that the Eiffel Tower is like the donkey and the carrot– no matter where you go in Paris, the Eiffel Tower looks like it is right around the corner, but it is always miles away. But I keep walking, the day is cool and I am warm and I have my music, after all, and what else would I be doing, honestly? Getting blown up at the Musee d’Orsay? No thank you. So I keep walking... and keep walking... and keep walking, I pass Invalides, the place where Napoleon is buried and one of the coolest chapels in France, and then end up on the shopping end of Rue de Grenelle. I see a cute sign in the door of this tiny storefront that says "Freshly Cut Sandwiches," in English, and has an American flag under it. I wanted to take a picture of the sign, but then I look up and see that it is "The Real McCoy." I’ve heard tale of places like this... but I never dared hope they exist. (I realize the irony of what I am about to say, given the fire-and-brimstone nature of my last lecture, but just remember I had eaten a crepe for lunch. I was just balancing out my two national identities.) I look in, and sure enough, I see a box of Oreos.
Oh, Sweet Jesus.
I walk in, and the lady behind the counter is waiting on these two French women, who keep asking questions about how to cook these pop-tart things, and just what does one put ketchup on? And meanwhile, I am standing behind them, in complete awe. I can’t keep my mouth closed. I am standing there, in this tiny storefront that’s really a cross between Sunrise Grocery in Blairsville and Noe’s General Store and Post Office outside Beattyville. It’s set up like an old general store, so I have to wait for these Frenchwomen to leave before I can pick anything out, but I am thrilled... this is fabulous. And suddenly, for the first time since getting to Paris, I am ok with the fact that I am American. In fact, it was suddenly awesome that I was– there were American flags hanging from the ceiling, and I felt like I actually had a reason for being there, whereas the frenchwomen clearly had no idea what they were doing. But that is ok, I was feeling benevolent enough to let them share in the bounty of junk food that someone had been kind enough to import just for me. Eventually they left, and now it is just me and the woman behind the counter. And I am standing there, with my mouth agape, in religious silence, until she says, "Madame?" at the exact same moment my eyes alight on a price tag. That 8-pack of chocolate chip pop-tarts? 8,50Euro. That’s approximately $12. Those Double Stuf Oreos I had my eye on? 12Euro. Oh, and that box of Kraft macaroni that would set you back a buck-fifty at home? The cost of dinner in a nice restaurant here.
My rose-colored glasses pale a little, but not enough to make a real difference. Ok, ok, no macaroni, but that’s ok– I still have some left at my apartment that I smuggled back into this country. And... well, I try to tell myself, who needs Oreos when you have Prince cookies? But wait a moment... could it be... is there any way...?
"Avez-vous de Dr. Pepper?" I ask in a whisper, almost afraid of the answer. "Do you have any Dr. Pepper?" I don’t even bother saying the Dr. Pepper with a French accent– who gave them the right to decide how to pronounce American words anyway? My eyes are huge and expectant, after the lunch from heaven, there is no way this could be... my mouth is watering, please don’t get my hopes up for nothing...
Then I see the woman’s tell-tale smile as she reaches into the refrigerator behind the counter.
"Regular or Diet?" she answers in English.
My grin is immediate and from ear-to-ear, and it is all I can do not to let out a whoop. NO WAY!
"Regular, please..." You can’t go halfway at a time like this. Regular, of course. She puts the can in my hand, and I stare at it for a moment, expecting it to do a little dance and pour itself in my mouth or something, I don’t know, but I do know that I was sure there was pure magic bottled up under pressure in that can. This place, by the way, really is the real McCoy... they even keep their sodas in fridges. The heavens could not have smiled more broadly if I had asked them to.
"Two-fifty." But, wait, that is actually reasonable for a soda here! Converted to dollars, it’s somewhere around $3.50, but a can of European soda from a vending machine here costs 2Euro, so this is really not bad at all. Maybe I should buy more. No, wait, I am about 4 miles from my house, and magic in cans is heavy. Next time. Memorize the address. I want to befriend this woman, I want her to know how much she made my day. I say thank you, over and over, trying not to look like a homesick ex-pat, because I am not, but the only thing that could be odder than finding Dr. Pepper here would be finding Ale-8 here. It just doesn’t happen. So I turn away, and with shaking hands, that can is open before I make it to the threshhold of the store. I take my first delicious chug of it (it’s too good to sip), and sink against the windowsill of the abandoned storefront next to "The Real McCoy," collapsed in complete enjoyment. It’s cold, and bubbly, and it’s even the American form of Dr. Pepper (I bought some last semester in London, and it was good, it satiated the craving, but it was a different recipe, I guess like Coke has different recipes in different countries. Probably no one but me and David Crowder, who, literally, lives in Dr. and Mrs. Pepper’s house in Waco, TX would be able to tell the difference between the two, because they are quite similar, but this can in my hand, it had come all the way from across the ocean to fulfill its destiny, and now I was looking at the Eiffel Tower, trying to make it last, trying to savor every last drop of it.) I’m still sitting there on the window sill grinning like a fool two minutes later when I realize that perhaps I should keep walking. But first, the music. I put on the most ridiculous American music I can think of, which is, of course, as further celebration, the band I am going to see tomorrow night. So on goes "A Beautiful Lie," and, can in hand, I keep strolling, grinning again and again, bigger and bigger, with every sip.
Joy of cola on my tongue...
B
P.S. I walked from the Musee d’Orsay all the way home. That is roughly the distance between Buckhead Church and Emory U. Or my great-grandmother’s house and my old house in Florida. Or my high school and Cary. Or Beattyville and... anywhere. See red line on map below for exact co-ordinates of Blair's journey.
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