I Laughed, I Cried, I Tried to Speak French


My last day in Paris before chunneling home

I Laughed, I Cried, I Tried to Speak French

On my final day, I stored my luggage at Gare du Nord and went to the Pantheon. It's the coolest place in Paris. Literally. The stone crypt underneath the structure devoted to the Great Men of France (i.e., no broads) is nice and cool. My hero, Emile Zola, is entombed next to Father of the Year 1863, Victor Hugo. I read a history of the "controversial" inclusion of Zola to the crypt, as his pro-truth, anti-racist defense of Dreyfuss made him a national pariah on many levels. I was all verklempt.

I found some of those Paille D'Or biscuits Edward likes -- filled with raspberry jam -- en route to lunch with Ms. P.

Femme de Mystere

I met Ms. P and her Prince Charming at Bir Hakeim, and we had lunch. Of course, the waiter was rude. This was not the gay restaurant of the other night, after all. Unlike New York, not all waiters in Paris are gay.

Ms. P is a former co-worker who hails from Alabama, and met and married a Frenchman. So she got engaged during the company's holiday hiatus, announced her resignation, and lives the dream of every American girl and some gay men: Find a rich prince and run off to Europe. Believe me, I'd do it to. Where do I sign up?

My own idiotic fantasy involves an industrialist from Umbria named Fabrizio, who needs me to move to his piazza to help raise his motherless children, Livia and Claudio, and yell at the servants nonstop. In the evenings we'd have friends over, and discuss why Gore Vidal refuses my invitations. I'd yell at the servants in the kitchen and offer everyone some more wine, and spy the children watching us from the balcony, because what romantic fantasy doesn't involve a balcony, after all?

Meanwhile, in real life, I am sweating up a storm in a green Hawaiian shirt on the metro while American kids scream their heads off and all I can think it, "In France, where do they sell duct tape?"

After lunch, Ms. P and her husband returned to the Enchanted Cottage and I went to the Louvre, after an unsuccessful and hot schlep to L'Orangerie, which would entail an hour-long wait. It might have been the Jardins des Tuileries, but it felt more like Planet of the Apes's desert scenes. The Louvre is overrun with every known tourist group. I weaved and bobbed through people in five languages. I discovered that saying "Scusa" at a highly exasperated level works on everyone but Japanese tourists. I am saying "Scusa!" in their ear, and they are looking around and not moving.

Diagnosis: Paris in Summer is New York in Summer, but cubed.

After escaping the Louvre, where I only looked at the Victore de Samothrace, her dismembered hand, and a hall of Roman imperials (where Antonious is openly recognized as Hadrian's "favorite" -- Hide the Children), I headed for Place de la Bastille. I visited 3 rue Keller, where the gay and lesbian center is. The president and I spoke at length about the Centre and how America is okay on gay adoption but not marriage, and in France it is vice versa. The whole domestic partnership issue has brought out every bigot in la France to loudly declare that homosexuals are all pedophiles. Apparently, the discussion of sexuality has just really begun, whereas before, it was sort of accepted in a "don't ask for your rights and we won't tell you what to do" sort of way.

The French still have to work on the Egalite part.

And so I left Paris at 18h19 on the Eurostar. I really did love wandering around Paris, living from one bottle of Fanta to the next. I learned to accept Evian in the face of no alternatives.

I laughed, I cried, I tried to speak French.

Posted: Fri - October 28, 2005 at 02:46 AM        


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