Remembering Paris

Remembering Paris

I think it’s our destiny to visit large, famous cities in the rain. So, it was with Paris. We’d taken an overnight bus trip from Heidelberg to Paris. Some people can sleep anywhere. I’m not one of them. By the time morning broke and we were weaving into the streets of Paris, the rain poured in torrents. Our French guide, jumping on the bus and shaking off the water, assured us that we were fortunate. It’d been blistering hot the day before.

In a fog from lack of sleep, we drove around the points of interest. I gave little attention to the expensive shopping district. But the history of the tall buildings that lined the older parts of the city roused me from sleepiness. “In past centuries, businesses were on the ground floor, the wealthier tenants next and the very poor in the upper reaches 4 or maybe 5 levels up.” (There was certainly no way to ignore the less fortunate or the more fortunate in those days, at least for city dwellers.)

I strained through sheets of rain to see the backside of The Thinker in a courtyard somewhere. The Arch of Triumphe pretty much escaped me. We were simply too close in the bus to see as we drove under it in the torrential rain. A quick stop at a great place for pictures with the Eifel Tower in the background and then we were headed for the famous tower itself and our drop off point. We were instructed where to meet that evening and admonished, “We will not wait for you if you are late!” She made believers of us, and everyone else—as we were all assembled long before the bus arrived back to pick us up.

Standing in the steady rain, Jay and I decided we’d pass on the long trek up the Eifel Tower about as quickly as we’d decided to pass on the 400 plus stairs up a dry cathedral tower in Florence. With merely a day in such a city, we’d had to choose between the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay. d’Orsay won as Kim had said the Mona Lisa was in reality quite small, cordoned off, and hidden by masses of onlookers. Our bus guide, a French lady, had agreed.

Being less than art novices, I don’t know what we expected. At the moment, its lure was simply that Musee d’Orsay was dry, and as the rain continued to weep over the city, we were in little hurry to move through its galleries. We saw Van Goghs that I’d previously pondered why anyone would care about them—from the poor textbook pictures I’d seen. Now I knew. Even my untrained eyes widened at the bold strokes and the something that I don’t even know what it is. I just knew. We sat in the room of Monets, not lily pads but large panels of a beautiful woman stepping through the countryside. There were other great Romantics and scenes made from tiny dots I’d read about, but could not remember what the technique is called. It made me wish I’d been required to take an art appreciation class in college like our children had.

With d’Orsay thoroughly experienced and the low clouds cried out, we picked up a sandwich at a stand, and I took off my soaked through and worn out Sketchers and tossed them in a rubbish bin, replacing them with flip flops. We located the Metro and headed for Notre Dame. Our only regret was that we didn’t go inside, but the fear of missing the bus kept us from the long line. We did, though, saunter around each side, snapping copious pictures of flying buttresses. We wandered down famous streets and crossed the ancient bridges that span the Seine.

We stopped by a vender and split a French something that I don’t remember what it’s called, because Madame Voss had said, “It like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” We agreed, but we didn’t much care for it.

I cherish our two trips to France. I could go back to the bustle of Paris or the quaint streets of Strasberg and be glad for it. It was fun to read French, even when I didn’t know what the words meant. When I left, I wanted more than ever to learn French, but the school year that followed would not allow it. Madame Voss had moved on to new adventures, and my teaching load was one of the most challenging ever.

But as I reminisce sharing Paris with Jay, a new school year is on the horizon. I’m returning to my comfortable and established routine, and Madame Voss just might be back (for at least a few weeks) to broaden French students in my room during my planning period. And when I hear her voice, I’ll remember sitting next to the palace pond with the Farris wheel in the distance and no doubt long for a pain au chocolate which will always remind me of France.