two days in Paris

I just let out a deep sigh as I made it back to my neighborhood in Tours. The sun had come back out, and I could see the familiar gothic cathedral (the one I practically live in) polking through the trees of the park I walk through on my way home. It does feel good to be able to say, after a weekend away, that Tours is home.

Some highlights from Paris:
1. I returned to my favorite hostel, the Hôtel Caulaincourt, at the top of one of many gigantic staircases wedged into the hills of Montmartre. I was here two and half years ago. This time, I spoke French while checking in, and the guy at the desk (I think the same guy) spoke French back. As I arrived before the rest of my Bucknell friends, I explored the neighborhood a little bit, stopping at a café for awhile to try to write. When people say they like to people watch, I never understand what they mean...I don't really ever find pleasure in that sort of thing. But I can say that Montmartre is one of the few places that draws me out of my inwardly focused reflection, so that I see the breeze flicker in the trees, the moms with their children in hand stumble up the giant stairways, the locals at the cafés jet their cigarettes into the gutters, and the autumn sky shift through the clouds.

2. My first time at the Musée d'Orsay was worth the long line. It's fun and refreshing (for someone who doesn't really enjoy museums) to see a painting and not only know what it's called in English and French, but which history textbook I remember it from, and what I said about its significance in a paper or speech somewhere along the way. Comme par exemple, "Le déjeuner sur l'herbe," controversial because of the naked woman sharing a picnic with two fully dressed men with no thought of being allegorical. Or the Renoir that also hangs in my dining room. I remember trying to pronounce the painter's name when I was 5 and just learning how to read. I don't think I believed my mom when she told me, "Renwah." I must have been a precocious child.

3. After a long Saturday walking around, my friends and I were snacking in one of the hostel rooms and thinking about bed. But I persisted: "Let's go to a jazz club." So Katrina and I braved the rainy streets and the metro system, crossing the town to get to the Caveau de la Huchette in the thriving Latin quarter. What unexpected fun! It was so worth the trip. An American 40s and 50s jazz band played down below in the old stone cellar that dates to the middle-ages (Robespierre even liked to hang out there). It was packed. Many were dancing. Everyone was moving to the music. Katrina and I danced many numbers, bumping into everyone on the tiny dance floor. We realized quickly that closed positions and a vertical, jumpy motion served best for navigating the music in this space. And the band was bright, punchy, and soulful. I'm going to try to return every time I go to Paris in the future. There might not be a better way finish a long day of sight-seeing than to sweat it out and groove to the music under Paris' streets. Yesterday, my brother asked me whether jazz was a particularly Parisian pursuit. From a historical perspective, certainly. And from my own experience, bien sûr.

4. I ended my time in the Jardin des Tuileries. The trees were just losing their rusty leaves, and I crunched my way to one of the chairs that rest in the middle of the garden. I love fall. It reminded me of the Grove at Bucknell and my first New England autumn when I was four. In fact, as I was reflecting on how much fun I had in Massachusetts as a kid, a little boy approached, dragging one of the chairs across a stretch of the garden. Then he and his little brother started climbing and throwing rocks at one of the sculptures. It must be very fun to be a child in Paris. I wrote in my journal: "Fall teaches me to belong."

I made my way up the Seine to the train station (about an hour walk) and I slept most of my way home.