We woke up nice and comfortable, prepared ourselves for a long day and tracked North toward the Louvre. As we walked through the narrow streets, i pushed the pram along the bumpy cobbles whilst Bec darted in and out of the nearby stores behind me, looking for anything beautiful that wouldn't require to be worn over her baby bump. She would run, shoulders bopping and wrists flopping at her side, across from store to store, disappearing in one door and reappearing in another only to dash through the next, much like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Watching, amused, i ordered some take away breakfast from a nearby crepe store. The crepe chef, a jolly Indian man who sang lovely Hindi tunes from the old country, pausing every now and then to close his eyes and shake his head like it had lost balance, flipped and sliced the crepe and ingredients with the proficiency of a samurai. using mainly the flat steel spatula, he covered the crepe with mozzarella, lettuce, eggplant and minced beef, folded the crepe and placed it in a paper sleeve. The crepe combined the beautiful sweetness of the eggplant and saucy beef with the fresh crispy lettuce and warm, moist, firm textured melted cheese to make a delicious breakfast.
The Louvre was a far stroll, but a lovely route along the river, so we decided to walk the entire way, mostly because Bec didn't feel like strangling any taxi drivers today. It was a peaceful stroll and though the streets were lined with the exact same architectural style of buildings without a single unique visage of self expression, the unity performed a romantic musical ensemble playing tribute to a cultures pride and solidarity. Undoubtedly a sentimental remnant of the revolution which formed this society more than 225 years ago. We walked slowly and humbly, taking in the sights.
We stopped for a short while at a cafe so that Solomon could stretch his legs- the long walk was exhausting him, it must be tough getting pushed around while you relax, eating, drinking and soiling yourself where you lay. In any case, i wanted to test out my new cigars which i had bought to enjoy a truly french custom before i leave. In France it is still legal to smoke at cafes, though not specifically indoors, in the outdoor seating terraces which accompanied every single cafe in Paris. Smoking is a huge part of the local cuisine here and nearly every person enjoys a few sticks before or after a meal wine some sort of alcoholic beverage. Since i hadn't smoked a cigarette in the last week, there was a lot i needed to catch up on. I pulled out a cigar i had bought which was about 10cm in diameter and 30cm long- i needed a signal fire to light the thing. As i pulled it out of my pocket with two hands, like a Lightsaber, the lady sitting on the next table, obviously a tourist by her repulsion, started vibrating her head violently like a boiling kettle, and out of the corner of my eye, an egotistical satisfaction befell me as i saw her grimace as i dropped my head to lite the cigar with a few quick short puffs. After a few more puffs, when i knew the cigar was lit, i lifted my head to take in the sights of Paris biting down on the cigar in the corner of my mouth like Al Capone. However, as i looked up, all i could see was thick smoke, i thought the restaurant was on fire. the huge cigar made as much smoke as a small power plant. Pretending not to care, but no longer able to see in front of me, i took in a small puff and held my breathe so i could taste the smokey, woody tobacco.
"Baby steps" was the wisdom that echoed through my mind as i coughed and splattered uncontrollably in loud violent spasms that must have sounded like a dog fight. With what felt like molten magma inside my esophagus and the taste of death on my tongue, i lifted one knee over the other and leaned back in my chair, eager to prove my manhood not only to my wife, who by now was looking seriously concerned, but that pesky lady on the table next to me who was waving her hands ferociously in front of her scrunched up nose. With the cigar held firmly between my teeth, still bellowing thick smoke, i winked at my wife, and felt a tear trickle down from my bulging bloodshot eyes. As i prayed for swift death, the lady sitting on the table next to me decided it was too much and she picked up her drinks and moved inside. As quick as i could, i squashed the cigar into the ashtray whilst my breathing turned to high pitched wheezing. 'ill finish the rest later' i confidently commented to my wife, as i left to find a fire extinguisher....for my mouth.
After the cafe, which charged us 10E a coffee, we continued on our journey to the Louvre which brought us to the most romantic bridge in the world. One of the pedestrian bridges crossing the Seine River is lined with a wire mesh balustrade littered with thousands and thousands of padlocks fixed to its wires. A wonderful and romantic notion, it was a memorable way to leave our mark on the city of Paris whilst absorbing some of its love and spirit. We dedicated a padlock to our family, current and future, affixed the lock amongst the others and tossed the keys into the river. Our bond will remain like the padlock for as long as that key remains lost to the river....or the local council decides they need more room for other tourists. Though its just a padlock on a fence, as always, its the importance we ourselves place in the symbolism that makes it relevant or not. And if the 'truth' is relative and unattainable, strive instead, for the most romantic narrative you can (and,incidentally, that's the motto for this Blog!).
Finally, we reached the Louvre. An enormously large palace, originally built as a fortress. The idea that a place as large as this was owned by a single man is absolutely incredible. The Louvre is comprised of two long wings and a base, arranged around a central courtyard. As with the other landmarks in Paris, the facades are covered with formally decorative stone figures portraying the faces of noted french individuals involved in the formation of their culture. Lined with colonnades and symmetrical windows, the friezes and framed extremities are so intricately carved out of stone with beautiful figurines and floral arrangements, in a proud prowess exhibiting the decadence and lavishness of the ancient french hierarchy. We stood in the central courtyard in awe at the unfolding darkness of history in our view. In the center of the courtyard is the world famous underground entry pavilion designed int he 80's by Japanese Architect I.M.Pei. Though photos can show you beauty much like an artwork, you can never fully appreciate architecture until you experience the space- the looks is only the first dimension of an architects creation. The Pyramid is a perfect addition to the courtyard. Though a contemporary addition to a century old palace, the pyramids sits inconspicuously as it absorbs the countless tourists whilst providing a light filled atrium to the underground entrance which sorts the masses into the wings of the museum. The pyramid itself is a symbol of ancient grandeur, representative of the priceless artifacts contained within.
The museum is enormous and much too large to cover in a single day. We trecked through the subjects we thought would be most interesting- Egyptian and Greek antiquities, which included the 'Venus de Milo' and a stone trio of the inventors of thought, Pluto, Aristotle and Socrates. We saw the ancient Roman artifacts which included incredible mosaics and carved statues. And finally we saw the ancient christian renaissance paintings which included the most famous painting in existence- Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. Though i wanted nothing more than to see the brush strokes and texture of the canvas and feel the painters love- the painting is behind a timber balustrade and bulletproof glass- like there's a sniper hiding in the next room waiting to assassinate the painting- why bullet proof?? If the construction wasn't enough of a barrier- the tourists were swarming over the painting like snakes in a snake pit. I got close enough for a zoomed in photo and we left.
Though we could have stayed all day marveling at the development of society, as with every other marvel in France, the lack of lifts was beginning to take its toll on my shoulders and spine. Every different exhibition was separated by sets of huge staircases which were like purpose built obstacle courses as i carried the pram and all its contents and weaved and ducked around the masses of people including people in front of me who decided to stroll EXTRA leisurely up the staircase with me frustratingly stuck behind them, shaking with feeble elbows and knees as i prepare myself to throw the pram at the back of their head and be amused at the clash of airborne objects that would ensue. It actually felt very much like real life Frogger but in reverse, If i hit someone, they would lose a life, falling to the floor in utter pain as the wheels of the pram dug into their kidneys or clipped their Achilles tendons and they would shriek in pain, much to Solomon's amusement. I would have used the lifts if they weren't more scarce than Becs enthusiasm for our Louvre explorations. The lifts were immensely difficult to find and very far out of the paths of travel, i came across a sign which described it perfectly. Showing a wheelchair access sign right next to the fire exit sign- i could only imagine, the wheelchair access was a door which a french security guard opens and pushes you out whilst laughing mockingly and closes the door behind you leaving you back in the entrance courtyard.
By the end, i was walking like an old lady with my back parallel to the ground, so traumatized by the lack of accommodation for prams, i felt like running around the Museum yelling 'this is Sparta (or Paris)' and kicking all the prams i could find off the tops of staircases. Of course, after the noted objections of the parents of the first pram, as well as the tumbling child, i decided i probably shouldn't continue- and we left....very quickly.
After we left the Louvre, we asked a close security guard for the nearest taxi rank and he pointed us in what we thought was the right direction. However, i asked the question in French and must have asked 'in which direction is the closest incredibly long taxi absent walk' required after an afternoon of endless strolling around a museum- because that's where the security guard's directions led us. As we walked and walked, again, getting ignored by a few taxi's we tried hailing, we finally found a taxi rank with a taxi who would take us to the Eiffel Tower.
We got to the Eiffel tower determined to climb to the top as our last achievement in Paris. As we approached the courtyard underneath the tower the amount of tourists with our exact same ambitions came into view. The line for the lift stretched almost back to the Louvre- and that was the line for tickets, there was also a line for entry into the first lift, and than entry into the second lift which takes you from level one to the top. We wandered around the area, determined to find another way. Than i saw it, like an oasis in the desert, i saw a line for another entrance which was much much smaller. Not taking the chance, I sprung as quickly as i could in the direction of the line, not having time to explain or request, i grabbed Bec and the pram and dashed for the line before the other tourists saw it. In the heat of my enthusiasm i didn't realise i had grabbed Bec by her hair, and instead of the pram, i had just stolen someones bike. Bec, frustrated, dusted herself off and left me in the line to get the pram. Excited at my discovery, i stood there proud that i had discovered an entrance none of the other tourists seemed to discover- despite the fact it was not that much of an obscured view. After while waiting in line, Bec casually walked up to me and pronounced that the difference between my line and the 8 km line, was that mine was for the STAIRS. 'touche' Paris, i thought to myself, you beat me again. Though Bec generously offered to wait by the pram whilst i climbed alone, If the four level Louvre staircases caused the untimely demise of a few prams, there was no telling what untold horrors awaited the poor victims atop the 700 stair hike to the top. Instead we spent a relaxing afternoon in the garden underneath the tower, letting Solomon free to crawl around and taste every cigarette butt he could find in the area.
Finally, after a full day of action, we retired to Laduree for some high class dinner. Entree was freshly smoked salmon with a home made lime cream cheese and a mozzarella and tomato salad which was sweet and juicy. Main was a lobster tail smothered in a sweet cherry and beetroot salsa and a slow cooked preserved duck breast with sweet potato mash. Needless to say, it was a fabulously delicious dinner, only to be interrupted by Solomons high pitched screaming as he decided his fancy high chair no longer tasted as good as it looked. After a quick trip to the take away patisserie section, we left for home with dessert to go.
This was a fitting end to our amazing holiday. A priceless experience of another of Earths greatest and oldest cultures to broaden a horizon and expand the meaning of language and words. And undoubtedly, your minds are wracked with questions as to the validity of stories i have entertained you with for the last week and a half. However, truths are immaterial, history can only be remembered by the prose of its writers, and the truth can only be found on the tongues of the story tellers! and I AM this story's teller! And much like the culture of this beautiful and proud civilisation, we don't care about the particulars, as long as no one got hurt. I hope you have enjoyed following my adventures as much as i have enjoyed regaling you with them, for part three of 'Mathew's worldly adventures' is not due for a very, very long time. Travelling with an infant and a pregnant wife is like milking a Bull, it sort of works, but the end result is not what was expected. As i prepare myself to head off to the motherland for a few weeks of well earned relaxation with good 'ol grandpa, i fare thee well my readers and enthusiasts. See you soon.
