TravLog 01-12-05

~More Links Than You Can Shake a Stick At~
Up early today, my last full day in Paris. Vivi and I tried to keep quiet, so as not to awake our roommates at the Youth Hostel. Hostel life is something that does take some getting used to. I definitely shoulda done this while I was in college, but since I've been away from dorm-style living for so long, it's taking me a little longer to get into the swing of it. On the PRO side, it's VERY cheap, we get to meet and mingle with other travelers, and there's a sort-of instant camaraderie among all the guests of the hostel. On the CON side, there's no chance of room service, you have to share rooms, and the showers are, erm...idiosyncratic. But did I mention it's cheap?
Breakfast was bread and instant coffee. And I think the powder used to make the "coffee" was the same as that used to make the "hot chocolate." But not I'm nitpicking. Mustn't forget how cheap it is. And, truth be told, while our breakfast would never be mistaken for gourmet, it was just what we needed to fuel us until lunch.
So we headed for a second try at gaining admittance to the Musee National du Moyen Age, or Cluny Museum of the Middle Ages. It was well worth the trip back. You just can't find this stuff in the States. The Lady & The Unicorn tapestries are there, as well as clothing, furniture, statues, weapons, and architecture from the middle ages. I was a picture taking fool, knowing that when you're looking for just what type of ring Bishops wore in the 1100's, or what kind of shoes the people wore, or how they made communion wafers or how they lit their homes, you can't find it. So I wanted to have photographic record, because I know it's gonna come up again later. I wish I'd been able to take this trip when I was working on costumes for Henry V a few years ago - it would have saved me a lot of headaches.
By the time Vivi & I got outta there, my aged knees and feet were killing me, and I was in dire need of ibuprofen. But I'd used up the packet that Steph had given me, so that meant we had to look for one of those neon green signs that indicate where the pharmacies are.
One dose and a lunch at Au Bon Couscous later, I was ready to move again. We visited the Crypte underneath the square in front of Notre Dame. It was very interesting to see the many layers of the city that had been uncovered going back to when the Parisii tribe inhabited the island in the Seine that is now l'Ile de la Cite. They had ways of heating the rooms by circulating warm air under the floors. Much better than cold bathroom tiles in the morning, I should think.
At this point, we headed towards Pere Lachaise, the grand cemetery where the rich and famous of Paris are buried. I have always loved a good graveyard, but this one...this one was the absolute tops. It has the highest concentration of art and statuary devoted to grief and sorrow that I have ever seen, possibly in the world. If you don't believe me, just check out the Google Image search results for "pere-lachaise." Just a few names of those who are buried there: Frederic Chopin, Moliere, Maria Callas, Isadora Duncan, Georges Bizet, Honore de Balzac, Collette, Abelard & Heloise, Sarah Bernhardt, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison.
We didn't have long to visit before they closed up, so we were just wandering around looking - Vivi for Morrison's grave, Me for a view I'd seen in a b/w photograph while I was preparing for this trip. Okay, so lemme give you the setup: my legs and feet are KILLING me, the daylight was fading, the cemetery was closing, and we had NO IDEA where to find what we were looking for. Enter Raphael. "Tu cherche Jeeem Moereesohn?" he asked. "uhh, ye-,.. Oui!" I replied. "Come weez me. I show you." And he led us on the most circuitous route EVER, stopping by notable graves, and pointing out interesting things about them.
Perhaps the most interesting one he pointed out to us was Victor Noir (a nom de plume, I think) , a journalist for La Marseillaise, who was shot by Pierre Bonaparte (nephew of Napoleon) for either writing something bad about him, or for cuckholding him. or perhaps both. The grave features a sculptural representation of Monsieur Noir as he fell. The murder caused quite a stir - riots, the whole bit - and Bonparte (quel surprise) walked. The sculptor wanted to remind any viewers that Victor was plucked from the prime of his life. And that's definitely the impression that I got from the sculpture. But the story, as told to us by Raphael, was that for three days, the deceased retained his...virile tumescence. Indeed, the sculpture does indicate a certain, je ne sais,...protuberance? in the nether region. cheers to the prime of life! And apparently, women have been coming ever since to the grave of M. Noir for help in the boudoir. So the legend goes, if you caress his, er... bulge, you will have fantastic orgasms for the next three days. And if you clutch his toes, you'll get children (one foot for a single child, both feet for twins.). As I would be spending the majority of the alotted time with Vivi, I decided that any orgasms, fantastic or not, would be inappropriate. And as for children, well, now's just not the time. So I abstained from the whole exercise. Vivi, being married, decided to humor Raphael by the grasping of the feet only. That's my good girl.
Here's a pic of Vic, from this website:
..notice the patina. [update: here's a bbc.co.uk article about Vic and the "attention" he receives.]

So, well and truly flustered, we keep walking. We got to Jim's grave, the statue had been stolen years before, so it ws a pretty plain site now, save for the love-tokens left by devoted fans. Vivi wanted to see the columbarium ("Barrr-bee-Cue!!" as Raph called it), so we checked out a bunch of notables there. I reeeeeally wanted to find a specific site for a photo that I'd seen earlier on the net, and admittedly, started to get whiney about it. I wanted to lose Raphael and go look for it on my own. The cemetary was going to close soon, and I still hadn't found the spot. The light was fading and would soon be dark, this odd-smelling Frenchman wouldn't let us just wander on our own, my legs and feet were killing me, and I couldn't find the place to take the picture that I wanted!!! I think I even stamped my feet. I know I whined and pouted.
Vivi, knowing me very well and knowing what my whining, stamping, and pouting means, finally managed to get rid of the guide (of course, we tipped him. we're not that cold.) and we headed on a long path back toward the entrance where we'd come in. At this point, I was truly getting panicky, and Vi was being as patient with me as humanly possible. I was taking random photos, in an attempt to get something artistic, even if it wasn't the view I'd been looking for, when all of a sudden, we stepped out into a clearing above some steps and the angelic choir started to sing. I'd Found It. I took some photos, and instantly, my mood lifted. We could go now. Mission Accomplished, but not in the G.W.Bush sense. This was the real thing. We got back to the side entrance where we'd come in, but it was locked. And then, when we got to the main front entrance, it too was locked.
Hm.
Now it was Viv's turn to get panicky. For some silly reason, she really didn't want to get locked in a cemetary in Paris on a cold night in January. Whatever, I'd gotten my picture. I knew all would be fiiiiiine. And without stretching this story out further too late, it was fine. We found some more people, followed them, and got to the last open gate where a security guard was ushering people out. Oh happy relief. Once we got outside, we sank down onto the sidewalk, had a giggle and some water I'd kept in my bag (along with the blessed ibuprofen), and formed a plan for the rest of the night. Wandered around the Centre Pompidou (on a longer trip someday, I'll catch a show there), saw the fountain, ate some more fast food, wandered to Les Halles, then back to the auberge (hostel) to chat with one of our roommates, Myumi from Japan, and repack for the journey home. Sheer exhaustion + Tylenol PM = deeeeep sleeeeeeep.