Our plan for Nicole's last day had been to visit the catacombs (what better way to celebrate Christ rising from the dead than with a stroll through piles of bones, eh?) but alas, they were closed. Instead, we went North to the hill of Montmartre and its voluptuous cathedral of Sacre Coeur (seriously, it has always struck me as an extremely feminine and sensual building, especially compared to the harsh Gothic towers of Notre Dame). Nicole liked the view over the city but was even more entranced by the street performers and portrait artists. After buying her some scarves (so that she would stop threatening to steal mine, which she had been wearing all week) we continued on to the last stop on our tourist hit list: the Arc de Triomphe, its flame honoring the unknown soldier, and its surrounding asterisk of grand boulevards radiating outwards in the shape of an
étoile ("star").
I accompanied her to the airport this morning (
early, early this
morning) to see her off. Unfortunately, with the new security measures I couldn't follow her any further than the line for the passport station. Left to pace behind velvet ropes as I watched my kid sister pass through to security alone, I understood why saying "bye" to me at the airport has always been a heart-wrenching affair for my mother. "Have a good flight," I said, "and a good rest of the school year." She hugged me: "have a good...um...life in Paris?"
I relished that remark on the train ride home --my life in Paris--as if my sister saying it had made it real. When I arrived in September, it was with a nomadic, "this is temporary" mindset;
my academic year in France was a mere a blip in the trajectory of my path before I start Real Life. At the beginning, I bought as few dishes and linens as I could manage, I neglected decoration, and I packed lightly, always conscious of being able to easily erase the traces of my time here and bring stuff "home" to the States. Hosting a visitor made me appreciate how much this city has really become my own over the last few months, and how at home I feel here--to the point that I'm beginning to plan a life here beyond my Master's.
As if determined to prove my French-ness, I stopped at a boulangerie on the way home to pick up a baguette and some breakfast pastries for Tom and I to share. Later we took advantage of the lovely day and warm weather to take a stroll through the blossoming tree-lined streets of the "Chinatown" area in the 13th arrondissement, stopping for some pho and frogs legs at a Vietnamese place. Verdict: they taste similar to chicken (which is to say vaguely meaty and salty, I suppose) but have a texture more like white fish... the muscle kind of flakes apart inside the crunchy outside, and you end up with a cute little pile of frog bones. Dinner: left over ratatouille and a whole kilo of fresh spring strawberries. Vive la France!
On Wednesday, I had a museum date with a girlfriend to go see the Chopin exhibit at the Musée de la Vie Romantique, or the museum of "romantic life." Despite the images that the name might evoke (not to mention the nearby Pigalle area, host to the infamous Moulin Rouge burlesque shows, sex shops and the Musée de l'Érotisme) the museum has nothing to do with romance, but rather focuses on Parisian life during the romantic movement in art. Indeed, stepping off of the bustling, business-filled streets of Montmartre and into the alley of the museum felt like stepping back in time. As I walked into the green courtyard, it was easy to imagine the days when its ivy-covered cottages still housed the studios and salons where musicians, authors, opera divas and aristocrats shared inspiration over coffee.
As a pianist currently learning/studying Chopin, my friend Clare was primarily interested in the musician and the artifacts surrounding him, including a plaster cast of his slender hand and an antique piano he played on. I was more interested in his longtime lover, George Sand, one of France's first "feminist" (not to mention just female) writers who I gave a presentation on earlier this semester. The exhibit was riddled with portraits and quotes of her and her children, who both played into the 19th century Parisian social scene (not to mention the sudden, violent end of George's affair with Frédéric, which is presumed to have involved her daughter Solange). I couldn't get a photo of the iconic portrait of her they had on display, but here's a copy (thanks, Internet!):
After we had our fill of art, we enjoyed some tea and cake in the garden café.
I loved the cute (if not slightly racist--oh the French!) mitten for the hot metal handle of the théière (teapot), complete with Turkish tasseled fez:
The on and off spring showers kept the crowds away, but we were definitely not the only people out enjoying the resulting flowers.
