Day Two

The weird combination of being both jet-lagged and chock full of adrenaline fueled my second day in Paris, which I started by grabbing a pain au chocolat from the bakery across the street from the studio and eating it on the go. 

First stop was the Musee d'Orsay (I have no idea how to add the accents, so everyone please deal), one of my favorite places. Originally, the building served as a train station, Gare d'Orsay, built to transport visitors to the 1900 World's Fair. It still retains an air of movement and bustle, as well as a clock from that era that is quite famous because it is awesome and looks out over the Seine and the city skyline (look closely through the clock face). The Instagrammers were lined up for their turn to take a photo in front of it, but with more patience than I usually display, I waited for my moment to get it on its own.

This is the view upon entering, and it is a full sensory hit that kind of takes your breath away. Who knew a train station would make for such an amazing art museum? 

I feel weird taking photographs of original art, for some reason, so I only have a few from inside. This one I took for Roberto, as I immediately thought of him when I saw it. Also, it's a pretty rad painting. Entitled Dante et Virgile and created in 1850 by William Bouguereau, it captures the moment when Dante and Virgil, dirty voyeurs that they were, stand by and watch one lost soul go all vampire on another. Pretty sexy stuff for hell, if you ask me. 

I have long harbored a fantasy of winning the lottery and then traveling the world to see all of the Van Gogh paintings in their various locations, a fantasy fueled by my first visit to the Orsay. Before that visit, I didn't really get the whole Van Gogh thing; I found his paintings, or the photos of them, rather, a bit garish, and maybe even tacky. Seeing my first Van Gogh in real life was an honest to dog breath taking moment. I won't ever forget turning a corner and coming face to face with his Noon - Rest from Work in all its glory. 

Not my pic because I forgot to take one. Duh.

Seeing this, I once again find photographs completely unable to convey the beauty and majesty of Van Gogh's art. Even the best cannot capture the movement and pulse of his works. After seeing that painting, I got what all the fuss and bother was, and now ol' Vincent is my favorite artist. He was a ginger, too! 

I'm sure I am projecting, but this particular self-portrait feels somber to me. I found myself wishing heartily that there is an afterlife, if for no other reason than he could look down and see how packed the gallery was with people there specifically to see his art. Vincent's rooms were by far the most crowded of the entire museum. It made me teary, but I'm a sentimental asshole, as you all know. 

As it turns out, a single pain au chocolat is not enough to fuel ones Parisian explorations, so after thoroughly enjoying the art at the Orsay (no blank canvases here, thank you very much), I decided to check out the restaurants at the museum. The cafe didn't appeal to me, but the very fancy restaurant, an Alain Ducasse related establishment creatively named Restaurant du Musee d'Orsay, DID. I mean, look at this right here!

I did not take a photo of the delightful vanilla gelato I had afterward, but trust me when I say it was delightful. There is very little better in the world that real vanilla ice cream, and I will die on that hill. I also didn't take a picture of the restaurant itself, which is a shame, because it was gorgeous. Thankfully, the internet exists, so here is what it looks like.

If that's not some swanky, oh-la-la Parisian shit, then I don't know what is. 

After leaving the Orsay, I wandered over to the Louvre even though it was closed, just to get the lay of the land. It was hot outside, like really hot, and I'm more of the indoorsy type, so it didn't take long for me to feel like I might die. Being American, I needed some air conditioning, so I stumbled into La Samaritaine, a very chi-chi and very famous department store. No middle class fast fashion haven this, oh no. If you don't have a few hundred bucks to drop on a pair of socks, don't bother. 

For some reason, I was unable to locate the exit and thus walked around the cosmetic counters approximately 50 times. With a sweaty, bright red lobster face caused by the heat no less. The sales clerks started to notice, so I stopped and purchased the tiniest little tube of La Mer face cleanser ever made in hopes of not getting arrested for being a weirdo. The clerk gave me an appropriately disdainful look that made me feel appropriately shamed, and I proceeded around the cosmetics counters a few more times until I finally found my way out. 

Back outside, I wandered the neighborhood a bit and discovered the cutest, most quintessential Parisian restaurant tucked away in the corner of an old residential section a few blocks away. Hoping to fulfill my fantasy of people watching at such an establishment, I made my way inside to ask what a picky vegetarian such as myself might have to snack on. I'm not sure if it was my horrible French or the fact that I was vegetarian that offended the bartender so, but I had not even finished my sentence before he barked, "Non!", turned his face away, and waved me off with the swish of his hand. This was by far my favorite interaction for the entirety of my trip -- simple, efficient, and every bit as disdainful as the clerk at La Samaritaine. No one does overt and contemptuous scorn like the French, and they're so good at it that I was not even offended. 

I will say, however, that I had many more kind encounters with Parisians than I did rude ones. On both of my trips, I found Parisians to be warm and welcoming, and most importantly, very patient with idiots like me who roll up with barely any understanding of their language and expect to be able to navigate their country all on her own. 

An experience I had later that night made me feel even more kindly toward the Parisians who have to deal with tourists. Despite being September, the city and its attractions were very crowded, so when I arrived at the disembarkation point for a night-time boat ride down the Seine, there were people EVERYWHERE. I did get some good photos of the Eiffel Tower on my way there, though, so that was cool. 

I missed the cut off for the departing boat by 3 people, so I was obliged to wait another 40 minutes in a very long line. Just as the boat that would have been mine pulled up (floated up?), a group of 60 young Americans arrived. They appeared to be very drunk, were very loud, waving their vape pens around with shrieks and shouts about who knows what. One of the poor men tried to corral them to the group entry for the boat, only to be met by an idiot girl who shouted, "We don't speak French, duh!" 

That did it for me. I knew there were enough of the dumbasses to ruin the trip for everyone on board, so I just left. The plan was to go back another night, but I never did. 

What I did do was take my sad self back to the studio, where I picked Andre the Giant's toe cheese off my frozen pizza, ate a Magnum ice cream bar while it cooked, drank some Orangina, and enjoyed the Eiffel Tower from the comfort of my living room while trying to focus on the day's wonders rather than its disappointments. As another lady from Georgia once said, tomorrow is another day, and I had big plans.