Et enfin, au revoir. Thursday May 14 I woke up to a cloudy/rainy sky. I had two things left on my todo list for Paris – le Musée Rodin and les Catacombes. First, le Musée Rodin.
It was beautiful.
I wish I had known about it before; I would’ve gone there to study from time to time. The Musée itself was nice, but the gardens in the back were absolutely stunning. (In fairness, it was rainy so no one else was around and I more or less had the place to myself…) It was really enchanting to walk through.
I finally found my way out and took the metro down to Denfert-Rochereau to the Catacombes. I went in and found out it was free for art-history students. Thanks for lying on my behalf, BU!
It was a ton of steps down, then a ton of boneless tunnels until I finally made it to the crypt. (Who knew, I thought there were just bones everywhere.) Before you walk in you read, “Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la mort,” or, “Stop! This is the empire of death.” The catacombs were enchanting in a totally different way… in an obviously more morbid way. It was dreamlike almost. The bones were everywhere, just tons of them, and there were quotes from old Roman and French poets about death scattered throughout. The quotes were more impactful than the bones, I thought. My favorite (I found out afterward) was an excerpt from Jacques-Charles-Louis Clinchamps de Malfilâtre‘s Le Soleil fixe au milieu des planètes. The excerpt that was in the catacombs was:
Insensés ! nous parlons en maîtres,
Nous qui dans l’océan des êtres
Nageons tristement confondus,
Nous dont l’existence légère,
Pareille à l’ombre passagère,
Commence, paraît, et n’est plus !
I won’t translate – translating common phrases I use every day is very different from translating famous French poetry from the 18th century.
After the catacombs, I wandered home and along the way found myself in an old record store called “Jazz Ensuite…” which was très charmant. The guy had all sorts of amazing old records for pretty cheap it seemed, but alas I have no turntable. He swore to me that there is no better sound than vinyl. Yes sir.
But better than vinyl is live: so I met Thea again Thursday night for some jazz. A failed attempt at New Morning (no way I’m paying 26€ entry) we went over to The Station, which I’d never been to, by the Moulin Rouge. We got there 5 minutes before the band went on and thus were lucky enough to get seats. We stayed for three hours. It was good, what can I say. And good company too!
Friday I woke up, did laundry, packed, cleaned, etc. All day. At 8:30pm I met Thea again, this time at Hippocampus, where the wait staff already knew it was my last night with them… The music was good, the company was better, and we stayed and chatted till midnight. Right before we left, the barmaid came over and gave me a pin that says Hippocampus. It was uber cute.
Not wanting to say goodbye, I took Thea up to Duc des Lombards to listen in on a final jam session. We got there a little after midnight, and we stayed until a little before 4am. It was superb, a wonderful night to have been my last. A few saxes, a few different drummers and pianists, a trumpet or two, a flugelhorn, and a violin. Some of the coolest instrumentation ever (especially the violin – wicked awesome, I could never have imagined). When Thea was literally falling asleep, we left Duc and went to catch the bus at Châtelet.
Half an hour later, the bus showed up. And wouldn’t let any one on, with absolutely no explanation. Nice one, Paris public transit. We were on our way in another half hour, up to Thea’s. When we finally got there (after the bus didn’t stop at the right place, another point for the RATP) it was 5am. The first metro comes at 5:30, so I figured I’d wait around. Thea kindly stood outside with me for a half hour and froze, then we said our goodbyes and I headed off for the metro.
I got home a little after 6am, put AC/DC on in my headphones and cleaned up my room for an hour. Then I showered, had a pain au chocolat with my host family, and left for the bus. My last view of the Arc de Triomphe:
The bus and plane rides were uneventful. I met a man named Ousmane from the Democratic Republic of Congo. He has twelve children. He was headed to New York to sell African goods, buy American goods, and take them back for sale in the Congo. We exchanged email addresses and phone numbers. It was a nice way to use my French one last real time.
My father picked me up at JFK and drove me home. Feeling brave I drank a V8 on the way home. It was terrible.
I’ve been home for a week and I’m still acclimating to the lack of French and the lack of city. I will be back in Boston soon, and I think that is when my Paris-sickness will hit me hardest. When I’m in a city but don’t have a boulangerie around the corner, or a giant and amazingly beautiful oil derrick tower downtown that lights up and sparkles at night.
Whew, just hit me again. I miss you, Paris.
But life is good here too, and in the end I’m sure that I will return to my beloved city of lights. Until then, Paris will hold a very dear and very sore part of my heart. Paris, je t’aime.
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