Paris: Day Two (part I)

It seemed we barely closed our eyes when brisk, no-nonsense knocking rang-out. “Room Service!” boomed through the door. I never saw my wife hop so fast out of bed and into the bathroom as I did in those seconds. I dragged myself out, scooted to the walk-in closet, fished around for a top, fumbled with the safe, then let opened the door for two gentlemen to come in. Both were dressed to the nines, both hauling one side of a table filled with croissants, rolls, jellies, juices, coffees, and water into our room. In a blur of activity they opened the heavy curtains, poured coffee, and kept busy until I passed a five euro bill into one of their hands. They left, but not after asking me to sign an itemized bill for the room service: 75 euros. I choked and paled as I signed (remember, 75 euros is half our daily budget) but my wife insisted the night before that it was all complementary.

Which it turned out to be, we confirmed later.

Taking advantage of all the amenities at the Crillon, we took long showers, dressed in the cool AC, and prepared for our first official day in Paris. (It must be noted that earlier I lounged in a long hot bath in the giant marble tub, reading about 50 pages of Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame.) Today was to be a busy one with four planned stops / activities, and we sat in the sitting room (how apropos) and plotted our strategy. By noon we hit the unseasonably hot and humid streets of the city.

We exited our hotel, crossed the street, and walked leftward to the Tuileries. These majestic gardens and ponds, encircled by great buildings reflecting the architecture of centuries past, awaited us. Grand statues reminiscent of those of the Titans from the Harryhausen film Jason and the Argonauts greeted us at various corners of the long, rectangular gardens. Old Frenchman stereotypically fed pigeons or read from rolled up newspapers carried in their back pockets. We sat a pond, a hundred-yards in diameter, and cooled off. Noting the massive pigeons that seemed to hone in on tourists, I remarked to my wife that just before one had made off with my passport. I had to fork over a euro to get it back. Sacre bleu!

There were scores and scores of tourists, groups of French children all wearing the same colored caps, stinky trinket street vendors, and, yes, Indian Petitioners. We strolled leisurely eastward through the Tuileries, about its 500-yard length, up to the Arc de Carrousel (a miniature version of the Arc de Triomphe, though with quite animated angelic statues adorning its “roof”). Just beyond was the Louvre, with it’s iconic glass pyramid entrance, but that was for later in the day. We meandered back to our point of origination, the Obelisk.

I studied the Obelisk in greater detail, to no avail, really. I had thought Napoleon had sacked it from Egypt around 1799 during his first great foreign campaign, but later in the week I found I was wrong while reading through a guidebook (it was donated around 1836 or so, if I’m not mistaken, and I could very well be). Still, it was absolutely fascinating. Dating from about 800 BC, me, ten or so feet from this relic from millennia ago, trying to decipher its secrets, its messages ... surreal, but very, very cool and very, very up close and personal. Do you have any idea what I mean?

Around this square, this Place de la Concorde, were Egyptian mummies. Some standing, some weirdly sitting on park benches. It took my wife pointing out to me that there were people inside them, wrapped up in the pre-Summer heat – see the cup in front of them, for donations? I was amazed, yet oddly nonplussed. Don’t we see stuff like this all the time when we drive a half-hour into New York City? Still, impressive.

A foursome of tourists commandeered my wife to take a photo of them in front of a great fountain between the Obelisk and the Crillon. And wouldn’t you know it – after some small talk, they’re from Atlanta, and their grandchildren know – Greg Russell, who my little ones adore every time they visit their Nana in South Carolina. Small world, isn’t it? So big, yet so very, very small.

All this only took a little over an hour or so, and we found ourselves with some time on our hands. The wife had a scheduled tour of Madame Coco Chanel’s apartment on Rue Cambon, a few hundred yards away, at 3 p.m. It was now a very hot, sunny, 1 o’clock. What to do?

Why, we decided to hoof it up to the Arch de Triomphe, a straight mile northwest up the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. I had to do it, I wanted to do it, truth be told, I had seen much of that black-and-white stock footage of Nazi jeeps and tanks rolling past it I had to see the real thing in all its indominable glory. So we walked the incline up to it, sweating, huffing and puffing past all the crass commercialism that’s been cropping up along that avenue, past the tourists, past the sidewalk cafes, past the French businesspeople smoking and hustling off to work in the jackets or their pantyhosed shorts.

After a trek of thirty or forty minutes, we made it up to the top of the Avenues, the Arch de Triomphe before us. In some further unfortunate trend-setting, we forgot to bring water, so I had to pay a euro for a bottle of l’eau from a street huckster. We moved up to what’s called the Charles de Gaulle Etoile (“Star”), the Arch and the dozen or so streets that radiate outwards from it. Four or five lane traffic swirled about it, a veritable accident-in-waiting as cars, vans, pedicabs and bicycles all vied for the right-of-way. A shy pair of Asian girls came up to us and asked in broken English how to cross to the Arch, as apparently no pedestrian dared to. We replied that we didn’t know, though I later found out there is an underground walkway that takes one to the monument.

The Arch is truly an incredible work of architecture. Standing over 160 feet tall, it appears you could drive a ferry through the two great pillars. Inscribed are the names of Napoleon’s generals; guidebooks told me that underlined names signify generals who died on the field of battle; we were too far away (across the five-lane circle of traffic) to be able to discern this. People walked about atop the Arch, and next time I’m in Paris, I will be one of them.

Time was not our friend; it was after two and we had an appointment to keep on the Rue Cambon, a mile-and-a-half away. My wife decided to take the plunge and head down the Metro stairs a few feet away from our spot at the corner of the Etoile.

Now, the Metro intimidated me. Two reasons, I think. First, it’s the Parisian subway. I don’t even like the New York subway. Second, on all the maps we had, the Metro lines are all displayed in a funky cubic post-modern art style worthy of Picasso, where the routes and all don’t match up with reality when I turn the map over and look at the real scale relationships. Know what I mean? The map is not the territory, it’s said, but my brain appreciates some sort of one-to-something ratio. However, my wife seemed to be able to navigate the (in hindsight) simple path of taking the Metro down the three or four stops in a straight line from the Arch de Triomphe to the Place de Concorde. (Another unwritten rule fell into place: me, the street-top navigator, my wife, the subterranean pilot.)

I paid the 3.40 euro price for two tickets, and like ten minutes later, we were at the Concorde, a block away from the Rue Cambon, a half-hour early for my wife’s next appointment. While we chilled on the wall on the other side of the Tuileries, finishing off our bottle of water, we were delighted to the sight of a mother photographing her young daughter – exactly the age of Little One – on the Metro steps. The little girl had her French outfit, white, blue, and red, with matching scarf, working dual pony tails, and doing all sorts of model-y stuff on the hand rails, a little self-conscious but having fun. Several times she made eye contact with my wife, who smiled and nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign. It was very cool, and made me a little homesick.

My wife decided to be early for her tour, so we walked up the narrow sidewalks of the Rue Cambon and stopped in front of the Chanel boutique – the oldest Chanel outpost in France. She took a bunch of pictures from different angles while I tried to keep cool in scarce shade and rest my feet. We entered and were immediately accosted by a cross between a secret service agent and a Madonna back-up dancer. The wife immediately produced an email receipt of the scheduled tour, but that didn’t stop a brief moment of panic when they realized we weren’t on their list. A quartet of young Japanese ladies, all dressed impeccably and immaculately with Chanel identifiers, swooped in behind us. They were on the list.

“No problem, I give tour to all of you,” said a moderately-accented, well-dressed older French woman. “My name is Felicienne Foulard.” Ms. Foulard wore power around herself as some wear Chanel No. 5; she was obviously in charge of the boutique. The Japanese girls tittered; security guy adjusted his tie and hovered over to the door, my wife positively beamed with excitement and I tried to melt into the background.

Now, I don’t get fashion at all. Even more so do I not get the fashion industry. But I do admire, I must admit, Gabrielle Chanel. My wife holds her up as a role model of sorts, and entrepreneur who rose from poverty to influence millions, establish a commercial empire, and make so much money it no longer mattered to her late in life. So that end of the tour fascinated me. Perfumes and jewelry and dresses, not so much.

But that’s my wife’s business, and that in part is why we were in France.

The Chanel boutique is over five stories tall. From the outside, all the buildings are the same height, the same desert color, and all the windows have boxes with pink flowers growing out of them. The first floor was the boutique proper. To the right was an elegant staircase where, we were told, models would walk down wearing the season’s latest trends, which Ms. Chanel watched unseen a flight above. I took a picture of my wife on the famous steps, and the Japanese girls, nervously awestruck, took pictures of themselves in varying permutations.

The next floor up Felicienne brought out the haute couture collection. Yes, Hopper has used the phrase “haute couture.” Apparently, it means every thread was stiched by hand. I now joke to my wife that I only buy haute couture Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear. Anyway, the Japanese girls all nearly passed out when our tour guide let them handle one dress. My wife was in a contented trance watching all this, and bonded with Ms. Foulard more and more as the tour progressed.

Coco Chanel’s personal apartment was the floor above that; it is kept in pristine condition since she died in early 1971. Nothing has changed. Smaller than you’d think, it offered lots of insight into her mind. Animal statues reflecting different traits she admired (lions particularly), sculptures featuring wheat to emphasis her poor upbrinding, spectacular chandoliers in every tiny room, mystical personages from Eastern philosophies adorning the wallpapering. A crucifex given to her by Stravinsky (or was that Diaghilev?). I myself was fascinated by her book collection: Greek philosophy, the works of Shakespeare, and old-bound Bible. Very impressive, and I was chomping at the bit to crack one of them open, but there was something about Felicienne that you didn’t want to cross by assuming privileges. Lots and lots of photos ensued.

to be continued ...