Paris – Day 1: Très Chic, Très Tired
PARIS
Day 1: Trés Chic, Trés Tired
February 15, 2024
PART I
With Kevin busy at work, I had the entire first day to myself. As such, the second I landed, I grabbed the metro straight to his place, left my luggage there, and merrily went on my way to start exploring.
Having booked a cab to take me to my first destination, I quickly found myself struggling to communicate when the driver asked me something in French. I opened my mouth, and out came a confused blend of half-Italian, half-Spanish gibberish, all wrapped in a half-hearted French accent. After studying the language for seven years, I was, to say the least, disappointed in myself. Thankfully, Google Translate came to the rescue. Still, I figured I’d try my best to practise some French and shake off the rust.
First up was the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre – a magnificent basilica perched atop Montmartre Hill. The climb up to the church would leave any asthmatic gasping for air. Despite not being asthmatic, my performance was quite comparable – yet another reminder to stop smoking. With cigarettes costing an arm and a leg in France, you’d think I would have finally learnt the error of my ways. Instead, I opted for a cheaper and way more accessible alternative: vaping. This way, not only could I find myself breathless climbing a hill, I could also sneak in a puff or two and make it even worse. Genius!
Montmartre, Dalí and the Dripping Away of Time
While the basilica itself is magnificent and one of the finest I had ever visited, I have to admit that it was Montmartre that truly stole my heart.
Its charming, artsy streets were exactly what came to mind whenever I heard the word “Parisian”: old rustic buildings covered in street art; canvases and easels with gorgeous paintings everywhere you looked; musicians playing their accordions around every corner; quaint cafés with tiny outdoor tables; and locals going about their business over a cup of coffee. No wonder this place was once associated with so many great artists, including Renoir, Picasso, Van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec.
It was exactly how I’d always envisioned the Parisian atmosphere. Roaming around and getting lost in those streets was just what I needed. In fact, it was thanks to that aimless wandering that I stumbled upon Dalí Paris – a museum dedicated to Salvador Dalí, featuring over 300 original pieces of artwork, including sculptures, etchings, surrealist objects and furniture.
I gotta say, the tortured and amateur artist within me felt reignited simply by being there. Perhaps a bit derivative, but my favourites were all the art pieces featuring surrealist elephants with long, spindly legs, carrying obelisks – a possible ode to Bernini’s sculpture in Rome. And, of course, there were the melting clocks and pocket watches made famous by The Persistence of Memory, with Dalí rejecting the notion that time is rigid and suggesting that time is, in fact, relative. To me, all the melting clocks represented just one thing: the dripping away of time and how finite everything is.
The Avenue and the Arc
After a stop at a café for a quick snack, where I fell over with my chair while trying to connect my phone charger to the outlet and had everyone laughing at me, I found myself walking along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées – one of Paris’s most famous streets, known for its high-end luxury shops, cafés, theatres and general aura of expensive inconvenience.
This led me towards Place Charles de Gaulle, where one of the most touristic and historic sites in all of Paris can be found: the grand Arc de Triomphe. After the victory at the Battle of Austerlitz against the Austrians and Russians in 1805, Napoleon Bonaparte consolidated his power and dominance in Europe. In an effort to honour this, along with the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, the Arc de Triomphe was commissioned in 1806.
The 50-metre-high structure is a work of art, to say the least, with the Roman-inspired arch adorned with detailed sculptures and reliefs celebrating French military history – with La Marseillaise, also known as The Departure of the Volunteers of 1792, being the most famous. Beneath the arch lies the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where an eternal flame burns bright, commemorating the unidentified soldiers who died during the First World War. In addition, the top of the Arc offers panoramic views of Paris.
I have to admit, I got a bit emotional standing in front of the imposing structure. It took me right back to my time in secondary school, where I was stuck in that damned classroom with that damned teacher rambling on about how great France is and what a beautiful language French is. During the five years I spent as her student, the only memorable thing I can recall is her tripping over the classroom platform and flailing mid-air for some five seconds before falling on her butt. Good times.
Though her passion for anything French was quite inspiring, I can’t say much of it rubbed off on me. In fact, after some seven years in total of learning French, I still had only a basic grasp of the language – just enough to get me a B in my Intermediate Level exam, much to my other teacher’s displeasure. But now, as I stood in front of this monument, I could finally understand the pride she felt.
PART II
Rolex Errands and the Luxury Watch Cult
After going around the Arc and climbing to the top, I met up with Kevin back on the Champs-Élysées. Having finished his workday, he could finally show me around. And that, apparently, meant dragging me along while he ran his errands.
In fact, the only thing he could talk about was how excited he was to finally pick up his “very expensive” Rolex – a graduation gift he’d bought for himself after finishing his PhD. And so, we made our way to the luxury watch shop. Having walked around the city non-stop since I landed, you can imagine I wasn’t quite in top form. With the stench of sweat and two very visible armpit stains on my white tee, I followed Kevin into what felt more like a hotel lobby, where we were greeted by an attendant offering coffee and refreshments.
His “watch consultant” – because apparently fancy objects get their own consultancy posts – apologised for being late, much to Kevin’s very vocal frustration, and then led us to a hall where some clients were being shown different kinds of watches while others were busy bragging about their latest acquisitions. I, for one, was happily munching on the best macarons my taste buds had ever encountered. Kevin, on the other hand, was making sure I knew exactly how much he had spent on this watch as he flaunted it in front of a mirror and took all kinds of photos to send to his friends.
You know, I used to be quite the metrosexual. I have over 50 pairs of Nike trainers, and there was a time when I used to buy designer-brand shoes with every salary I got. After my gap year, I frankly couldn’t care less about any of it – probably cause I recycled the same three T-shirts for the better part of a year. So you can imagine my boredom and utter indifference as I sat there. I could’ve been out exploring something else instead of being cooped up in that room. I decided to just go with it for the very simple reason that he was hosting me – and, also, it was his graduation gift after all.
After the purchase, we continued our way down the avenue. The whole walk was punctuated by Kevin telling me all about his grand achievements while polishing his golden Rolex and Cartier rings. Had I noticed them before? No matter. He made sure I did. God forbid I didn’t.
Was he always this annoying? God, I didn’t recall him being this way at all. Braggy, yes. But not this much. That said, it’s not that I knew him much to start with. We had started chatting on Tinder a few years back and met up a few times. Our conversations were mostly about our jobs, with him being a high-flying neurologist who had previously worked in the UK. We’d stay in touch and, whenever he came to visit family in Malta, we’d meet up again. But that was that. I didn’t really know him – until this trip, that is.
Revolution, Guillotines and a Familiar Obelisk
We walked the full two kilometres of the avenue, which led us straight to the Place de la Concorde. Apart from being the largest square in Paris, it is also known for the many public executions that took place there – most notably those of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette at the height of the French Revolution, marking the end of the monarchy.
Also worth mentioning is the Obelisk of Luxor, which stands in the centre of the square – one of a pair of obelisks that were previously found at the Temple of Luxor in Egypt. The one in Paris, which was gifted to France in the 19th century, now differs from its counterpart in more ways than one – not least its setting in the middle of a Parisian square and the fact that it is capped with a gold-plated pyramidion. After my trip to Egypt a few months earlier, I had managed to see both.
Opera, Repressed Trauma and Shellfish Redemption
We spent the rest of our evening wandering around the city until it was time for something I had been really looking forward to – an opera.
While planning my trip, I had envisioned myself sitting in a majestic opera house, surrounded by the most sophisticated people, listening to the mellifluous voices of opera singers. The first thing that came up as I was browsing was Giulio Cesare, a drama per musica taking place at the Palais Garnier. It was kismet! Only, it was too expensive, and Kevin didn’t feel like spending so much money on something he’d never even tried. Fair enough. And so, we booked tickets to Beatrice di Tenda at the Opéra Bastille.
“False accusation, unjust imprisonment, torture and a death sentence: such was the unfortunate fate of Beatrice di Tenda, a real historical figure who became the heroine of Vincenzo Bellini’s opera. The work was first performed at Venice’s La Fenice in 1833 without any real success, much to the composer’s displeasure. For its entry into the Paris Opera repertoire, Peter Sellars directed this little-known score and, with set designer George Tsypin, placed the work in a steel-walled palace evoking the domination and surveillance exercised by a ruthless dictatorship.”
Sounds promising, right? Perhaps. Perhaps to someone who’s actually into opera. I, for one, have confirmed that I am 100% not into it. As soon as it started, I began yawning uncontrollably. I seriously couldn’t stop myself. Seriously! I tried to understand what they were singing, but I couldn’t make out a single friggin’ word. “Shouldn’t they speak in between songs?!” I asked Kevin shortly before I was shushed by those who didn’t wanna miss a single beat. “This is not a musical!” he whispered back, inviting a few more shushes, which then prompted him to respond with some strong expletives.
This, I figured, was our cue to shut up and enjoy the show – which, to sum it up, was just a bunch of people yelling melodically. This, it turns out, makes for excellent bedtime music. I swear, the nap I had in that theatre definitely ranked in my top three. Kevin, equally bored and drained, managed to keep it together. Luckily, there was an intermission, giving us the opportunity to sneak out – opera be damned. I’m sure it must’ve been an excellent opera. I’m sure the people applauding the singers endlessly knew what they were doing. This… this was a me problem. Rather, a we problem, given that Kevin and I were on the same page for once.
It was after we got out that I realised this wasn’t my first time listening to opera after all. Suddenly, I remembered my father watching it on TV ad nauseam and me rushing to my room to avoid the noise. Also, there was this annoying classmate of mine with a penchant for classical music who’d go on and on about opera. I probably had some PTSD and, up to that moment, I had completely forgotten everything about that part of my life. Talk about repressed trauma! It was then and there that I decided to stick to more earthly hobbies, leaving the finer arts to those more sophisticated and appreciative.
Fully restored, we then headed to a restaurant where we had the most amazing shellfish platter I’d ever had. So far, French cuisine was definitely living up to its reputation.