When in Rome... but, when in Paris ...?

Banyak yang bilang London, New York, dan Roma adalah metro/mega/politan yang satu liga dengan Paris. Suku Gaulish akan bilang « chacun a son goût » - each to its own taste. Masing-masing tentu punya aura dan allure sendiri, tapi soal seduksi dan keanggunan, bagi saya Paris adalah kota paling exquisitely grandiose sepanjang masa. Binar dan pendar lamppost art-nouveau warisan abad 19-nya tetap sejati mengerling setiap pelalu-lalang, Parisian maupun turis. Tak pernah ambience-nya tak mempesona.

Posting berikutnya ... inside the Louvre - the single largest human made edifice dedicated to les beaux arts.

Dec 2003 - Jan 2004

There's a certain air of infidelity when I return to the city of light who's looking mellow in her winter hibernation. Though la belle capitale still looks seductively charming however this time the grand old lady won't get away so easily.

The atmosphere easily differs to last year's summer layover what with my now having to be content with the thickness of 3 pieces of garments to fight off the cold. Yet, there's a commonality on both occasions, I always find myself arrive at the very same spot: la gare du Nord. I feel I know the place quite reasonably well now silently acknowledging that the green-coloured payphones only accept les cartes téléphoniques (no coin please!), that the seemingly méchants (nasty) French men of African origin are only minding their business, that the guiche touristique (ticket window) only provides bookings to star-rated hotels.

I am having an abrupt déjà-vu. The pouring rain's just stopped, the earth is still damp, water excess flows down the gutter, and I can just smell the aroma of freshly brewed espresso at the nearby café - exactly the same as last year. The buildings around the gare appear quite as I remember last I saw them - as though the past 16 months this part of the world hasn't seen a manifestation of any sort. Le parking of la gare du Nord is even still dominated by motorbikes in any imaginable hues.

It's lunchtime and I'm to find myself a boulangerie. Any boulangerie that can supply decent sandwiches or croissants. Can't find one. They all seem to sell just soft desserts than solidified tucker. I guess it's taken over 200 years for Marie Antoinette's outrageous plan to feed Parisians with cakes and tarts to start working. Rien de grave, I'm not too hungry, I tell myself. I venture through the quiet (it's Sunday) back streets and little alleys in hope to kill a couple of hours before heading to a métro en route to Montreuil where I'll be staying.

A couple of days later, I need to restock the grocery. So in the morning my mates and I are off to a Carrefour. I know Carrefour is a gigantic hypermarket chain, but several years have passed since I last visited one. This Carrefour at the eastern phériphérique of Paris is enormous. The ground floor is whitegoods and clothing items, so we take the escalator down to the alimentation floor. I shamelessly admit that I'm totally impressed with the range of food here. One section is dedicated to meat and poultry (you can buy a sac of ham of 50 kgs), another is for cheese (it's a cheese lover heaven), I see a freezer containing snails both dead and alive sitting innocently surrendering their faith to the shopper's hand, and the most impressionnant of all is the liquor and wine corner. Shelf after shelf one can see all sorts of booze that might tickle one's fancy. And the much celebrated Beaujolais is in season demanding a pretty shelf all for itself. At the check out I see myself with two apéro: a grape fruit flavour and a French muscat, and chimay and leffe beer.

Bière belge. I've had both beer before, so I know they're superior quality Belgian amber liquid. Later that night, as I relinquish my 6.6% alcohol blonde leffe, I ponder why it has such a sublime taste, by far smoother than even the Australian and Asian premium beer. In the end, I am satisfied that it must be the secret recipe and techniques that`ve been perfected over 800 years experience - leffe was first produced in the 12th century by Belgian monks.

Several days have passed. I think I'm a couple of notches wiser about la vie profonde parisienne. I learn things the hard way. My first impression of le métro is still intact, that it`s only too practical to use it, everywhere you need to go the métro will deliver you within a stone`s throw to your destination. Guaranteed. My second impression is however less pleasant. I`m referring to the act of braving the many pee-scented métro corridors in order to change lines. You might need to acquire a second lung to survive this quotidient putrid if you happen to live and use the smaller métros, whereas some of the hubs are usually filled with "homeless" mothers and their babies with a cardboard that read like «J'ai 4 enfants s'il vous plait» - I have four kids please ..., and fruit vendors appear inanely bored attending their commerce about. The next wisdom endowed to me is by the experiences of being mucked about. I always stray alone, walking for hours, exploring parts of the city and suburbs in order to understand more of le vrai Paris. Usually in the quieter area there is one or two mecs (duds) taking the chance to make a mock out of me. I brush off this ridicule, of course. Their having fun by simulating gestures or animatedly voicing some supposedly ching-chang-chong words can only be construed as a result of their low class education. The last farce is even quite funny actually, I was just strolling along the footpath in the area of Gare de Lyon when one guy mouths moshi-moshi to me as he walks by. The last strand however is by far the most profound lesson. On the way back home from spending the New Year's Eve not far from the Eiffel tower the crowd gets stuck in a complete deadlock. A parisian newsstand I am amongst the herd --hundred of thousands of heads squeezed tight bottle-neck at all métro Passy entrances. Helplessly waiting our turn to elbow our way towards la voie, the platform, the lot is stunned in disbelief when a band of frenzied Arab youths barge through ransacking the equilibrium of the order. They don't say pardon whatsoever to the people ─mostly tourists. So much for manièrisme parisien.

January 1 sees me as I try to ring up my penpal Amandine whom I've never met vis-à-vis despite years of penpalling. She's just exhausted herself after le nouvel an party avec ses copains -with her mates. Tomorrow is more suitable, she agrees to meet up with me for coffee. I say, yeah that's cool, where can we meet? Several minutes later, attempting to find the perfect place has come to a nul, the word La Basilique du Sacré-Cœur Monmartre sprang to my mind. I thought this is a brilliant idea, unsuspecting to what comes ahead. I will pay dearly for this faux. In the mean time, I have fallen a victim of my own plan to meet at the Basilique at noon exactly 24 hours from now. What I should have proposed is somewhere around la Republique, it being so close and convenient for all the parties involved.

Clumsily, I rush off in the morning. I strategise if I spare about 45 minutes of time gap between Montreuil and Anvers I'll be safe. And I can't be any more callously wrong. Anvers -the nearest métro to the basilique- may be a 40 minute trip all right. That's pretty tight though given that a direct line exists between my departure and arrival métros. In reality there's no direct line for me, but 2 times swapping lignes. So, at quarter past noon I am pumping oxygen through my respiratory system as I clamber the hilly cobble-stoned streets of Monmartre. Fifteen minutes later, I am convinced she would have left. But maybe she's still waiting, hang on... there are hundreds of people roaming the basilique. I am effectively mortified, how I am supposed to find a person whose face I have not seen, and for her vice versa, in a pool of hundreds of faces. Monmartre, one of Paris premier tourist spots is brimming even in this damp weather. I should've had some facial reference, really.

Perhaps Sainte Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris, has decided to lend her merciful hand in my despair [more of Ste. Geneviève later]. I look around and decide to attempt an educated guest. Yeah, just like back in highschool. Only this time I won't feel remorseful except maybe for hiding my embarrassement over one or two "Aah, excusez-moi ... désolé". I scan all early 20ish girls. There's one just before the lookout fence, next to a panoramic telescope, holding an umbrella in a hand one appear looking for someone. Quelle chance, it's Amandine.

Amandine says she doesn't know any particular café around the Basilique. She didn't frequent this area whilst living in the 18e last year. So we pick one just accross the main streets. It looks quite abuzz with patrons so maybe the coffee's decent. Half an hour and two cappuccinos later, I suggest we get some nosh. We head for le quartier chinois in the 13e arrondissement for it is a saviour for Parisians on budget, quite possibly the headquarters of inexpensive tucker in this dear city.

Whereas I'm a francophile, Amandine shows every sign of a sinophile. She loves this atmospherically different to the rest of Paris quartier, she loves shopping Oriental grocery and window shopping on petits antiques, she has quite several favourite Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants, she would even, oddly enough to me, love to move to this neighbourhood despite Chinese real estate agents are rumoured to give preference to Asian renters, she tells me.

Amandine and I lunch at Vieux Saigon, a respectable looking vietnamese restaurant. It's choc-a-bloc, every seat and table is occupied, except this window one next to the entry door. We'll take it, merci bien. The two ladies and one man at a table to our right are deeply engrossed in their meals. While we go about our business, half an hour later a middle-aged Oriental man arrives at our neighbour's table carrying some doughnouts on a tray. He pours some alcohol on the delicacy and ignites fire over it for over 30 seconds before wishing our neighbours to enjoy their dessert. Amandine tells me, yeah it's quite common to have a flambé at vietnamese restaurants, nothing of a spectacular sight. I nod as I make a mental note, "Learn, oh Young Grasshopper".


L'auberge de jeunesse Aloha. I have been carrying my backpack throughout the day. I need to find a hostel to spend the next few nights until my next hop to Nice. Amandine helps me to find one. The 3 ducks is full today but the Aloha still has a few vacancies and they're both situated in the 15e arrondissement. I want to experience a different lodgement than that of last year's. I say au revoir to Amandine and thank her for her hospitality. On the métro I can just nearly punch myself after remembering I've forgotten to take a photo with my nice penpal friend. Damn. Prochaine fois, peut-être! Perhaps next time, I console myself.

Aloha, [Métro Volontaire]
1 rue Boromée 75015 Paris
Tél : 01 42 73 03 03

There's a man in front of me waiting to talk with the receptionist behind the counter. His backpack is twice as large than mine. He's made a booking before and now just paying two nights for his bed. My turn. There's a New Year surcharge imposed by Aloha for a short period of time. I pay for my bed and a linen was handed over to me. Right, off to room 326 on the third floor. Settling down whilst inspecting the dodgy heater and shower (I soon discover one gets what one pays for!), I make acquaintance with the lad who stood before me downstairs. Dublin-based Liam is an Aussie who's been doing some teaching works in the UK in the last few months. He's now on his second leg of his European tour in search of knowledge, history, and beauty of European arts as he will return to his teaching work (music and history) in Brisbane in a few weeks' time. He's in Paris for three nights only before flying to Rome. Being a first timer in Paris, Liam poses several questions as to how to get to places and the transportation system. I'm more than happy to share my knowledge. Liam isn't sure if he'll use a whole carnet -a ten one way ticket strips- so he won't buy it.

I too need to devise where I'll be heading tomorrow morning. Using some guide magazines, I work out that this Sunday, in two days, is free day to visit most museums in Paris. Liam reckons this is brilliant. We vaguely make an ambitious plan to team up fully scouring Le Louvre. Someone just walks in to our dorm. Another roommate for the night. Quentin, a South African in his early 20s pulling pint at a London pub is also a Paris-city virgin. His travel agenda is laden with ransacking Parisian churches and museums.

The next morning, looking poised but promised myself not to be outdone by my enthused roommates, I plan to first excavate the neighbourhood by foot. Amandine has told me the 14e and 15e arrondissements are deemed quite poshey by the city standard. It seems true, most notably by the significant amount of «cracra de chien», that's dog poo for you and me ─and let's not forget their faux fur-coated Parisian mistresses looking mightily pompously─ littering the pavement compared to the other arrondissements. I drag my feet several blocks absorbing the morning pulse. Is this a typical Parisian morning? Effectively all boulangeries, poissoneries, charcuteries, patisseries, and every respectable shop that involves selling edible articles along rue Vaugirard have kicked off their business. Further down the road, tucked in a small junction, an enigmatic looking Chinese traiteur - a Chinese takeaway in actual, which goes by the trading name of FAST FOOD, GOURMET CHINESE FOOD - is about to commence the day trading. I can't help but admire how easy it is to dupe Parisians using the English language. Fast food is hardly associated with gourmet, in most Anglocountries I've been to.

I walk about for a good hour or so and take a few snap that interest me, notably the chic looking Parisian bistros and restaurants. These establishement know a thing or two about creating a façade and ambience that will attract people and get them to religiously dine at the same place. The specialty shops too do themselves up quite charmingly. I'm unaccustomed to this kind of novelty.

Unwittingly, I have been gazing at la tour Eiffel in a distance. I realise the tower is situated in the 15e, no wonder it looks so close. Mais voilà, I will just visit it in the afternoon. Reequipping myself at the hostel with the essential backpacker pack, a city map, and there you go: I now stand tall to navigate myself towards the tower. The sun is out although the temperature today seems have fallen several degrees than yesterday. Maybe it's just an unfounded feeling of mine.

Detouring L'école militaire and foxtrotting the stampede of newly arrived Asian tourists (yes, all the men uniformly wear a monocolour suit), I walk through Champs de Mars swiftly. The glassy art monuments for :: peace :: at L'école militaire seems pretty heroic, making it a must photographed site for any respectable tourists unwittingly led to this spot by their tour guide.

For several good minutes I toy with the idea of "doing" the Eiffel tower, seemingly a ritual for every tourist which I despise, truth be told. But I finally give in to the absurd notion simply owing to the fact that last year I couldn't bring myself into the endless queues at all four legs for the ascension de la tour. This time the circumstances are slightly different. Being in off peak season means a shorter lining up time to buy a ticket to go up the tower.

So now the couple conversing behind me is a French woman and a hispanic looking man. Interestingly, she confesses to him this is her first time to do the tower. A true blue Parisienne, then. The family with two kids from England before me are all for themselves bickering what they will do tomorrow in the city. As we inch our way towards the ticket office the afternoon sun warms us up a smidge, a small consolation towards our effort. Though our personal space is now massively reduced everyone seems quite happy ackowledging they'll be exercising their muscles during their climb par escalier (via stairs) in a matter a few minutes. A group of Italian lads is chanting most wickedly. They even guffaw with a woman in her 30s who's standing parralel with the Italian ragazzi.

"Eh, non è signora, è signorina!", shrieks the Italian woman. Everyone nods in agreement at what she's just said and throws in a polite smile. The boys congruously say «Ma scusa signorina... scusa!» for commiting a social crime by addresing her as a married woman, with an ample of apologetic airy hand gestures to the signorina. The art of European flirting well showcased.

My first time hovering at 300 metres above the Seine river is quite enchanting, if not breathtakingly educative. I rapidly skim through the factboards on my way up to the first and second level. I didn't know that: (1) Monsieur Gustave had a private apartment at the summit just after the tower was opened to the public. What must be a bon epoque to live at once the hottest property in this city, (2) in the early 1900s they used to perform a daily midi cannon -firing a cannon at noon at the second level of the Eiffel tower- just so that Parisians can synchronise their clock. There are mentions of visit by kings and queens from accross Europe on its inaugural opening, Hollywood legendary stars during 1930s-1950s, and numereous famous personalities.

Next site to visit is Les Champs Elisées in the 8e. It's such a cliché that one must visit the arguably world's most beautiful shopping boulevard during one's visit of la capitale. Although I have little desire to blow my travel budget at any of the shops I want to witness the glamour of the city riches. I pass all the luxury boutiques with half a glance at the immaculate shop attendants. And I skip the premium French restaurants with price tags that might just give the average backpacker a heart attack or two.

I admit I've been forced to take up a role of a junkie in Paris. I've had innumerable fast food takeaway in the last few days. My interim daily diet has been shamelessly consisting of:

Le pétit déjeuner ─ small baguettes with butter and jam, pétit noir or jus
d'orange « courtesy of the meany hostel staff, a sombre-faced over zealous
vigilante who constantly suspects anyone who claims s/he hasn't had their
breakfast so can I have it now please, a lying bastardo, whom thus deserves an
evil look from from the man himself ».

Le déjeuner ─ sandwich from La Brioche Dorée, a takeaway establishment. Usually
I pick le thon sandwich, a super succulent medium-sized tuna mayo boiled egg
lettuce sandwich. I am normally quite ashamed of entering -and purchasing from-
a fastfood chain, but La Brioche Dorée radiates a contemporary French café scene
that holds a 180° separation from les MacDo. Furthermore, it's frequented by
students of La Sorbonne in Latin Quarter. Let's face it, there's nothing like a
mingle with the locals, eh!

Snack ─ briochette chinoise, a regular item found at any respectable Chinese
delicatessen in Paris. I love this brouchette, satay-like grilled chicken /or
beef/ costing only 1.6 euros per skewer. Excellent value for a truly savoury,
though I am not too sure first when the Asian woman asks "Vous le voulez
chaufée", hmm... I don't understand what she means, "err... pardon?". She
repeats the same phrase while pointing her delicate finger at the micronde.
Yeah, I would like it heated in the microwave, please.

Dinner ─ normally I grab a frozen meal (the beef bourgignonne is all right
and value for money) from the supermarché on rue Volontaire. On one occassion
Liam and I decide to venture into something more exotic after we concede we
can't be bothered with frozen meals. We resort to our last option: anything that
is cheap-nasty-and-tasty. Alors il faut essayer le déli grec, we opt for a Greek
sandwich shop just around the corner. The verdict... it's pretty awful, really.

Not too long later, my nightmare of being squeezed into pulp by the peak hour commuter on the métro becomes reality. Embarking from métro George V, I have a rock-solid intention to change line at Concorde to get on the Mairie d'Issy line back to the auberge. The following scenes prove what a joke my simple plan is. Nearing Corcorde I start nudging my "relative position" on the métro towards the automatic door. Well, I can't do enough nudging, really, with fresh batch of passangers engorging in en masse at every interval station pushing everyone else (including my very important relative position) further into the abyss. In my defeat I manage to get off the train at Châtelet, signifying an extra line swap for me.

Back in the dorm we have a new face. An American Chinese female student who just arrived this afternoon on the Eurostar. She's much more enthused than us, having covered several sites already within a few hours time and by the end of tomorrow she will be a museum mistress, she claims. Majoring in architecture means she'd like to sharpen her ideas on classical and contemporary designs. And where else can she find a better place for this purpose that's a short stroll from London -for her semester abroad- and the possibility of a compacted study tour into a two-day time frame as she will fly to the U.S. soon.

Liam and I waste no time in getting up and ready the next morning. We're on a mission to crusade as many Paris museums today. The by-now-just-simply-not-working dodgy heater in our dorm provides little warmth after the cold shower at 6 a.m. - well, if and only if you stick your hands out within 10 cm from it. Ca fait rien. We simply have little time to catch the métro (Volontaire - Tuileries) to the Louvre. Slowly, the queueing is trailing halfway down the underpassage corridor by the time we get there. We find out later there's another line-up on the main pyramid entrance - for the polar bear types. The angst mixed with excitement is etched on most of the soon to-be visitors and so is ours as we're going to partake in a hands-on experience of the world's most enigmatic smile housed in once prison for Louis XVI and house for Napoleon.

We've now officially become Louvre's staggering statistic (it's patronised by over 5 million visitors anually, making it the world's most visited museum). There's a congregation of museum staff who explains there'll be several guided tours throughout the day if we'd like to join just sign up our name. The first one is at 10 a.m for the Greek arts. Although the staff speaks only French we've assumed the guide might be available in other languages or at least we can pose questions to the English-speaking tour leader. This is not the case. I can read the plaque for each exhibition item - albeit catching only a few words here and there off the tour guide. Liam on the other hand feels we're definitely in the wrong tour so we'd be better off as vagabonds.

The ensuing scenes involve dodgingly absorbing a gamut of astonishing collection of French, Italian, Greek, and Egyptian arts, artefacts, and precious articles (including jewellery, furniture, diningware, and numerous antiques) of the late French nobles and monarchs. For me personally it is the Italian Renaissance paintings that are real jaw-breaking. Largely depicting scenes from the Bible or a milestone event in the Christianity history these remarkable paintings are not only beautifully surreal but also grand in size; some even of ceiling size. On a separate page I will let the articles do the justice of their beauty.

Arguably, most of our museum-goer fellows probably wishes to see Monalisa and indeed so do we. The masterpiece is displayed at the furthest end of the Italian Renaissance wing. It's all a brisk business as the Monalisa queue is split into a u-shaped one way stampede carefully choreographed by a band of security personnels, no photographs allowed s'il vous plait, and no lingering before the Monalisa. Voilà ... I guess I just have to be quite content with being able to claim to have admired the beauty of la Joconde (as the French call the Monalisa) although in all honesty I can't see what's particularly extraordinary with it. Hey, I'm no art buff, I can't even tell who first painted cubism let alone deciphering the subtle meaning beneath it if I were shown one.

Many feel what makes Paris so splendid is the concentration of a high number of aesthetic edifices in one small area, rich historic monuments and sites, and their unique Roman way of life which leaves little room for unpleasant sights. The series of long, narrow building of Tuileries were first built in 1564 for royal residence before the Palace of Versailles superseded it. More popularly it was knows as a house prison for the infamous Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette during the first few years after the French Revolution before they were brought to the guillotine.

By the time we feel overwhelmed by the splendid objet d'art of the Louvre it's just after midday, perfect for a stroll in the île de la cité to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

Île de la cité is indeed the birth place of the mainstream of French civilisation. Not only it being where the highly centralised government decreed all their laws for many centuries, but also the culture (and dialect) of its ancient inhabitants, the Parisii tribe, who occupied the tiny island expanded and dominated what is now modern France. The Romans once governed it before defeated by the King of the Franks, Clovis, who later made the island his capital. Thus it also regarded as "zero point" for marking all distances from other French local and overseas territory to Paris.

The Sainte Chapelle was built in 1245 as a private chapel for French King (François Premier) and his family.