Day 34: What Did the Fox Say?

Listening to: "Stars" from Les Misérables

I had an excellent night at the theater, but I first want to share some stories that serve to amuse.

1. Last night, as I was looking for a place to get warm, I happened to come across a round grate in the ground. I walked over it and whoa! See, this is what I felt like: 

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8d/Marilyn_Monroe_photo_pose_Seven_Year_Itch.jpg

In reality, I probably looked more like this.

2. A few weeks ago, when Nicole was wondering aloud why our neighbors would party on a mundane Thursday night, I had to explain the concept of "Thirsty Thursday" to her. It wasn't as bad as when our poetry professor used highfalutin language to describe a G-string to an uninformed classmate, but it was still embarrassing. I guess it just seems like we're not even trying to make up good excuses for getting wasted anymore.

So after a quick nap to rejuvenate myself, I hopped right back on the Metro, right back to the Concorde transfer station, to get to the Théâtre du Châtelet. Thankfully, this theater has its own Metro stop right next door, so there was no bus confusion or walking across horse farms. Beautiful city smells instead--you know, dog excrement, sewage, etc. But I'm ruining my painting of words.

I was very excited to see this show because A.) this theater seemed more equivalent with the Bushnell and Palace Theaters back in Connecticut, and I wanted to do a compare and contrast, and B.) I've always wanted to read Le Petit Prince--or The Little Prince. Of course, laziness prevented me from reading it (the same reason why I still haven't finished Portrait yet...), so I had to go to my good friend Wikipedia and look up the summary before the show started.

But one step at a time. So walking in, I was impressed by how beautiful it was. But given how the online reviews raved about how stunning the place was, I found myself...underwhelmed. It's my own fault for setting expectations too high, I suppose, as it really was lovely. Here, see for yourself:

I know, the excitement of the theater lobby is almost unbearable. There was a thin crowd, but of course, I was there an hour before curtain--a leftover habit from seeing shows when you have to drive great distances to the theater and absolutely, positively do not want to be late. There was a man selling programs, so I bought one as a souvenir. They're not as flashy as Broadway programs, but it was nice. I can't wait to thumb through it.

The ushers guided me up the stairs to Porte 6 (Door 6). So no orchestra for me. Though reviews also mentioned that the orchestra seats are not elevated (kind of like the Plainville High School auditorium), so it's hard to see when you're short and stuck behind a taller person (i.e., me at every single show I've attended). Anyway, out in the upstairs lobby, they had pictures from previous productions, and I can't help but share some of the cooler ones:

I believe these are the Von Trapp children. And if they're not, that's definitely false advertising, because everything about this scene screams The Sound of Music to me.

This stage setup reminded me of our senior year production of Picnic in high school. Fake grass is hard to find, man.

This picture brought back memories of one of my favorite childhood books, The Spider Weaver, which just happens to be by a family friend (or acquaintance? I don't want to be overly familiar or unnecessarily distant). It's kind of silly, but still. They need some spider weaving.

Not exactly sure what show this scene is from, but it happened to remind me of The Little Dancer production at the Kennedy Center, which was AMAZING. I think it's just the way the woman's dressed.

I'm burning with confusion over this photo. 

Her hair kind of looks like the character Colette's from Disney Pixar's Ratatouille.

This is just a really impressive balancing feat. Her arm muscles must be exceptional.

When we finally were allowed to enter the theater, I plopped myself down and covertly took out my camera. Would the ushers in France be like the ones in the United States and tell me to put that away, ma'am in a stern voice? I've noticed that ushers have been getting more lenient about picture taking--that is, picture taking before the show, when the curtain is down and nothing is visible. I mean, I never understood why taking pictures then was an issue, but we've gotten yelled countless times over it, so I try to avoid angering the ushers at all costs. But the ushers looked completely dispassionate about the American with the camera, so I snapped away. And wow. I guess this was the impressive part:

I spy an orchestra down below!

Upon closer inspection, the ceiling had several sections, each representing a different category of theater. Here they are:

Vaudeville

Opéra

Féerie 

(or Enchantment, according to my new app that far exceeds Google Translate's too literal interpretations)

Musique

Grr, Google is being difficult with letter me post the others. In case you're dying to know, there are also Comédie, Danse, Drame, Tragédie, and Pantomime.

Settling in, I was pleased to see some families had brought their children to see the show. And there were young and old people alike in the audience. It was gratifying to see.

However...

As soon as the show started, upon seeing the French subtitles flash across the top of the stage, the disgruntled woman next to me left in a dramatic huff that would've rivaled Nicolas Cage's overacting. How rude. Well, at least I wouldn't have to set next to an hour of frustrated groaning. Too bad the guy in front of me didn't leave. In fact, I was getting mad every time he kept trying to make the moves on his wife, as their canoodling made it even more impossible for me to see. Wish I knew how to say "get a room!" in French...

The show started with some animation, with the narrator giving the exposition about the snake swallowing the elephant drawing. (Sorry, spoilers ahead. Should've mentioned that earlier...) Then, the screens came up, and there was a fantastic set in front of us: cloth draped artfully to show sand dunes and mountains--and not in the way high school productions use because they lack funds--and a giant plane crash-landed on the side. In the "sky," the background was a rich dark blue, and 11 planets (yes, 11) and lots of sparkling stars alongside them. The planets varied in size, which is usually a result of cheap atmospheric perspective, but for once, I actually believed that some of the planets were farther away than others.

So the Little Prince came out onstage--I'm pretty sure "he" was a girl (I can't check because I've been exiled to the living room by a sleepy Nicole)--and he began singing. In French. In an extremely operatic voice. Well, that was sort of unexpected; I was thinking this was going to be more along the lines of a musical. But then again, since I am the daughter of someone who unwittingly bought tickets to an ASL production of The Secret Garden (I can never let that story go; it's priceless), I'm not surprised that I was ignorant. The opera seemed to throw some people off, and I saw other patrons leave the theater. Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Even the older couple who somehow managed to get tickets to Avenue Q at the Bushnell without knowing about the raunchy content at least waited until intermission to scoot out--and they did it discreetly, knowing that they were shaming all theater patrons with their terrible lack of theater etiquette. But these Parisian theater-goers have no shame in walking out in a flurry.

I was quite thankful for the subtitles at the top; I probably missed some nice aesthetic moments, but I was glad I could follow the story. I told you before: reading French is always easier, as when you're listening, a lot of the words start to sound the same to the untrained American ear. The downside of all the reading was that my brain was fried by the end of the show. It's funny how I don't really think of reading as "work"--unless, of course, you're reading something deathly dull like one of the plodding descriptive passages of a thick Charles Dickens novel. 

And for all my work, I did learn some new words: fleuve means "river," étoile refers to both a "star" or a "planetary body" (i.e., an asteroid)--that cleared up a lot of confusion, as I couldn't understand why everyone was saying the Prince came from a "star" when the book clearly states he lived on an asteroid--and épiné means "thorny." That might be a good word to use when I'm describing cantankerous individuals to my future French friends (ha! why am I still holding out hope?). 

The story is very trippy, I guess, which explains why so many adults walked out. It wasn't anything too crazy, though: I was thinking it was along the lines of Alice and Wonderland. And then that got me thinking: this stuff isn't strange to the children watching it. We only start to think that all the shit that happens in Alice is weird when we hit our teens--which happens to be the same time when we're overly concerned about what others think about us. When I was a child, I had an imagination that was pretty strange: my best imaginary friend wasn't even another human. (For those who are curious, it was Lemmy the Koopa from the classic NES game Super Mario Bros. 3. I cannot even begin to describe my weirdness.) 

And, you know, we accept some pretty strange shit from George R. R. Martin in his Game of Thrones universe, and we've extended the benefit to Tolkien. For goodness sake, we read Beowulf  in high school English, which is literally a tale about slaying a dragon. No one can really say it's "realistic," which is just an awful word in itself.

My English-major-personality raging aside, I enjoyed the delightfully strange journey the opera brought me on. The Prince's story was the best part, from when his beloved rose is introduced to his many visits to other planets/asteroids/space things. After the first visit, he says, "Ces grands hommes sont bizarre." ("These adults are weird.") These observations grow harsher and harsher, and finally he's just like, "Ces grands hommes sont vraiment les plus bizarres." ("These adults are really the weirdest.") My paraphrasing is terrible, and I'm sure Antoine Saint-Expuréry is rolling in his grave at how I'm butchering his words. But these seemingly childish observations are just so true: adults are fucking weird, man. (That was my less eloquent way of stating the point Saint-Expuréry made so wonderfully.) 

I was filled with immense sadness when the opera ended, but this melancholy had been creeping up after Le Renard (The Fox) said his famous line: 

"On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eyes."

During this moving scene, I saw that some people had their phones out--and the theaters here definitely tell you to turn off your phone in French and English so the message is loud and clear. Ugh. I was disgusted. And after the three encores--which actually showed a lot of restraint, given the amount of encores I've been subjected to after seeing only two shows--everyone walking out of the theater was having a jolly good time practicing their operatic voices. 

I take things way too seriously, but didn't it mean anything? Opera is strange when you first hear it. You think, Why do they have to sing it so ostentatiously? But the music and libretto step in to convey emotions that are hard to articulate in one language, let alone another. And I wondered if the people walking out of the theater had seen a moving and tragic piece of an adult author's longing to return to innocent childhood imagination or a funny "play" with colorful costumes and wigs.

But I'm depressing myself. Here are some more pictures:

Unfortunately, all my photos of the outside of the theater can't come close to conveying how cool it looks. First of all, they planted trees right in front of it, so even in the dead of winter, the branches get in the way. Secondly, I decided to take this picture after the show let out, guaranteeing that cars and buses and people would be crowding the picture. All I want is for you to see what I see, and I feel like this photo doesn't do the theater justice.

Even France has its graffiti artists. Actually, while I was in Sceaux, I saw the immensely clever word "POTHEAD" spelled out on seven columns in the middle of the train tracks of the station. Do the French not have an equivalent French word for "pothead"?

Here is St. Jacques Tower. You know, the same saint who is associated with the scallops--I think. Apparently this has a wicked view of the city.

This ice rink brought back nostalgic memories of meeting Conan O'Brien afterwards in Georgetown. Of the actual skating, I can't say I would do that again, given that I can't skate.

Yep, La Belle Époque that the French girl from Midnight in Paris can't stop talking about.

Actually, though, this carousel is hauntingly beautiful at best, and just plain creepy if we're going to speak frankly.

I get that American stores like to branch out internationally, but does the phrase "Forever 21" even mean anything if translated in French? I mean, does anything special happen when someone turns 21 in France? They probably don't understand why we are so fascinated with this number.

These thin archways are what our bus drove through the night of the Night (not Knight) Bus Tour. Yep. It was terrifying. I hope you can realize how much so now.

View of the graffitied fountain from across the street, as in I was standing in front of the theater when I took this picture.

Mon spectacle prochain! (My next show! I can't wait.)

I had pored all over the Internet looking for a nice spot to eat, and I thought I found a worthy candidate in a place called Le Fumoir. It was right next to a metro, and it was rated $$$$, which, in my past experience, is not usually that expensive. Whoa was I wrong. I somehow got locked into a prix fix meal that was 34 euros. My heart sank at the price; now all I could think about was Domino's less than $10 pizza. However, I thought I saw a silver lining when I read one of the menu options: barley risotto flavored with citrus and artichoke hearts.

It looked divine, and I was genuinely excited to dig in. Except... barley risotto is not like the risotto I'm used to. Unfortunately, the texture reminded me of those tapioca pearls that sit at the bottom of a cup of bubble tea. Now, as an Asian girl, I'm practically required to like bubble tea, but I really can't stomach the tapioca. So that was not a pleasant association. Then, the citrus flavor made me feel like I was eating rice pudding. Now, rice pudding is very good, but I don't like to mix sweet and savory, especially when I'm used to risotto being this incredibly savory, filling dish. Plus, real risotto doesn't need cream: the starch in the Arborio rice thickens the dish. I had the very uncharitable and grandiose thought that I could make a much better risotto. I don't think the chef would appreciate that...

Dessert was much more palatable: I had a chocolate tart topped with clementine sorbet. That was very tart but delicious and sweet. And the chocolate was very rich, though there wasn't too much of it, which is always my problem when I order a chocolate-rich dessert in America. Especially if I'm running low on lemonade, it feels like my throat is drying with chocolate stuck to it. Not a pleasant feeling.

I managed to make it to the Metro by 11:30 pm, which was a relief, as the Metro closes at 12:30 am. Which is ridiculous, even for weekdays. The thought of being stranded both nauseates and distresses me. It was miracle we made it in last night even. But I was in no danger tonight, and so I jaunted off into the tunnel, walking in step to Paul McCartney singing "When I'm Sixty-Four." (I've probably noted this before, but the French Metro users must think I'm insane. I can't help but "act" out the lyrics when I'm plugged into my iPod. It's a really bad habit, as it makes people think I have some strange muscular twitch or a serial killer smile. Why do these people put up with me? More importantly, how have my parents done so for 20--almost 21!--years???)

My delight at seeing the poster dissipated when I saw the Metro Police. Well, they're not real police. Have I mentioned them before? In Paris, they are actually really serious about uncovering people who are cheating the Metro system. So from time to time, you'll see a horde of people crowded around an exit, and as you get closer, you can see several men and women in uniforms with scanners, examining Navigo cards and disposable tickets alike. And apparently these guys are ruthless: they don't care if someone stole your Navigo or if you dropped your ticket. You get ejected--hopefully nothing more, because I know getting a fine would be very unfortunate. I've always made it past, but other AUP students haven't, and so it's a warning that I still bear in mind.

Oo, I need to sleep. I still have class tomorrow--even if it is at 3:20 pm. Bonne nuit, mes petites étoiles. Je vous aime bien. Merci beaucoup; c'est incroyable que vous lisez encore mes mots bizarres.