Listening to: "Corner of the Sky" from the musical Pippin
NOTE: Coming to you a day late because I fell asleep while the photos were uploading... Oops. Don't worry, I'll wear the cone of shame.
Okay. Today is proof that you can't just give up!
After class, I headed to the Sainte-Chapelle. With all my traveling coming up, I didn't know when I'd be in that area again.
Of course, when you arrive at 1:30 pm, the line is long. Like, really, really long. Longer than any line I've had to wait for while I've been here--and I've done lots of touristy places like the Eiffel Tower, Versailles, Arc de Triomphe, and Louvre. And normally I would've gotten fed up and just left, but I decided to tough it out.
I was actually in the area for a reading at Shakespeare & Co. But that was at 7 pm, and I needed something to do.
I was in line for about 30 minutes, and it hadn't budged one bit. So I decided, hey, I might as well get something done. That's how I ended up revising my French poems (yes, poems in French that rhyme) while in line. I had my earbuds in so I wouldn't have to listen to any French people behind me snickering at my terrible grammatical mistakes. I mean, I would've laughed at me too, if I were in their position; I just didn't want to hear it.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, I was at the front of the line. The guy was ushering people in, holding back the rope. Then, before the girl in front of me could get through, he put the rope back down. So yeah. It's just like waiting in line at Lake Compounce for hours, finally getting to the front, and then having to wait just one more turn. Grrrrr.
But you know, once I got in, I was fine.
Well. Until I got to the ticket booth.
The ticket line split in two: one was for people to buy their tickets right then and there, and the other was for people who had prepaid for a Museum Pass or bought their tickets online. I waited in the first line. Now, my mother just sent me a link today about all the stupid things NOT to do in Paris, and waiting in line is one of them. However, I reminded her, for student discounts to work, you often have to buy them right then and there. So the waiting game is really not fair for poor college kids.
Note the careful split of the line that some families clearly can't see.
Two people were occupied buying tickets, so I stayed back. Then, I noticed the people behind me were arguing--about me. Apparently, I was blocking them from getting to the ticket kiosk, as they were smart tourists who'd bought Museum Passes. So they shoved me--yes, they actually shoved me--and said "PARDON" to me very loudly and emphatically, i.e., the way you talk to someone who you think can't speak English. Or French, apparently.
And these were Americans! Now I was regretting my stance the other day about liking Americans.
After they shoved me aside, I tried walking to the ticket-buying window. And then two other Americans cut in front of me! Now, since we were schooled on how the French cut like crazy while Americans are surprisingly prudish about maintaining place in line, I was appalled.
I thought a nice walk around the Sainte-Chapelle would cool me down.
Yes. The upstairs was beautiful, in all its stained-glass splendor. But the photos above are of the downstairs, which are infinitely less exciting. But still cool, in its own way.
On the other hand, the upstairs... It was just so bright. Plus the glass features Biblical stories rather than just random figures praying. And the big stained glass in the middle featured the Apocalypse. Well. It probably has a holier name, but yeah, that was pretty awesome.
I descended down another staircase, fully expecting to see another part of the church.
Except that was it. Just the bottom floor with one solitary statue of either the Virgin Mary or Jesus (they are surprisingly hard to tell apart in Gothic architecture) and the top. Admittedly, the top was much cooler back in the day when it featured the Crown of Thorns. But apparently, that only comes out on Good Friday...which is actually this Friday. Hm. Maybe I should see it!
This is where the Crown of Thorns would sit. That reminds me: Sheldon's mother is all up on how cool thorny crowns are.
Sidetracked, sorry. Well, yeah, that was it. And after waiting well over an hour in line (I went through the soundtrack of Wicked), I was not exactly thrilled.
After exiting ruefully, I did spot the Palais de la Justice. And I thought, well, I'm going to go in. Sure, there was a separate line for the Palais de la Justice--aka the Supreme Court of France--but I was going in!
And that wasn't even exciting or thrilling because it actually was no big deal to sneak inside. It just felt novel to me because I'm not sure if anyone I know has seen the inside of the Supreme Court? So I probably felt a lot cooler than it actually was to be inside.
Strangely, it's the stuff in the Palais de la Justice that moves me. You know, all the calls for liberté, fraternité, égalité--rights that the early French Republic did a terrible job at upholding, it occurs to you when you visit the Conciergerie. But we'll get there.
I mean, there wasn't much to see inside the Justice Palace. There were some vaguely racist posters depicting the Chinese court systems. And then a parody of Uncle Sam. So the French insulted both my birth country and my home country. Ah well. At least they did both.
Vaguely racist signs. Apparently Montesquieu really admired Chinese government, but I think in the same way like how some settlers viewed Native Americans as "pure savages" instead of, you know, people.
So. The Conciergerie--which sounds a lot more welcoming than it really is--is where they shuttled off prisoners during the Reign of Terror, most notably Marie-Antoinette. I mean, it held prisoners before the French Republic, but it was really going through them throughout the month of Thermidor. Yeah. To quote John Green, "So while France was broke and fighting tons of wars, they decided to change the calendar." I mean, this guy Antoine Lavoisier was also guillotined, and he is basically credited as the father of modern chemistry. And then Robespierre got guillotined, but I don't know why we're supposed to feel bad for him: he guillotined many, many others who were definitely innocent--and he certainly wasn't.
Blahblahblah. The Conciergerie was somewhat fascinating--mostly because French historians choose the oddest things to include in displays. I'll show you:
Very "Food, Glorious Food" picture. Except, you know, French.
I'm just saying, if I were a prisoner here, I would not feel better seeing this smug little girl visiting me.
Literally. Literally in a sanctioned French historical museum.
Ha, this would totally happen to me.
Oh, fuck you, Robespierre.
The two photos above are of the cathedral inside the Conciergerie. Because even though we're sentencing you to death, we want you to feel comfortable praying about it.
Incidentally, the word "conciergerie": the "concierge" was the man who oversaw the prison. So, a nicer name for "prison warden." It kind of gives a whole perspective when you see people sitting behind the desks at hotels. Maybe they're secretly envisioning that we're they're prisoners--that's why we have to surrender our keys! Gasp!
The Women's Courtyard featured above was seriously depressing.
Now, what does that sign me? It's not a bathroom sign. Is it an endorsement for a ménage à trois? To have children?
Now, I know this is what you've really wanted to see: the recreation of Marie-Antoinette's cell. Another fun fact given up by the French museum system: this room was converted into a bathroom at one point. So yeah. That was weird. And I'm still not a fan of these mannequins. And since the one of Marie-Antoinette is facing away from us, does she even have a face???
A cool staircase we were not allowed to climb. And a section of broken-down stairs that would've connected to the Louvre.
Well, the real downside of the Conciergerie was the unfriendliness of the guards. I was snapping my usual shots when these guards suddenly leaped out of the way. "You have to ask permission first!" they scolded me.
I'm sorry. I've never understood this. I realized long ago that I must be all over the Internet in random people's photos. I mean, I know one is definitely out there: when you take a picture with Ben Stiller, random people will snap a photo of you as well. I mean, they've probably taken a Sharpie to our faces, but yeah. I'm aware of it. And in the others, you can't help but be a background character in shots of the Lincoln Memorial and the White House.
It's just like our stupid librarian in middle school. She didn't want us filming inside the library because she "wasn't comfortable being on camera." Okay, A.) why the hell would we want to film her? She had a look of constant constipation. And B.) we weren't filming her! We were in the back of the library, as far away from the desk as possible.
I just see people who say these things as extremely vain: no one actually cares if they see you. And if they do, well, then I'm assuming because it's the FBI or NSA coming out for you.
Anyway, brooding on these ridiculous attitudes toward public photography, I went outside and came face-to-face with the "new" lock bridge. Well, it's more like a square, with a statue of Henry IV in the middle--and since he's not even my favorite Henry, I didn't really care. And I didn't have a lock to put on the bridge with my roommate. :(
It was getting to be around 6 pm at this point, and every avid theater-goer and punctually precise person knows that to be an hour early is actually just being on time. It's a foreign concept to Parisians, but since I was going to a British bookshop, maybe they'd understand.
Anyway, if my bad mood couldn't get worse... I was looking for Point Zero. (I didn't find it.) And as I paused to look at my map like, I don't know, EVERY OTHER PERSON, this _____ woman comes up to me? She points to her, then her daughter, and then made a shooing gesture to me.
Oh, I'm sorry, was I in the background of your photo? Is it so important that you be alone with the Notre Dame in your photo? What about the other, I don't know, dozens of people standing in front?
I was suffering serious l'esprit d'escaliers as I stalked away. I considered all the things I could've done: flipped her off, gone off on a tirade to embarrass us all (because I certainly don't give a fuck), etc. In the end, I decided that I wished I had done this:
Now, whether I'm referring to her actual head or the camera is up to you to decide.
But once again, I started this off by saying you shouldn't give up! And those are not words of a cynic like me, especially a pissed off cynic.
I walked to Shakespeare & Co. looking like this:
And I intended to explode everyone's head with my mind--seriously.
But yeah. Entering Shakespeare & Co. is like entering a sauna for me. It's my happy place. Just looking around and seeing all my favorite books: Catch-22, all the Chuck Palahniuk books, The Great Gatsby--all of the good emotions I associate with those books started coming out. I felt cocooned by all these words of wisdom from my favorite authors, and it was great to be surrounded by like-minded individuals. Because, it turns out, when there's a reading, they kick everyone out! Yes! So it was just us book aficionados in there.
Although I was a bit of a phony (shout-out to Holden Caulfield) because I hadn't read the book being discussed, Virginia Woolf in Manhattan, or heard of its author, Maggie Gee. By the end of the night, however, I loved them both.
Maggie Gee is a British author with a delightful British accent, and she's written several books. Oh, and she's married to an author, and her daughter is an author--what a great family! I had thought "Virginia Woolf in Manhattan" referred to a lecture on Virginia Woolf's experiences in Manhattan, which I would've realized wasn't true when I learned that Virginia Woolf had never been to New York City. Oops. This is why you should look up this stuff!
I was almost like that girl at the Palahniuk reading who was like, "I'm a writer too"--ugh, my number one pet peeve at these events--"and I was wondering if you'd consider having any of your other books made into movies, you know, like how Fight Club worked out?"
Then Chuck stares at her and says, "Well, they already made another movie from one of my books: Choke." And then all of us real Palahniuk fans judged her seven ways to Sunday, because every good fan knows that.
So yeah. I'm a snob. But I know not to ask obvious questions that can be answered by Google. And I should've looked that up before I attended this event.
It turns out, Virginia Woolf in Manhattan is a book in which Maggie Gee imagines Virginia Woolf has come back to life here in the 21st century and gets to finally visit Manhattan. It was a revelation to see Virginia Woolf from a different perspective other than through her essays, novels, and--most importantly--critics. The passage Maggie Gee read aloud was so great, and the Virginia Woolf voice she adopted was perfect as well.
Now, as I constantly imagine F. Scott Fitzgerald by my side (joking, but not really--a guy has called me schizo because he failed to see the satire in my essay about this phenomenon), this sounded like a perfect book. And I had just read To the Lighthouse, and she mentioned that book. She also used the words "modernity" like my Modernism professor does, and I just love that word, especially on a Scottish or British tongue.
The Q&A was equally delightful. The questioners knew what they were talking about, and though there were the typical "I'm a writer" people, they weren't as obsequious as the ones I've encountered at Stephen King's reading. So wonderful. And her answers were perfect. All authors answer questions very well, actually--and I think so because I totally agree with them. I just nodded my head like a pretentious idiot, but I really believed in everything she was saying: write all the time.
A woman at the Stephen King reading I attended asked how she could encourage her students to become "better" writers (a phrase I detest): he just said flatly, "Easy. Just have them write."
SO AWESOME.
Because writing--well, it's interesting. You can't "teach" it, but you can definitely repress it--and I've had some teachers who have tried to do so to me. (No, I'm certainly not talking about my fourth grade teacher...) But authors--they just want to see scribbles everywhere. And they talk about their characters like people talk about dear friends or crazy relatives: it's so endearing. I love it. Authors are incredible.
So my mood was drastically improved. I loved her, and I loved all the people there. I was invited to attend Sunday dinners with a bunch of expats, and I signed up for the Shakespeare & Co. newsletter. Perfect ending to a shitty day, or even a perfect day. It turns everything right around.
I'm normally very good at following "no photo taking" signs, but I feel like at Shakespeare & Co. that's directed at people who stand in the middle of the staircase for days. So I'm very quick with these. Plus, how do I NOT take a picture of James Joyce when I'm reading Ulysses?
Their staircase has great author portraits. Left to right: Oscar Wilde (who died right here in Paris!), Edith Wharton (author of Ethan Frome--which I have read--and Age of Innocence--which I have not but intend to, though I say that a lot), and George Orwell (Big Brother is watching, man).
Admittedly, my first exposure to Ginsberg was through a person I detest, but Ginsberg is brilliant and his brilliance overcomes any personal feelings. He's so great. Also, there was a movie based on his book of poems Howl and Aaron Tveit plays Ginsberg's lover! Unfortunately, Ginsberg is played by that cad James Franco.
Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway. Which is hilarious, if you know that at one point, Ernest Hemingway parodies her "rose" poem with this: "A bitch is a bitch is a bitch is a bitch." Oh, Mrs. Seibert, you've taught us well.
Author of The Crucible, which I know very well since I did a report comparing that play and A Tale of Two Cities--and yes, the reading of Charles Dickens was by choice! Maybe not a smart choice, but it does get me even more excited to be here in France. Thanks, Henry!
So Ulysses has kind of become my Flat Stanley (or my Yoshi backpack) in that I keep pimping it every chance I go. (I use the word "pimp" because Joyce does, that awesome dude.) Plus I like posting these pictures on our Ulysses forum, for my immense enjoyment and probably the annoyance of my classmates.
And last but not least, here is the beautiful and brilliant Maggie Gee. I have to ask for a picture, now that I need to compile a scrapbook of solely these author readings. Her daughter took the picture. Maggie Gee remembered me because I sat in the front row, did my "horse laugh" at all of her bright, witty jokes, and asked a question about Virginia Woolf. I finally admitted that I do see myself as a writer but don't advertise it due to the well-known ego of writers and the fact that I haven't published anything or won an award. And she said that the "shy ones" are the true writers. So I'm going to take that to heart. Of course, she probably wouldn't say that if she knew I was writing this ridiculously pretentious blog... But I will still hold onto it!
