Another weird day. But hey, maybe that's just the life of a Willard?
Well, first, I just have to say that I've officially signed up for my classes--for my second-to-last semester of college! Yikes. I'm not ready for this. But some temporary glitches aside, the scheduling itself was fine, even from an ocean away.
After art class--when we did not get our midterms back, boohoo--I decided to make a trip back to the Petit Palais's big sister, the Grand Palais. I was willing to try again, albeit at a slightly different location. So I crossed the Pont Alexandre III, and like Julius Caesar, said officially, "The die has been cast."
Not really. I should've. I got to the side entrance of the Grand Palais, and after a mortifying exchange with the guard, I discovered that the Grand Palais is not free. Well, I knew that, but usually my Art History Student Pass gets me in everywhere. It's my magic trick. However, though I'm allowed to see the despotic over-the-top-ness of Versailles for free, I cannot do the same at the much more tame Grand Palais.
I would've forked over some cash, but given my recent expenditures, I've been trying to find free, well, everything. I am in college, after all.
But this place may be ostentatious as well: as I rounded the corner, I noticed a bunch of shiny black cars parked in front. Okay, well, not completely a strange sight. Then I saw a reporter and a camera crew. Apparently there was a Maserati showcase, which I don't quite understand. Were there more cars inside? And I don't think the people who come to see art displays at the Grand Palais will be interested in show-off cars--well, except everyone entering looked super rich.
I turned the corner and consulted Rick Steves. He suggested the Musée Jacquemart-André, which features the collection of this art-collecting couple. Then I foolishly put away the map, thinking, I got this.
Except I didn't...
After zigzagging for quite a while, I ended up in this mini roundabout--and there were policemen (and a policewoman) everywhere. What the in the blue hell is going on here??? (Note: James Joyce uses that expression in Ulysses, and I decided, Why in the blue hell should I not too?)
Turns out, that street, Rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré? That's the street where the President of France lives. Ohhhhhh.
It was only really strange because unlike the White House, which has at least 30 people out front even on a slow day, absolutely no one was there. Well, there were people walking by, but they couldn't have cared less. I guess it's because unlike Pennsylvania Avenue--or at least the area near the White House--there are stores and such across the street from the president's house. That was...weird.
They were all high-end stores, but some of them looked like modern art galleries instead of clothing shops. Well, maybe one was an art gallery: it had a motorcycle made out of silver balls in the window. Don't ask me why!
Wait, who even is the French president? I am such a bad international citizen. (ACG: François Hollande.)
Oh, say, can you see? Wait. Wrong anthem. (But I can't help it; I love Francis Scott Key solely because he's Francis Scott Fitzgerald's namesake.)
ACG: The French National Anthem is "La Marseillaise." Okay. And after listening to it, I am realizing I've heard it before. Wait... I've heard it here! Speaking of which...
Ohhh yeah. By the way, I'm totally John. (Unfortunately, though, my choice in men has led to other random people calling whatever couple I'm in "John and Yoko." The other common one is "Harry Potter and Cho Chang." It's not terrible, but yeah, it's weird.)
So you can't go up to the front. Come to think about it, you can't at the White House either.
Anyway, the palace is called the Palace Elysées, given that the Champs-Elysées is right around the corner. Located at 55 Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which admittedly doesn't quite roll off the tongue like "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" or "10 Downing Street."
Linguistics lesson! "Champ" is French for "field." "Elysée" is French for "Elysium," which is the fictional underworld in Greek mythology--which was also called the Elysian Fields. Ohhhhhhhh. Anyway, Elysium is where you want to go after you die.
As I was looking at my Google Map, I noticed that I had previously starred a place on this street. But as I walked further up, I still couldn't figure out what it possibly was. Was it a store? A museum? A restaurant? The lack of name for the address wasn't helping.
Turns out? It was the American and British Embassies. They're side by side; how adorable. It seems the French put aside all thoughts about the American Revolution when doling out embassy properties. In fact, a lot of embassies were on this street: this is basically like Embassy Row in Dupont, except actually close to where the president lives.
Actually, the French Embassy is not in Dupont--it's located In the Middle of Nowhere, aka near Georgetown Hospital. It's big, but there's absolutely no chance of catching a cab in that area. No one is there. It was a bit of a minor disaster for me when I was in the process of getting my visa... But let's not go there. I don't want the French government angry at me while I'm in their country. (Let's just say that I have some choice words to say about that process.)
So, you can't really tell from the picture that this is the American Embassy next to the British Embassy--actually, let's face it: you can't tell at all. The wind decided to stop blowing at this point, and so now all I have to show is an old building, a building probably older than the United States, actually.
I think we scored some good property.
The embassy had a sign right out front that said: Church with English Services across the street. And someone the other day asked me where the American Church in Paris was. I guess we're a lot holier than we think.
After that minor detour (at least I know where to go if my American flag scarf gets stolen), I decided to finally try to find the museum I was originally looking for. Rick Steves told me that it was a straight shot up the Franklin D. Roosevelt avenue. Okay! That was a name I knew.
Ta-da!
Once again: accident or artistic expression? I'm thinking accident, but it is kind of funny.
I finally reached the museum. Since the museum closes at 6:00 pm and it was then 5:00 pm, I was getting nervous. I then entered, and after yet another awkward exchange with the ticket person, I was informed that it cost 12 euros to get in. What? Now, I was specifically trying to avoid to spend money; what I thought was a description for a "free museum" was actually for another one. Oops. Well, that wasn't Rick Steves fault; it was my own damn fault. I asked halfheartedly if there was a student "discount," aka if it was free. She said there was a discount--an actual discount, though. And it was only one euro off! So 11 euros. I decided to walk away.
But I had walked all the way over there from school, so I went back. The sign claimed that the café was free, so maybe I could see what was there.
I had to walk up this gravel path and hear the ground crunch noisily with every step I made. Cringe.
Worse than clunk, clunk, clunk is only what I can describe as the sound of someone eating screwdrivers.
Well, I had to admit: this couple had style.
A few minutes later I was inside and faced with a dilemma: this was no "café." It was more along the lines of a full-fledged, fancy restaurant. And it had the price to match. The tea option was 11.50 euros, including a pastry and tea of my choice! How...thoughtful.
So yeah. I ended up paying 11.50 euros to eat in a café and drink tea and eat pastries that I can do for less than 5 euros at some places. And to cap it all off, if you're remembering correctly, the museum entrance fee was only 11 euros. I paid more. Fuckfuckfuck.
I'm slapping myself, believe me.
Charlie Brown has always got me. I'm like Charlie Brown in many ways, actually: people always call us by our first and last names, we get rocks for Halloween, people aren't afraid to tell us that they don't like us, and we can't kick a football to save our lives. Oh, and our pets totally dominate us.
Well, after paying my 11.50 euros like an idiot, I was definitely going to get some pictures. Now, the menu said that the tapestries on the wall depicted scenes from Achilles's life. Except...none of these look anything like I could imagine having to do with Achilles. I don't know.
So this is the part where I launch into random things because I am disappointed. I only took 40 pictures! That's got to be a record for me.
So French: not just the crepe stand, but the huge line with it as well.
Another Eckleburg sighting!
The FDR Metro stop is actually quite tastefully decorated.
The Pont Alexandre III in full form.
Wait. This confused me on so many levels. I have to "right align" my explanation; it's going to be long.
This is not the only "Learn English" sign in the Metro stations. There are many more, and they are all equally perplexing. But none of them are as annoying as this one. First of all, that whole "Ich bin ein Berliner" meaning "I am a jelly doughnut" thing is a misconception, as anyone could tell just by looking at the words. And Kennedy said that, not Gandhi. So secondly, why is Gandhi's name randomly on the poster? Because that's certainly not a photo of Gandhi either. It's who I personally refer to as The Oppressor: Mao Zedong.
ARGH.
I hate this giant teabag for MANY reasons. So why is he on a sign in a French Metro station? For an advertisement to learn ENGLISH? I don't want Mao Zedong near anything that is associated with my adopted homeland, which, while it has many flaws, doesn't make people work in labor camps just for having gone to college. Or, you know, set up the foundation for a system that will expel young babies from their families--oh, unless you're rich.
The One-Child rule may not seem so terrible at first glance, but the real thing I hate about it--besides the many other reasons, including its blatant infringement on human privacy and rights--is that it simultaneously bans putting babies up for adoption and access to birth control. WTF? This is the worst Catch-22 I've ever heard of.
Time to scream into a pillow. I'll be back.
Equally perplexing. There are more. I'll have to get photos of them throughout the week. On the bonus side, now we know that [random thing here] for Dummies translates to [le chose aléatoire] pour Les Nils.
Honestly, the next few photos should be a blog of their own. And the title would be What Are French Advertisers Thinking?
Okay. So I don't see how this has to do anything with furniture, which is what I'm assuming the poster is advertising. The woman squatting...well, honestly, it looks like she's peeing. And while that's a common occurrence here in France, I don't think it's something worth advertising. This peeing image is not helped by the goldfish bowl with the goldfish and suspiciously yellow water pooled nearby.
HA! "The Incredible Family, The Kardashians"? I think not! It's bad enough that they're Armenian; now our family has to deal with that comparison (my mother's side is Armenian, and I don't want to see any eye-rolling). Do French people actually watch this show? Seems like they get enough enjoyment out of people-watching in real time.
I don't know who this dude is. But that doesn't explain this poster. Why is he holding up chocolates and a ticket? Is this a show featuring chocolate? Is he a chocolatier? Should I expect free chocolate when I buy a ticket? I think this poster gives the buyer false expectations.
I am well aware that Printemps is a department store: my mother and I have shopped there at the Louvre. However, since "printemps" also is the French word for "spring" (the season), the sign implies that we're celebrating 150 years of spring. Instead, of you, billions.
Now, what exactly is this sign trying to say?
"Don't walk with your children"?
"Don't let men walk next to young girls"?
"Don't hold hands with children"?
It's quite confusing.
This pigeon was thirsty.
Jamie can always put a smile on my face. :)
On the bright side, I got my first letters today! And when I say "first," I mean in ALL my time at college, not just here in France. I'm serious. I never get mail; it's only extremely depressing not because I expect mail but because I'm always the one who checks the mailbox. And there's always something...but not for me. :( Anyway, enough of that pity party, because now I can't say that anymore!
And yes, yes, I am aware that my parents and grandparents have sent me mail at school, but those were cards. I don't think these are cards.
Letters are in. People who write letters are classy dames. Yes, even the men. ;)
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