At some point a long while back, a couple of my friends had proposed the idea of going to Paris for Halloween. I don’t remember who originally had the idea, or what they really expected to find there for the holiday itself, but I do remember that all of a sudden a huge group of IES students was interested in Paris. Word spread around, as word tends to do, and the next thing I knew, there were upwards of fifteen people expressing the desire to have a Parisian adventure of some sort.
After all the coordination stress and hassle we had gone through in Bruges, a couple of us decided it would be best if we split the group up into smaller parts based on when people were available to leave, and then let each of those smaller groups figure out transportation, housing, and the rest of their itinerary on their own. After all, we could always meet up with them once we got to Paris, and then we would skip the agonies of trying to coordinate so many different schedules at one time. My group ended up being trusty travel companions Adeola, Conny, and Marie.
Our original plan had been to take the high-speed Thalys train down to Paris, but we managed to miss the promotional deal that would have given us super cheap tickets, and decided shelling out 100+ euros just to get there wasn’t really worth the faster train. On a whim, I checked out the Eurolines bus prices, and found that we could get to the same place in twice the time, but at half the cost. We have time, right? I asked the group (we were planning on going Thursday to Sunday). Nobody could object to the more reasonable price, so we took a bus to Paris
The bus we took was an overnight bus, from Wednesday night to Thursday morning. In theory, this was great, because it meant that we could sleep while we rode down and arrive bright and early in Paris the next morning, rested and ready to take on the city. In practice, it meant that we were crammed into a slightly bumpy, slightly chilly bus for eight hours (except for the two obnoxiously long pit stops we made at the sketchiest gas stations in Europe), trying to tune out the cabin lights and the cheesy “easy listening” music that played nonstop on the radio.
Needless to say, we were a little cranky by the time we alighted in Paris at 6 am, but we hung out gamely in the bus station lobby until the sun came up, then we cast about for some breakfast. There was a little mall area outside the station, and we ended up eating at … McDonald’s.
Yes, that’s right – I ate at a McDonald’s for the first time since I’ve been in Europe. Part of me had vowed that I would never do such a thing, but part of me also couldn’t pass up a super-cheap breakfast and free Wi-Fi (which French McDonald’ses apparently instituted to make themselves seem like a hip hangout to attract the locals instead of a soul-sucking fast-food death chain for fat Americans). We waited in the restaurant long enough for some caffeine to kick in, then we braced ourselves to venture into Paris.
Five years ago I was also in Paris, during my first and only other trip to Europe. We were there for just two days, being led around in a giant tour group, but I remember having no idea how to navigate the Metro. Maybe the size and pace of our tour was overwhelming, or maybe I’m just more versed in the ways of public transport now, because this time the Paris metro seemed liked the simplest thing on earth. We bought day passes and hopped on a train, and twenty-odd minutes later we were in Montmartre, where our hotel for the weekend was.
Since we were in Montmartre, we had to go see Sacré Coeur. It was just as beautiful as I remembered it from five years earlier, and half as crowded. The view from the top was gorgeous too, even though it was a little foggy.
Needless to say, we were a little cranky by the time we alighted in Paris at 6 am, but we hung out gamely in the bus station lobby until the sun came up, then we cast about for some breakfast. There was a little mall area outside the station, and we ended up eating at … McDonald’s.
Yes, that’s right – I ate at a McDonald’s for the first time since I’ve been in Europe. Part of me had vowed that I would never do such a thing, but part of me also couldn’t pass up a super-cheap breakfast and free Wi-Fi (which French McDonald’ses apparently instituted to make themselves seem like a hip hangout to attract the locals instead of a soul-sucking fast-food death chain for fat Americans). We waited in the restaurant long enough for some caffeine to kick in, then we braced ourselves to venture into Paris.
Five years ago I was also in Paris, during my first and only other trip to Europe. We were there for just two days, being led around in a giant tour group, but I remember having no idea how to navigate the Metro. Maybe the size and pace of our tour was overwhelming, or maybe I’m just more versed in the ways of public transport now, because this time the Paris metro seemed liked the simplest thing on earth. We bought day passes and hopped on a train, and twenty-odd minutes later we were in Montmartre, where our hotel for the weekend was.
Since we were in Montmartre, we had to go see Sacré Coeur. It was just as beautiful as I remembered it from five years earlier, and half as crowded. The view from the top was gorgeous too, even though it was a little foggy.
After that we descended the hill and poked around in some fun little Montmartre shops, then went back to find lunch near our hotel. Badly in need of a rest, we napped – all except for Conny, who was working on her Halloween costume. More on that later.
After our rest, we decided that we would go to Notre Dame for the afternoon. We set out, found the cathedral, and explored it until it got dark.
Following that, we walked along the Seine – taking in the loveliness of Paris lit up at night – and made our way to the Musée d’Orsay, for a 19th century art fest. The Musée d’Orsay used to be a train station, but it was converted into a spectacular museum. Like I said, it holds mostly 19th century art, which includes everyone from David and Delacroix, to Manet, Degas, Monet, Seurat, Millet, Courbet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Van Gogh. It’s probably the single greatest concentration in one place of paintings-I’ve-studied-in-my-art-history-classes. Ecstatic? You bet I was.
The only thing that kept my visit from being the perfect museum experience was a family of tourists (a mom and two kids) who were flying through the entire museum, pausing at any given painting only long enough to snap a picture of it and walk away. I saw the mother literally steering her children by their shoulders to the most well-known pieces, saying, “Oh, this is a really famous one,” and waiting impatiently for her son or daughter to take a quick picture of the work. The second they had finished, she grabbed their shoulders again and dragged them away, darting toward the next “must see” item.
I always wonder, when I see people like this in art museums, why they even bother coming to the place at all. It would be so much easier for them to sit on their computer and Google Van Gogh or Monet, and you can be sure they’d find some better images than their two-second snapshot will ever produce. It’s not about standing in the same room as a famous painting. It’s about getting a chance to take a proper look at some art.
So there’s my editorial for the day. In silent tribute to my annoyance, I refused to take any pictures of the paintings I saw. I just looked at them for a really long time.
By the time we were done, the museum was about to close (it was nearly 9pm). We were all tired and famished so we headed back to our hotel to grab some dinner there. We got sandwiches from a little shop on our hotel’s street that was about to close, then went up to our room and went to bed. So concluded our first (long) day in Paris.
The only thing that kept my visit from being the perfect museum experience was a family of tourists (a mom and two kids) who were flying through the entire museum, pausing at any given painting only long enough to snap a picture of it and walk away. I saw the mother literally steering her children by their shoulders to the most well-known pieces, saying, “Oh, this is a really famous one,” and waiting impatiently for her son or daughter to take a quick picture of the work. The second they had finished, she grabbed their shoulders again and dragged them away, darting toward the next “must see” item.
I always wonder, when I see people like this in art museums, why they even bother coming to the place at all. It would be so much easier for them to sit on their computer and Google Van Gogh or Monet, and you can be sure they’d find some better images than their two-second snapshot will ever produce. It’s not about standing in the same room as a famous painting. It’s about getting a chance to take a proper look at some art.
So there’s my editorial for the day. In silent tribute to my annoyance, I refused to take any pictures of the paintings I saw. I just looked at them for a really long time.
By the time we were done, the museum was about to close (it was nearly 9pm). We were all tired and famished so we headed back to our hotel to grab some dinner there. We got sandwiches from a little shop on our hotel’s street that was about to close, then went up to our room and went to bed. So concluded our first (long) day in Paris.
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