Around Europe in 21 Days Pt. 5 -- The Bells of Notre Dame

I had only really planned about 4-5 days in Paris, which surely wasn't enough to see every possible neat thing available, but I was pretty good about setting reasonable expectations.  I had done most of the big touristy things that I'd wanted to do in the last two days, so the remainder of my time in the city, I could sort of view the nooks and crannies of the city.  At this point, there was only one thing left that I desperately wanted to see: Cathedrale Notre Dame.  

I have to say, despite technically being on strike, the metro system in Paris really got me around town, which is something I could never say of any city I've ever lived in.  USA, seriously, get your shit together.  Your public transportation system is pathetic in the face of like... all of Western European.  Aside from one minor hiccup (due to me forgetting a few words in French), getting a weekly Navigo card was probably the most convenient thing I'd ever done.

Nooowwwww, you're really supposed to affix a tiny picture to the card so that multiple people can't use it, and officials do sometimes do a spot check on the metro cars to actually make sure you didn't hop the turnstile, etc.  BUT this is one of those times that the strike worked in my favor, as no one was checking, so I could slip by quite clandestinely.

The closest stop to Notre Dame was about 5 blocks away with a somewhat nondescript station name:  Hôtel de Ville.  That translates to... city hotel, ok, cool.

No.  Nope, guys.  Strung together, those words have a pretty specific meaning:  City Hall.  

Celebrating World Blood Donor Day.  Have you saved
3 lives today?

Granted, I was there a bit early (8:30 AM on a Saturday), but town was surprisingly dead.  I understand that France works on a totally different time scale than I am used to, but it was even totally devoid of tourists, which made for a quiet walk to over to the Île de la Cité, or (correctly translated this time) Island of the City, one of the portions of Paris naturally sequestered by the Seine.

Let it never be said that the parisiennes didn't have a sense of humor/aren't
above tapping into the tourist trade, for all their supposed snootiness

So, before I go into my visit to Notre Dame de Paris, you have to understand a little something about me:  The Hunchback of Notre Dame is probably my second favorite Disney movie of all time.  I saw it for the first time when it came out in movie theaters, which like... maybe was a little bit of a mistake, as I was way too young to understand the sexual overtures of Claude Frollo or the themes on genocide and corruption.  I recognize that Disney has an extreme aversion to remaining true to the original story, and while this lacks the necrophilia of Victor Hugo's chef d'oeuvre, this isn't really that toned down.

I just thought "Hellfire" was a really pretty animated sequence.

On a whim, I watched it again in my late teens or early twenties, and sweet jiminy christmas did it blow me away.  The art, the music, the story... God, it is so underrated.  Needless to say, I was very excited to see the real thing in person.

It was just as beautiful as I could have hoped.

"You can lie to yourself and your minions;
you can claim that you haven't a qualm.
But you never can run from nor hid what you've done
from the very eyes of Notre Dame."

I'm also not totally ashamed to say that I teared up a little upon approach.  For the umpteenth time, I am not a religious person, and Notre Dame certainly is not the largest of the gothic cathedrals of Europe.  But, as I stared up at the Gallery of Kings, I couldn't help but feel awestruck and a bit small.

Fun fact, did you know that the cathedral's facade was meant to be some of a poor people's bible?  The vast majority of parishioners at the time were illiterate, and so the sculptures and iconography were designed to illustrate biblical stories.  Parisienne architects, so thoughtful.

The interior was no less awe-inspiring.  Intricate stained glass windows lined the stone walls, and powerful iconography was present in each altar.

There were also constant reminders that this was still an actual functioning place of religious practice.  Tourists and visitors, while of course welcome, were still technically intruding upon the peace of their worship.  In that way, I never lost the sense that this was, while a historical monument, NOT a museum.

After that, it was time for some lighter fare.  First, it was off to the Avenue des Champs Elysées, which was honestly... just ok.  Being just a really long commercial street, I honestly could probably take it or leave it.  Most of what was not strictly your typical clothing storefront (H&M, Sephora, some higher end clothing stores) was brightly colored confectionery and cafes.  I mean - cute, but otherwise kind of uninteresting in comparison to the more substantive and unique things that I could see in the city.

Macarons.  Macarons for days.

Except for cafes.  Cafes are insanely parisienne.

And, of course, no trip down the Champs Elysées would be complete without a visit to the Arc de Triomphe.

Traffic in this circle was a nightmare - that is not an exaggeration.

So, evidently the commercial was not my thing, but what would satisfactorily fill my afternoon?  More ponderous things!

Ok, no, I didn't specifically seek out more heavy subject matter.  What ended up happening was that I found out that one of the other major art museums in the city was the Musée Rodin and associated garden.  To be frank, I knew nothing of Rodin's works except for, arguably, his most well known piece - The Thinker, but as we discovered the other day, I really like sculpture incorporated in nature, so I figured, let's go.

As it turns out, I love Rodin.  Also, everything he did was...quite weighty.

Auguste Rodin is generally accepted as the father of modern sculpture who went very much against the grain of his contemporaries by eschewing popular mythology and religious figures as models, as well as the kind of ... picturesque, formulaic human physique in typical sculpture at the time.  Instead, he focused on creating realism in his work.  What really stuck out to me was that each sculpture was steeped in emotion, most noticeably despair.

Many of Rodin's works put on display are of individual figures, or like, one or two people standing together.  As I found out, many of these singular statues tend to be magnified replicas of small segments of a much larger and complex piece.  The most notable of these being... none other than The Thinker.

So, notice that guy in center towards the top?  Look familiar?

For the unaware, the Thinker is actually a very small model within a larger work, entitled Les Portes de l'Enfer -- The Gates of Hell.  The thinker is, in truth, Dante Alighieri while he surveys over this works.

Unsurprisingly, the entire work is based on The Divine Comedy: Inferno. The three men atop the gates are The Shades, those who warn, "Abandon All Hope".  Gazing at each individual story of souls, and then as a whole, I could be very easily convinced the gates of Hell were situated in Paris.

Despair was certainly not Rodin's only subject.  As I said, his works were steeped in emotion, and he understood a wide range:  triumph, affection, love, anguish...

By the time I finished walking the entirety of the museum interior and the gardens, I was quite peckish.  I'd only had a coffee and a chocolate croissant all day, so I stopped at the museum cafe for a very late lunch, a baguette and some ice cream.

So, short story about that scoop of beige-colored ice cream up there.  I don't tend to brag about my bilingualism because, well... it's not all that strong.  I took 4 years of French, but never really had the opportunity to use it once I graduated, so a lot of it diminished over the years.  HOWEVER.  This is one of those stories that highlights that sometimes it is pretty nice to speak the local language.

While staring at the available flavors of ice cream, I couldn't make up my mind (I was starving, and they all looked phenomenal.)  The cashier seemed a bit bored, but otherwise friendly, so I decided to ask him his opinion.

Me:  Qu'est-ce que c'est ton favorit? (What is your favorite?)

Him:  Eh?

Me:  Parfum de glace (Flavor of ice cream)

Him:  Ah!  La pistache, la lavande, le caramel... (Pistachio, lavender, caramel... *rattles off a couple more*)

Me:  Une boule de pistache, s'il vous plait (A scoop of pistachio, please)

Him:  *preps a cup*  Et une autre? (And another?)

Me:  Non, merci. (No, thanks)

Him:  C'est gratuit (It's free)

Me:  Oh!  Mm... le caramel.

That's right, folks. I got a free scoop of ice cream because I spoke bad French.  Aww, yeah.

With a touch of a second wind, I had just enough time for one more exploration.  I opted for something somewhat near the hostel, and so I went with the Père Lachaise Cemetery.  Why in god's name a cemetery?  TBH, I like looking at old tombs and mausoleums, and more to the point, it's where Jim Morrison's grave is located.

It's kind of obvious from the size of some of these mausoleums that they weren't really thinking about a future state when the first people were buried here.  Many of these were the size of sheds, one or two could have been small homes.  Granted, some of these are meant to house families and multiple generations of people, but even so, it's becoming a bit of an overcrowding issue.  

This woman was loved.

Père Lachaise is the largest cemetery in the city of Paris, but even so, there's an actual waiting list for a plot to be buried there.  With over 3 million visitors per year, the only reason I can fathom that people would be so desperate to be interred here is so their graves will be viewed for generations.  Honestly, though, judging by the state of some of the graves, it's not all that meaningful.  Some of these were clearly painstakingly raised back in the day, but many of them have fallen into decay - and not all of those are terrible old.  While some are regularly washed and adorned with flowers, probably by family and descendants, others have seen better days.  Did the family no longer care, or is there no family left to care for it?

This one in particular gave me pause.  With the top caved in, I wasn't really sure what to expect, but curiosity got the better of me.  

Cautiously, very cautiously, I approached.

Empty.  Likely the remains had been removed after the damage had been done.  Even so, I was dismayed to find garbage carelessly tossed inside.  

I wandered aimlessly for a bit, marveling at the micro-sized architecture, and pondering on the generations and the legacies left by those here.  Of course, there was the grave of the Lizard King himself:

The grave itself was unremarkable, particularly in comparison to some of the others present.  It was everything else surrounding the grave that was moving.  Clearly visited regularly, fresh flowers, presents, and so on left as tribute.  Hell, there was even a small line to view the grave:

And just to the side, there was a tree that was plastered in used chewing gum, an odd kind of tradition that both said, "I was there," and also in true Doors fashion, "F*** the man."

Guys.  I don't even really know the Doors, and I was compelled to take a look.  What kind of power is that?

By comparison, the stately mausoleum right next to Mr. Morrison's grave, rusted and beginning to crumble, was totally ignored.

EVT.  What do those letters stand for?  Does anyone care?

And now fully drained, I retired to the hostel for the evening over a meager meal of packaged treats and vending machine mint tea served in a red Solo cup.  Hey - when you're traveling for 3 weeks on a budget, food isn't always glamorous fine dining.

7up Mojito flavor is... surprisingly good.
Alas, it appears to be a Europe-only release at the mo

True facts, canelés are my favorite French pastry.

Paris and its conclusion, to be continued.

Until the next.