Another weekend in Paris

My last couple days in Paris, last weekend that is, felt as close to bohemian as I ever may, for superficial reasons but perhaps understandable ones also. We lived out of a friend's friend's studio, with a curtain to separate the bathroom and making pasta every night (it's become a running joke), unintentionally talking into the sleeping hours rather than going out. The daytime, too, does not go as planned, so plans become pointless.

On one day we walk and walk and through Promenade Plantee and other gardens, and the cemetery where Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and I'm sure some French people are buried. Wilde's grave was a flowing Egyptian-like sculpture (of a woman I think) on top of a block of stone "defaced" by proclamations of love to the playwright and hearts and kisses. But I really could not tell if it was defaced, or sanctioned by authorities, and in either case, if Wilde wanted this. I don't know how he could. We arrive some time later at Grand Palais hoping to see Dali and Arcimboldo in action. On the way my friend is sure we run into a bit of a celebrity, the ex-minister of culture, who holds open the exit at the subway for us, because he's a leftist and would do that kind of thing (take the metro, I mean). But it's a rainy day so many have the same idea as we do - i.e., the line at Grand Palais is not worth it so we settle for Petit Palais across the street, to see exhibitions on William Blake and the Byzantine Empire / Mount Athos.

On another day we take the rental bikes (a recent innovation in big French cities) to that bohemian stronghold, Montmartre, then walk past the sex shops and Moulin Rouge to the top of the hill, one of the best views to see all of Paris. In another way I've already seen all of Paris, thanks to the host of the other friend I met here. He gave me a quick driving tour of the city, hitting the Place de la Bastille, the Eiffel Tower ("See how the flowers bloom?" he said. "I arranged it just for you."), Arc de Triomphe (he says he's the only person in the city to drive around it twice at times like this), Les Invalides - basically the things I'd only want to see for a few seconds anyway.

That last day, we were lucky because the sun came out, so we could sit on the Seine waiting for our train. Surprisingly I couldn't tell which way the water flowed, but ducklings crept by periodically (five in all I think, or the same one five times), and sadly I think they had lost their mother.

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Reading: Camus, Exile and the Kingdom
Listening to: Janis Joplin