The thoughts & opinions of Sassarella, the Queen of Sass as she cavorts in 's Gravenhage & beyond. Brought to you by CES's (Chief Executive Slaves) of Big Skanky Ho Inc.
Just a note to commemmorate the fact that the two titular blogging girls spoke on the phone last night.
"I went to your website and immediately felt cheerful." - Alleen posted by Rocketbride at 2:02:54 PM
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
Well, several days have passed, and I guess I can get on to the last Paris entry. I had intended to spend the rest of Sunday shopping but was thwarted by the fact that most of the stores were closed. Stupid stores.
More than that, stupid Montmartre. After climbing all the way to the top, still with this mistaken notion that climbing is cooler than taking a damn elevator, all I got was a bunch of tourists wandering around looking at some cheesy street art. Lameness to the nth degree. Yes, yes, it is pretty like a postcard. Yes, yes many famous impressionists lived here and painted pretty pictures and drank like sick little pigs and loved whores and dance hall girls. BFD, pal, BFD. It's a great big tourist trap now and I just didn't feel the love frankly. Especially when I went to the Basilique something something at the top. I couldn't be bothered to go in as I was all touristed out and frankly at this point, after the top of the Eiffel Tower, the tower at Notre Dame and constant upward climbing, I had seen every spectacular view of Paris that I needed to see. Sad but true.
I decided to move on to the spending of money. One store that is open on Sundays is the WH Smith. I went over there and spent far more than is sensible on books in English. Ah, sweet books in English. It's enough to make a girl whip out a credit card, which I did, and spend money ridiculously, which I definitely did. After this, I headed to the nearby Jardin des Tuileries, which is yet another example of the French gardeners love affair with gravel, but still quite charming. I found myself a bench and did the Herald-Tribune crossword, which I solved in its entirety, I'll have you know.
Later driven away by hunger, I esconced myself in a sidewalk cafe and downed a silly-looking fruity drink and a croque poulet, which was delicious in an artery clogging sort of way. Mmm... delicious cholesterol.
Comments, you say? I don't know if I want comments. What if nobody posts any and then I feel like a loser because nobody's reading my epic journalistic efforts here?
Oh well. Paris, day three. Yesterday, I was efficient as all hell, mostly due to the efforts of my Australian hostel roommate, who I tagged along with for a little while. Very efficent girl. We saw the Notre Dame and climbed to the top of the bell tower, accompanied by two American tourists who kept making the same damn joke about running into the gargoyles from the disney version of Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not so funny. But it did get me up the stairs faster. Hell of a view at the top and some pretty cool gargoyles, though none of them came to life and there were definitely no hunchbacks.
After the Notre Dame, the Pantheon, where normally you could see a really big culturally significant building with Foucault's Pendulum in the middle, but they'd taken it down, so all I got was cultural significance and the downstairs crypts. Lots of dead people in the crypt, including Emile Zola and Marie Curie and some other people, who are all culturally and historically significant. I was suitably awed and then I left.
Then the Cluny baths, where you can see the ruins of a Roman bathhouse, complete with frigidarium, tepidarium, and caldarium, some fabulous gardens and a museum of medieval history, which seemed to be mostly bits and pieces of ruined churches. There was a St. Antoine foot reliquary which I think would look lovely on my mantle. Basically, a big gold foot. What's not to love?
After that, we stopped for lunch at a cafe and headed in the general direction of the Eiffel Tower, where I parted from my Australian roommate for the last time. She went up the Eiffel Tower, and I went searching for the Museum of Fashion. It turned out to be closed until October, so I've decided to come back.
At this point, I decided to wander in Les Marais, which is the neighbourhood of my hostel. Lovely, trendy, lots of fun shopping, lots of nice cafes etc, etc. Apparently, this neighbourhood is mixed gay and Jewish. Saw lots of one, not too much of the other. Then I ate some lame-ass Chinese food and went to sleep, due to complete and utter exhaustion.
This morning, I got up, checked out, dropped my shit off in a train station locker and headed for le cimetiere Pere Lachaise. Why? Well, Oscar Wilde is buried there. Moliere is buried there. Maria Callas is buried there. Colette is buried there. Gertrude Stein, Armenian hero General Antranik, Modigliani, etc etc. Well, okay. I went to Jim Morrison's grave. Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm a geek.
Actually, Oscar Wilde's grave was a lot funnier, it being a huge Art Deco monument type thing, covered all over with lipstick marks. Kind of sweet, really, whereas Jim Morrison has a pretty run of the mill grave, though it is covered with burned out candles and flowers and little notes and roaches and what have you. One woman had actually left a naked picture of herself. Maybe to light his fire or something. It was surrounded by middle-aged couples and their kids and some Eastern European teenagers looking suitably awed. I watched as an intense looking 17-year-old scribbled a note down on paper, kissed it and dropped it. I was going to go read it after she left, but I kind of guessed what it would say.
"Dear Jim. Thank you for writing the words to exrpress what I feel inside. You were a great poet and I will cry for you always. Love Tammy"
Aawwwwwww. I blew Jim a kiss and took off. I had been hoping for more hippies.
Anyway. I'm now up at Montmartre, making a small pitstop in an internet cafe, then off to see some sights. So touristy, but I figure it's still worth a look. Hey, if it sucks, I just know to skip it next time. posted by Alleen at 1:42:04 PM
