So it begins...

A Nightmare on Norwegian Air

I got scammed!

That was the least of my problems, however. Somehow, I got the time of my arrival into Paris wrong. Rather than 8:45am, it was actually 5:45pm. In addition to that, the plane was delayed at LAX for about thirty minutes. And then, upon landing at CDG, we had to wait on the tarmac inside the plane for like 30 more minutes after the air conditioning had been turned off.

Once I had connected to the airport wifi, I received belated messages from Lamia, my host, and the airbnb support team asking what had happened and where I was, as I had arranged to meet Lamia at her apartment before she left for work at 1:00pm. Obviously, however, I was flying over the atlantic at that time.

The airbnb support suggested that I should retrieve the keys to the apartment from Lamia at her work, which, incidentally, happened to be Paris' southern airport, Orly.

So I started walking from the bagage claim, feeling quite overwhelmed, and trying to figure out how to get a taxi. As I was following the signs for taxis, I passed by an Arab man who bore a striking resemblence to Abdelilah Benkirane, Morocco's former prime minister. He also looked a bit like the recently deceased Mohammed Morsi. As I passed him, he said taxi and gestured towards me. I passed him by at first, but as he repeated the word to the person behind me, I stopped and turned around, thinking this would be the easiest way to get to Orly.

Feeling overwhelmed, however, my French completely fell through. In broken french, then, I told him I needed to go to Orly, to which he was puzzled and asked me questions that I was not in my right mind to answer, mostly because I didn't know the answers, but also because my French had vanished from my mind. He took me to his car in a relatively empty parking garage, which, in retrospect, should've been the first warning sign. Upon getting in his car, he told me the fare would be €160, which didn't exactly connect in my mind with the fact that that was literally $160, and that that was all the euros I was carrying with me.

Airbnb had told me that they would reimburse me for the taxi ride to Orly, which really impressed me. Airbnb is a solid company, great service, good business ethics, etc. But I digress.

As we were leaving the parking garage, I did have the presence of mind to ask the driver if I could pay with credit card, to which he said no. Already in the car, however, I did what I could, and asked him if he could give me a receipt if I paid in cash, to which he responded yes. Once again, more warnings had passed me by, though I was beginning to catch on that something wasn't right.

After an hour long drive on the autoroutes on the outskirts of Paris, the roads lined with graffiti covered walls, we arrived at Orly. It was then that he reminded me that he expected €160, which was problematic, because I thought he said €100, for some reason. More problematic, however, was that I actually only had €150. I explained to him, and proved to be very generous (or so I thought) by waving the last €10. It was only after I took my suitcase and got inside the airport that I realized I hadn't gotten a receipt from him.

From that point on, I wandered around the Orly airport talking with the airbnb support via messaging trying to explain where I was so that Lamia could meet me and give me the keys.

Lamia's generosity proved a redeeming experience after she explained I had been scammed, and that the fare would have been closer to €80-100.

Lamia is a wonderful host, she is incredibly kind, and her cat Sacha is a cute little guy, though he is incredibly vocal.

That will have to suffice for today's entry.

Versailles and the Thirteenth Arrondissement

After the nightmare on Norwegian Air and my experience with «le voleur arab», I would've expected today to be a disaster as well. Thankfully, it wasn't.

I woke early to take the RER C train to Versailles, but before that, I had to take the T3a Tram, which was filled to the brim with commuters, and of course, doesn't have air conditioning. I didn't realize until about halfway through the ride that I hadn't validated the tram ticket that Lamia gave me last night. Anticipating no repercussions, however, I didn't validate the ticket. Nor did I do so on the way back - I guess what's done by a thief breeds new thieves.

Versailles was very nice, albeit incredibly crowded. I spent probably two hours in the gardens, and then an hour or so in the château. Unfortunately, the chapel is being restored, so I could not go inside, and a view from the balcony of the room with the windows covered was all I could manage.

Rick Steve's palace tour proved very valuable, as I saw many tourists with the audio devices sold at the ticket desk. Given that going through each room was a slow shuffle of hordes of people, I think the amount of time I spent (the length of Rick Steve's audio tour) sufficed.

After that, I wandered around the city of Versailles before stopping at a crêperie and spending an hour or so sitting outside drinking Heineken and eating a honey apple crêpe. It was delicious. After that I wandered some more, spending a good deal of time in the cathédrale de Saint Louis, which (though it did not surprise me) was completely empty, save for one African woman who was involved in intense pennetence at the back of the cathedral.

I got to sit in an old/time, highly ornate confessional booth, and it was there that I found a prayer for Saint Josémaria, the founder of Opus Dei.

Upon returning to Lamia's residence, I took a short nap, as my eyes were burning from lack of sleep. After that, I took the metro to Les Gobelins for dinner at Les 3 Cèdres, a lovely lebanese restaurant.

While I was tempted to visit the panthéon, which I could see in nearby over the tops of the buildings, I decided to go instead to cocci marche, a store more akin to a small grocery in the US. While there, however, the only thing I was moved to buy was a beer, which I then proceeded to drink as I walked back through the streets to the metro. In France, people do there grocery shopping multiple times a week in small I crème. The fact that the average french fridge is usually less than half full, along with the cigarettes, of course, is what I suspect is responsible for the lack of obsese french people, at least compared with America.

That said, Europe is nice, but the tiny roads, tiny appartements, and general lack of space is something I do not prefer to the average space in the US.

Perhaps the most surprising part of today was that I was mistaken for a frenchmen twice, by other frenchmen, which accomplished my goal of blending in, though yesterday's experience utterly belies that.

A Day in Paris

I started the morning off by heading to place Monge and waiting a few minutes for the Grand Mosque to open. I only had a fifty euro bill, and the three euro donation to get in has to be paid in physical money. Thankfully, while wandering around trying to figure out how to break my bill (and getting distracted by one of the Mosque's kitties, I met a young British woman, who was kind enough to pay the three euros for me, in absence of my having coins.

After reflecting at the Mosque for a bit, I headed for Arènes to Lutèce, one of the remaining roman ruins in Paris. Lutèce was not a major roman settlement, but they did have an arena for gladitorial sport, and that is what the arena once served the purpose of. Today, it is usually empty, save for a few joggers and youths using the hard-to-find open space to play games.

At the arena, I picked up a piece of the seating of the coliseum, which I intend to treat as my one natural souvenir (from France). I am not sure whether I will get another elsewhere in France, but for now, I am happy with what I got.

From the arena I made my way to Place de la Contrescarpe, and indulged café Contrescarpe, where Ernest Hemingway once spent many a morning. I ordered a simple coffee with cream, and then I walked across the way to the boulangerie and bought a Vienoisse Chocolat for €2. It was delicious.

After admiring the church of Saint Stephen of the Mount, I visited the Panthéon, which I found to be quite an excessive display of civic religion and pathos. While I think it is a good that today a cross sits atop it's dome, there can be no mistaking it's avowedly secular, almost pagan character. All the worst figures from the enlightenment are buried and entombed there, with luxurious statues to commemorate their lives; voltaire, rousseau, diderot, Napoléon, etc...

Upon leaving the Panthéon and looking at it one last time from across the street, I contemplated the words written on its great columned porch «Aux Grand Hommes» (to the great men). How futile it is to be revered and remembered as a "great man," a civic hero, a man if the world in a godless state, and a godless culture. In the American context, on the one hand it is good that such civic idol worship has largely faded from our political and social culture, but, on the other hand, it has been replaced with a worship of idols perhaps far more destructive. It occurs to me that achieving such a high status in the world of politics and society is not so great an honor as it seems; for if you achieve noteriety for the good you have done but go unnoticed, you will simply return to dust. If you receive high praise and commemoration, however, your statue will remain long after you yourself have turned to dust, that is, of course, when the mob comes to tear your statue down. Ad Thucydides put in the oratiation of Pericles: "For the whole earth is the tomb of great men; not only are they commemorated by columns and inscriptions in their own country, but in foreign lands there dwells also an unwritten memorial of them, graven not on stone but in the hearts of men. Make them your examples, and, esteeming courage to be freedom and freedom to be happiness, do not weigh too nicely the perils of war."

After a lengthy stay at the church of Saint Sulpice, where I spent some time in benediction, and then read my book on church architecture, I went to Paris' oldest standing church, Saint Germain des près, which dates back to the 6th century. Astonishing as it might seem, this testament to the power of the cross was going to be torn down before public outcry halted that project. The church interior is now being restored.

I traversed Île de Cité for a while, moving my way through throngs of tourists, and then crossed back other to the left bank of the seine, where I are a baguette for lunch as boats passed by; the cathedral of notre dame covered with a hideous scaffolding and blocked off from the public.

Though I was feeling very tired, my feet hurt, and the cigarette smoke was making my allergies go crazy, I decide to plot on to the Eiffel Tower, with conmen, charlatans, and merchants gathered at its base. With one's back to the tower, the champ de mars bears à remarkable similarity to Coachella or other outdoor music festivals in the US.

Again, in spite of my feet telling me to stop, I took the metro to the Arc de Triomphe, though I only looked on from the other side of the roundabout, standing approximately in the position that Hitler had after conquering France.

Finally, I took a long métro ride to Place d'Italie, where I was hoping to get dinner before returning to Le Kremlin Bicetre. This part of the thirteenth arrondissement is Paris' equivalent to China Town, though it is home to Vietnamese, Laotian, Thai, and other Asian French.

Unsatisfied with the options for dinner, I walked back to Lamia's and fell into a deep sleep (with the help of benadryl).

Goodbye Paris (for now)

With blisters on my feet, and a baguette in my backpack, I left Paris today for Rouen. I woke this morning at 5:20am, and though I was very fatigued, I prepared myself to travel to Abbesses to attend the 7:00am mass at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, perhaps the most iconic and best looking church in Paris. As it happened, navigating the change over in Gare Saint Lazare was quite a trying experience, though one I managed quite well. I left Paris today considering myself an expert in the metro system, and I didn't make a single mistake during my time there.

Upon arriving in the station at Abbesses, I made my way for the exit, and I thought it odd the looks I was getting from the morning commuters as they all made for the elevator and I made for the stairs. In retrospect, their sideways glances were justified, as, unbeknownst to me, the stairs happened to be an incredibly tall spiral comprising several flights up from ubderground, as the area around Abbesses is built on a hill. After an absolutely exhausting climb, I emerged to find that I had several more flights of stairs to conquer before arriving at the basilica.

While I did manage to make it to mass, I was late, and in my fatigued state, I couldn't really comprehend what was being said during the mass. I was also unable to get a seat on account of my late arrival. Despite the grandeur and scale of the church, Sunday morning mass was held in the chapel of the virgin, located at the back of the church, with no more than 35 chairs set up, and around 10-12 tourists standing in the back, myself included.

While it should not have come as a surprise, I looked at the congregation and reflected on the state of Christianity in France. For one thing, aside from the tourists, a plurality of the parishioners whom I assumed to be locals were of African descent, their heritage likely tracing back to one of France's former colonies. The priest himself was of Asian descent, though I could not tell from which country his family had come. Some wonder, it seems to me, that the legacy of Christian France should be adopted by the very people France had subjugated. Truly, this is a testament to the power of the cross, but on the other hand, to hear the priest speak of the power of the cross, and to look at the small congregation in this massive basilica, I couldn't help but wince in pity.

After mass, I stopped by a café at the bottom of the hill, drank two coffees, and ate some of my baguette with butter and jam. As I made my way back to the station, I noticed again something I had not fully examined as I was rushing up to the basilica earlier. Sacré Cœur is perhaps the most scam plagued area in all of France, and while I was free to walk about in silence in the early morning, the streets are usually filled with scammers and pickpockets. The otherwise lovely buildings are covered with graffiti, which contrasts sharply with the cobblestone streets.

From Abbesses I traveled to La Tour Maubourg, wandered around outside the national assembly, museum of the army, and les invalides, before returning to porte d'Italie. I was unable to enter les Invalides on account of it being closed to tourists for some strange reason, which I surmised to be préparation for a Céline Deon concert.

I left Lamia and Sacha on good terms, stopping again to thank Lamia for her generosity, and headed for Saint Lazare to catch the 2:50pm train for Rouen. Once again navigating the labyrinthine tunnels and stairs of Saint Lazare proved a tiring challenge, not helped by the crowds and my having to carry my backpack and suitcase up many flights of stairs. By the time I arrived at the dock and attempted to buy my ticket, I was drenched in sweat. To my great consternation, the 2:50pm train was full, and so I had to be the ticket for the 4:20pm train. While waiting around the station, I attempted to use the Starbucks wifi to contact Jérémy and avoid him waiting on me without contact as Lamia had done. In the end, I had to use international service to call him, because the wifi at Starbucks would not work.

Rouen seems to be a lovely town, from the 4 or 5 blocks of it I've seen so far. It's a quite place. Much less crowded, and with all the charm of the french countryside. I suspect I will prefer it to Paris. La Souche, the town house I rented from Jeremy is amazing. Decorated like something from an HGTV special, it is both asthetically pleasing, located in an old timey area, and filled with modern appliances like a smart TV.

I am looking forward to tomorrow.

Rouen: At the Crossroads Between European Antiquity and The Middle Ages

Rouen is a wonderful place! A small to mediumly sized city, the boundaries between the old and new city blend (if not always flawlessly) in thorough in comprehensive ways that at once evoke a historic main street in an old American city and at the same time evoke a sense of sterile European modernity. Thankfully, however, the latter is greatly tempered by the ever-present architecture and artifacts of the past. The city is rather akin to Sacramento, if an American analogy can be made.

In the morning I walked through a few narrow side streets before arriving at the place of the old market, sort of cultural and commercial center of the city that radiates out in highly incongruous lines of streets and side streets before simply turning to the modern city.

I was puzzled at first by the presence of Japanese flags hanging from many of the buildings and being used as decorative motifs in restaurants and shops, which initially lead me to believe that this city has a big Japanese population. I tended to see confirming evidence of this in passersby and the multitude of Japanese sushi restaurants, but as the day progressed and I saw that each street was decorated accordingly for some other country, I questioned my theory. Still unable to explain it, however, I concluded that these must be decorations left over from Eurovision. Later in the day, however, it occurred to me that Eurovision does not include countries like Japan and Brazil; moreover, the French team had won Eurovision, so it didn't seem to make sense that all the countries would be celebrated. By the end of the day, I realized that the soccer world cup (or something of that sort) is currently ongoing.

Takibg a moment to breath in the old market, I then headed to Café de Rouen, located on the western side of the central square of the \240old market, with the church of st. Joan of Arc directly in front of it.

I ordered two coffees and a chocolat croissant, the quality of which was simply astonishing compared to the United States. I left a €2 tip for the waiter because he was nice and he looked like Gary Sinese (Lt. Dan from Forest Gump). Then I wandered about the central square, puzzlingly examining the church of Saint Joan of Arc, which wouldn't open for another hour or so. In the meantime, I just started walking with no particular destination in mind; something I would do throughout the day, as I found it more satisfying to eschew my carefully planned map for walking in whatever direction looked interesting.

I stopped in Auchan, the first Super Marché I visited in France, and found that while it was much more similar to Ralph's or Walmart, it was still incredibly tiny, and the smell of rotting fruit was as ever-present as always. What was interesting to note, though, was the presence of who I presume to be local youths working on stocking the shelves and other grocery tasks. There was also self check out machines, though, I avoided them simply because I didn't want to make a scene if I got challenged with it. Besides, I was only buying two water bottles for a grand total of €1.

I continued wandering, and eventually made it to the river seine. I then made my way back to the old market down the main street of the city.

The church of Saint Joan of Arc stands upon the place in the old market where Joan was burned at the stake in the 1430s, incidentally the place where I had a nice breakfast and would later have a gourmet dînner. The church itself has quite an odd design, that, at least to me, evokes Norse motifs, but it was actually built in the 1970s. It feels much more like a protestant mega church on the inside, though it beautiful from the outside.

Upon reflecting on the story of Joan of Arc, I felt somewhat uneasy, as it doesn't jive with either my political ideology or religious views. Joan was a peasant who professed to have been told by God to free France from the English, who at that time controlled parts of France including Normandy. Somehow receiving the audience of the Prince of France, Charles, she was permitted to lead an army against the English, where she presided over an amazing victory at the siège of Orléans. Charles was restored to the throne, but Joan wanted to free all of France from the English, a prospect that Charles was not convinced of after just having regained his unsteady claim to the throne. So Joan went on into \240further battle against the British, where she and her forces inevitably lost. She was captured and imprisoned in the Don Jon, a tower like fortification surrounded by a moat, which, ironically enough, now sits in the middle of a modern neighborhood. She was then burned at the stake by the English for being a heretic.

My main problem with the whole story is that God would have told Joan to free France from the English. I don't preclude the possibility that God might aid one proto-nation or kingdom over another to move things to his desired end, but at that time, seeing as the Protestant Reformation had not yet taken place, I don't see why God should have cared one way or the other who ruled over France, as whatever issues the French had with the English were temporal, not spiritual or everlasting.

That Joan was burned at the stake is regrettable, but I don't know if that merits sanctioning her alleged instructions from God. Her great achievements make her a hero of France, without a doubt, but a saint, I am not so sure.

Throughout the course of the day I also visited many other sites, most notably Notre Dame de Rouen, The Church of Saint Maclou, and The Abbey of Saint Ouen. Frustratingly, Rouen's Notre Dame is also undergoing renovations at the present, so I could niether go inside, nor have a view of the incredibly tall spire without seeing its base covered in scaffolding.

All told, the day was a nice change of pace. Much more relaxing than Paris, and much less scheduled. Far fewer people (indeed most tourists seemed to be from other parts of France), and just a general ambience and atmosphere that was enlivening to breath in. While Paris has many drawbacks that would keep me from ever living there, Rouen is a place I could conceivably see myself living in (though I think it highly unlikely).

I finished off the day by treating myself to a gourmet Birthday dinner, and while I was wanting French onion soup, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was in the wrong region of the country to expect that to be served. What I got instead was delicious, however, and despite severe anxiety prior to going, sitting down, and ordering, I managed pretty well, only saying a few words in English before correcting myself and switching back to french even though the stakes were much higher because of the high end air of the restaurant. I ordered a bavette of beef with fries and a salade, and a fondant au chocolat for désert, which was served in a bowl of crème. I also had a fine regional rosé to accompany my meal.

After dinner, with no particular reason in mind, I made my way back to the cathedral of Notre Dame de Rouen, and I very quickly realized after arriving that many people were gathering for what I correctly ascertained to be a light/projection show upon the cathedral's façade. The show itself was rather bizarre, including sequences of Mayan Ruins, Pirates, and Space Travel, but it was very cool to watch. After that, I returned to the town house to go to bed.

An Off Day

Today was rather an off day, in fact, it was a bit of a bummer. I left La Souche around 10:30am planning on getting to the station early to be sure I could get the tickets for the 11:45am train to Caen and avoid repeating the hellish experience I had in Saint Lazare while waiting for the train to \240Rouen. Alas, however, the 11am train had been removed!

Thus it was that I had to wait till 2:03pm to take TER to Caen and then transfer to Bayeux. After sitting in the un air-conditioned station for nearly three hours (as la canicule began to manifest itself), I watched diligently as my train appeared on the board. I was confused however, because even as my train got closer to the top of the board, it was not listed with a voie (track), and instead simply had an image of a train (or so I thought).

I began to get more and more unnerved as the time was fast approaching for my departure and I still had no idea what dock I was supposed to be waiting on. Moreover, the board indicates that the train was 5 minutes late, leading me to believe I had more time than I actually did. Only after asking a conductor, and being puzzled when he told me that I would get my train upstairs, did I get the idea that perhaps I wasn't taking a train but rather a bus. I asked another man in the station, and behind his quickly construed and accented chinese french accent I was able to discern that I was meant to go past the «porte» (the door).

When I saw the bus sitting outside the station I breathed a sigh of relief. As I showed my ticket to the conductress, however, she pointed at her watch and told me that I was late, it was 2:07pm, 4 minutes past the time of departure. Apparently the train/bus hadn't been late, and had already left. Perhaps seeing the panic in my face, she gestured for me to get aboard the bus currently docked outside the station.

I felt a bit better upon getting on the bus, but I was still worried that I might somehow be asked to get off, because after all, I had missed my bus. As more and more people queued outside the bus and less and less seats remained open, I feared I would be asked to leave in favor of people who had actually arrived on time for their departure.

By the grace of God, I was allowed to remain on the bus, though a whole large family of American tourists was turned away in spite of the fact that it seemed they had valid tickets for this bus but that it had somehow been oversold.

Beside me sat an elderly man, who, it just so turned out, was American, and an alumni of UCLA, and resident of the state of California. It felt good to be able to speak in English comfortably with someone again after the pressure of speaking mostly french thus far.

Eventually the bus arrived in Caen, and despite very nearly making the same mistake, I did manage to get the train to Bayeux, incidentally where my busmate was also going with his wife and grandson.

Upon arriving in Bayeux and making my way to the Fournier Pascal résidence, I was thrust into a lengthy conversation with the husband of my host, who spoke no English whatsoever. Somehow, I managed to carry on a multifaceted conversation with him in broken french, and paradoxically, or perhaps unsurprisingly, I seemed to get better at conveying myself after we had finished a bottle of cider between the two of us. Alcoholic apple based beverages are one of the regional staples of Normandy, with Pommeau and Calvados being the main specialities.

After retiring to my room, I \240fell asleep with my clothes on and neglected to wake up to get dinner. While sitting in a train station all day doesn't seem like much work, when la canicule hits Europe, it can be one of the most exhausting things ever to be weathered.

Bayeux and Reflections on Peace

For sometime before leaving to go on this trip I had been even more deeply troubled and preoccupied with contemplation of the question of war and peace, as it seemed a switch had snapped in me turning me into more of an anti-war radical than I already was.

In that sense, then, my trip to Bayeux was a worthwhile meditative and contemplative experience, as the question of peace became the central focus of my day.

I woke rather late, around 9:30am, as I had woken around 5:00am and checked to see if my request to rent a bike had been answered, and finding that it had not, abandoned my plan to ride to Arromanches.

I got breakfast at a nearby café, ordering an expresso, hot chocolate and croissant. After helping a fellow café goer clean up her spilled orange juice, however, I realized how rich both the expresso and hot chocolate were, and that I would likely be unable to finish both. The expresso was probably the strongest and most concentrated coffee I have ever had. When I went to pay the woman behind the counter, she began speaking to me in flawless English, despite the fact that prior to that point I had only spoken in french. She explained that the woman who had spilled her orange juice was her friend, and that she asked to pay for my hot chocolat after I had helped her clean up the spill.

I expressed my sincere thanks, and asked the woman behind the counter to carry on those sentiments to her friend, and it proved a good start to a good day.

As I left the café I was sort of taken aback as I heard more English being spoken than I did french in the presence of a large street fair/ market. I quickly realized that these were all British tourists, mostly young students. Gold Beach, after all, which is located directly north of Bayeux was where the British had landed on D-Day. Throughout the day I found that the town was full of British tourists, and a few Americans as well.

I then made my way to the cathedral, which thus far has proven the best I've seen yet. Filled with amazing and vibrant stained glass and magnificent paintings, not to mention it's astonishing interior and exterior facade, I learned that Notre Dame de Bayeux is specifically dedicated to the peace of Christ and an obligation to end war and the suffering it entails.

In one of the side chapels, I knelt and prayed the rosary, and upon returning later in the day, lit a candle and said a prayer for peace.

At lunch, I was forced back into contemplation of the question of war and peace.

I then went to see the tapisserie, which, had I not had Lars Brownworty whispering in my ear about William the Conqueror and Tancred de Hautville, would have been of no great significance or interest. It was nice to finally see this tapestry, however, which in a sense was the underpinning of the whole theme of my trip, or at least the first leg of it – the Norman Conquest and Legacy on European History.

After a good deal of wandering the peaceful and asthetically pleasing streets of the town, I returned back to the café, ordered an affogato, which I had been craving since I moved out of the forms at UCLA. I then returned to the cathedral for some time before coming back to near the apartment and getting dinner – the long sought after french onion soup – which, interestingly enough, paled in comparison to the one I had at Le Chêne before leaving on my trip.

Another oddity of the day is that my eyes at one point became so inexplicably itchy that my eyelids became swollen.

Tomorrow will likely be another off day of waiting in Train Stations, and with the Canicule projected to only intensify from this point forward, it is likely to be just as hot and exhausting as before.

«Let them eat ... Tacos?»

Today went more or less exactly as I expected it to. Another off day, yeah, it could be called that. Even though I planned these days in my trip beforehand to be travel days, the exhaustion of traveling was something I failed to consider. Furthermore, I was unaware of La Canicule until two days after I arrived. The fact of the matter is that sitting in a train station all day is really a unique kind of torture, especially a french train station that has no air conditioning on a sweltering summer day during an unprecedented heatwave. And to think I was actually worried about it raining during the majority of my trip before I got here!

Other than complaints, the day was not particularly noteworthy, though one thing I have noticed that is somewhat troubling to me is that I have seemingly become less able to hear, understand, and speak French the more days that I've spent here. I don't know what it is. Perhaps my ability to discriminatingly tune french out has ceased to have that moderating function; perhaps I am simply too fatigued to engage in the difficult process of thinking in french. «Je sais pas»!

That being said, I feel like more of an American tourist now than I have at any time prior during my visit, and I don't like it. I am starting to doubt, however, whether I will ever be able to hear french and speak it fluently. Not because I put in a ton of effort and have failed -- I certainly haven't -- it just seems to become more and more alien to my ears with each passing day.

Regarding the title of this entry, it is a reference to the ever present smell of taco/body odor that pervades the Paris métro system, especially on the hottest day of the year. If one closed their eyes, they might reasonably think they were walking through a taco emporium.

What else? What else.....? Honestly, I don't remember and am too tired to think.

Tired...

This morning I woke early and got on a train to Chartres... That's how this entry was supposed to start, but one of those unforeseen eventualities got in the way, and coupled with my fatigue, proved too much to overcome. The eventuality I am primarily speaking of is the already oft-mentioned Canicule, but it was not the only one.

When I looked into the trains last night, I learned that there is currently ongoing maintenance on the TER line that runs to Chartres. This does not disallow one to travel there, but rather the way that had set up to work around it was taking the train about halfway, getting off at a random station, and then boarding a bus to make the rest of the trip. An inconvenience, yes, but not one that I was completely unwilling to tolerate. It was only after thinking over what the return trip would entail (especially if I returned late, which I had planned on doing in order to see the cathedral lit up with projections - Chartres en Lumières - which starts at 11:00pm) that I began to lose my resolve on taking the day trip.

When I woke in the morning to increase the fan speed, I decided rather on the spur of the moment to cancel my day trip, and take a day to rest.

Throughout the course of the day I did, indeed, rest; although something about resting in intense heat with the ever present sound of parisian police sirens in the background proved less restful than I might have hoped. I did wake periodically throughout the day, and I even attempted to do laundry in the sink, as my current hosts have quite a large sink. That was an ordeal, and in the end, my results were nothing to be proud of really; but who knows, perhaps it will buy me some time in the second portion of the trip.

I ended the day with «une petite verre de Côte de Provence» and a Margherita pizza - I am staying in place d'Italie after all - then I returned to the apartment and bought my tickets for tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow's day trips; to Amiens and Tours, respectively. It proved a good thing that I bought the tickets using the app, because the trains likely would've been full by the time I got there in the morning to purchase the tickets. Unfortunately, however, even if one is using the app, purchasing tickets the night before the departure does not alleviate the incredibly sharp price: €45 for Amiens, and a staggering €72 for Tours.

Oh well! As the french say «c'est la vie».

Divine Grandeur, Satanic Heat

My train for Amiens did not départ until 11:29am, but fearing that horrible feeling of being panicked at the dock and missing the train, I left quite early just to be safe. I got breakfast at Carrefour, Europe's équivalent to 7/11; a chocolat croissant and a Starbucks expresso can for a grand total of... €3.45. It is somewhat astonishing \240when one realizes that an €0.80 chocolat croissant from a french 7/11 is infitely better, fresher, and more appealing than a $4 one from Starbucks in the United States.

Upon arriving at Gare du Nord, one of Paris' mainline stations, I had plenty of time to sit around and watch as my train slowly inched it's way up the electronic departures board. Despite getting a bit panicked when my train disappeared from the board without ever revealing which voie it would run on, and then realizing that it was just on the board above the one I had been looking at, today's experience at the station went over quite well. An hour and forty minutes later, I was stepping off the train at Gare d'Amiens.

The ride offered me time to contemplate the french countryside as it flashed by my window. I couldn't help but shake the sensation that France's countryside, and perhaps Europe's more generally, seems much more vast than that of the United States. This is of course paradoxical, as we have far more countryside in America, and far more unused space than tiny little France. And when I say it seemed more expansive than the US, I don't just mean looking at the San Gabriel mountains from the freeway. Really, it somehow seemed even more expansive than the rolling hills of Kansas or the farmland en route to Bakersfield. As I questioned why this was, I came to two conclusions: 1. In the US, while we do have vast countryside, it easily appears fragmented by the unseemly and ubiquitous manifestations of our society that appear every five miles or so (I.e. a chevron sign, or a Macdonalds), and 2. That France, at least Northern France, is really quite flat. The countries major mountain ranges being located in the South and East. Thus, as one takes the train North, and, I might add, as one takes the train to Normandy, or Versailles, it appears as an alternating expanse of either farmland, or seemingly lush forests. Green, yellow, and blue are the only colors you will see apart from the occasional brick houses of a town. It also occurs to me just how different life in rural France is from life in metropolitan France.

My time in Amiens was short by the standards of the time I've spent in Paris and Normandy, but it was worthwhile. The only bummer was the heat, but at least that merited getting a tiny bowl of sorbet.

I spent most of my time in the cathedral, Notre Dame d'Amiens; it was both the first and last place that I visited while in the city.

When I visited after getting off the train I took some time to pray, and take pictures. Then I went to a bar and drank an IPA, which is surprisingly hard to find over here, and even harder to find one that lives up to American standards. The most common one you will see is Lagunitas, but the one I had today was a local brew, and it was quite good.

I then went to the canals and old city streets, and then spent some time in the city's gardens, les hortillonages.

Notre Dame d'Amiens was far and away the most opulent cathedral Ive visited so far, it's various chapels, stained glass, statuary, and architecture are a breathtaking feat, even today. Upon returning to the cathedral later in the afternoon, I found what appeared to be a class of high school students performing classical cello, piano, and opera within the great vaulted halls. While it was apparent they were merely practicing, they're beautiful music sounded almost like a lament. Listening to them play served to underscore a thought that I've been returning back to again and again while I've been here. Namely, the question of art and opulent iconography and it's role in the spiritual life of the local church. Prior to coming here, I would have come down staunchly on the side or great artistic and structural houses of devotion as a means to foster the spiritual life of the church. Certainly, I thought, this is better than the austere angular wood and steel constructions that typify modern American churches. In other words, the reason America is critically deficient in cathedrals but has a multiplicity of churches. Part of this, of course, is due to the particular fashions of American protestantism, but even amongst catholic churches, more so on the west coast, this lack of artistic pathos and ambience is bitterly apparent once one is acquainted with what their own houses of worship lack, and what they have the potential to be.

What I've come to realize, however, the more time I spend here (though it was apparent to me in some subconscious sense beforehand), is that a society can be steeped in the great history of Christian civilization, it's citizens can breath it in with each street they walk down, but without the desire of the populace for piety, all of that amounts to nothing. In other words, as I've noticed with each grand cathedral Ive visited, when the majority of the cathedral's time and purpose is devoted to homeless panhandlers working tourists, teens gathering to hang out in the cathedral square, and citizens stopping in merely to avoid the heat and rest in the cool stone halls, the great artistic beauty serves no purpose. One can see the divine reflected in the architecture and artistry of their cathedrals, one can feel it in the centuries of Christian history that have played out under their very feet, but in a society that is spiritually dead, not even this can serve as a remedy.

I better end this entry, it's getting long, and I will be leaving early tomorrow for Tours.

Une Ville Historique, Une Chaleur Historique

Because the Carrefour on the corner didn't have a Starbucks expresso, I went with the second cheapest option for my morning serving of caffeine (which I definitely needed, as I was deathly tired). That option was Red Bull. After taking two or three sips I threw it away because of how gross and heavy it was. And with that, I was off for the day.

I left Gare d'Austerlitz at 8:29am this morning for a two hour train ride to Tours. Unlike with Amiens, this boarding session went off without a hitch, though the waiting area is outdoors, so I had to sit a crowd of smokers, which obviously didn't help the allergies. In fact, I might be developing a sinus infect. God damn the french and their cigarettes!

The train ride felt rather long even though it was only two hours; perhaps I am just getting tired of the identical scenery of the French countryside. In any event, I felt the heat like a punch in the face as soon as I stepped off the train at Gare de Tours. Thankfully though, it hadn't yet reached its full intensity as it was still morning.

The first thing to do upon arriving in Tours was find a bathroom after the two hour long train ride. I headed for the office of tourism as they usually have bathrooms. This one, however, did not. After some wandering, I found a public toilet, which, if for no other reason than how bizarre the public toilettes in France are, bears mentioning. Basically the toilettes are like tiny single stall bathrooms fitted into a steel tube, and while they have sinks and a trash can, the smell is not helped by the fact that the toilet paper (if there is any, a dubious prospect to begin with) must be thrown in the trash and cannot be flushed. The defining feature of the toilettes however, is their cleaning cycle. Basically one enters, does their business, and exits. Then the door closes and locks for the cleaning cycle, which basically just entails a a fire hose opening from the ceiling and blasting the whole bathroom with water. After a minute or so of waiting for the cleaning cycle, the next person (whom there will undoubtedly be on account of the scarcity of such toilettes) walks into the chamber with water dropping from the walls and left on the floor, making them experience that horrible bathroom sensation whereby the filth on one's shoes mixes with the fluid on the ground and creates a stickiness with each step. Rinse and repeat, and there you have a public french toilette.

While making my way to the cathedral, I went into \240the gardens of the Musée de Beaux Arts, Tours, which was nice if not remarkable. There was a giant tree in the middle of the circular courtyard, however, which was interesting.

My ears perked like the proverbial Pavlovian dog when I heard the bells of the cathedral ringing, and I immediately made my way down a short block to its façade. As it turned out, the bells were denoting the 11:00am mass. While I would've liked to attend, I had too much to see in Tours and too little time to get it done, as my return train was leaving at 5:20pm.

The Cathedral of Saint-Gatien is a marvel. Designed in the Gothic style, it is markedly unique in form, having two smaller towers with domes rising from its two main towers, which in most Gothic cathedrals are angular a the top. In this way, Saint-Gatien is the tallest cathedral I've seen while I've been here. While sitting on the steps to the main door and admiring it's exterior, I was finally able to articulate in my mind something that had been there tugging at my attention in the background. When I was younger, in fact, even as recently as 2016 when I took up the hobby of drawing cathedrals and churches, I was not very fond of Gothic cathedrals and had an aversion to them, much preferring the simplicity of Classicism and Romanesque. After craning my neck upwards to look at the artistry of Gothic cathedrals for the last 10 days, however, I saw things in a different light thay allowed me to reconcile my prior feelings about the style.

If the classic architecture of antiquity represented the peak of what ancient architects could achieve with the means and time at their disposal, then Gothic architects created cathedrals that fit the same formula during their own contemporary era. While the popular cultural understanding of the middle ages is as a time of backwardness and ignorance, that view couldn't be further from the truth. For the purposes of architecture, the agricultural revolution that was underway at that time freed up enormous amounts of time to work on art. That's not to say there wasn't deprivation or more pressing things to do with one's time, but that is sort of the point; that mediéval architects and artists poured hours upon hours and years upon years into meticulously sculpting the façades of these cathedrals. The intricacy is unmatched with any other European style today. In one arch one can find all the stylistic motifs that one finds in the cathedral as a whole. This process is repeated a million times over in minute detail with care, devotion, and precision having been utilized each and every time. In an Era where literacy was not widespread, medieval craftsmen and women could reflect their tireless devotion in a beautiful way that they could not in writing. And it is perfectly apparent. Such work could not have been done out of idleness or boredom, it's simply too intricate; at some point or another the craftsman would have just started cutting corners or given up. This leads me to conclude that it was true piety and faith that moved these artists to construct these works. And I think that is why I wasn't fond of Gothic architecture before - it was simply too complicated, too busy - I didn't have the time or desire to look at all the details. Moreover, when I was drawing cathedrals, Gothic constructions were always out of the question because of how complicated they were and my inability to represent those intricacies on a sheet of notebook paper. With a measured mind, and the gargantuan structure standing before your very eyes, however, one easily gets lost in those intricacies and finds them an anesthetic pleasure rather than a liability.

After some wandering, I ended up at the quai of the Loire River, which runs through Tours. The river reminded me of the sacramento river, and while there wasn't a whole lot to see, I was fascinated by the large rusted circular mooring bolts on the walls of the quai. For much of french history, the water rose beyond the area that I was walking on, and large ships docked there.

Tours is a charming city, but unfortunately most of its sites and museums were closed because it was Sunday. I stumbled upon the tower of Charlemagne, but unfortunately could not go up inside it. But the tower is located right next to the Basilica of Saint Martin, the patron Saint of Tours, whose cut cloak, given to a homeless serf, is preserved in both the basilica and the cathedral as a holy relic.

The basilica is quite dissimilar to Saint-Gatien in that it is not a Gothic construction. A neoclassical mixture that looks part Panthéon and part Sacré-cœur, it is the interior of the basilica that is a marvel the world over. Inside, the large dome creates a focal point that draws in most of the light for the church, focusing it on the altar, while the white stone used in the mosaics of the roof tiling multiplies the light throughout the rest of the church, greating a gradient effect whereby the seats in the far back of the church are in the darkest part of the basilica, which is augmented by the slightly blue-purple light that enters through the mosaics along the sides of the basilica.

When I went inside the cathedral the nuns were preparing the Tabernacle for what was likely to be the 2:00pm mass, and so the altar was roped off and I could not access it.

After walking at great length the rest of the main city, I stopped in a small store and bought a 1664, a German beer that is the cultural equivalent to bud light in the US. The beer sucked, as does most beer in France, and it tasted even lighter than bud light; but for my purposes, which was simply to get a cold drink, it did just fine. It was not as refreshing as a corona unfortunately, however.

The last site I visited before returning to the station was the Hôtel de Ville of Tours. Most major cities in France have a Hôtel de Ville, which serves as an administrative center akin to a city hall, but the one in Tours is particularly well designed. It's most striking feature are the fully sculpted Atlas-like figures that serve as the capitals for the main columns supporting the cornice.

Finally, after getting back on the train, I quickly realized, and then had it confirmed by an announcement by the conductor, that «la cilmitisation» was not functioning properly. This soon became ever more dreadfully apparent when after a stop or two when a bunch more people got on the train, as it had somehow oversold it's seat tickets, leaving many people to stand in the aisle. It was the last and most hellishly hot ride to end off my time in France. And, of course, it was not helped by the bizarre phenomena of a swole and garrolus midget, who, despite speaking french, and thus being well aware of the cultural prohibition against talking on the phone while on the train, and the signs indicating the same, had multiple loud conversations over facetime, which he apparently quite enjoyed as evidenced by his maniacal laughter.

Reflections on my Time in France

I will make no pretense that I am about to sew together all the tenuous threads of this trip into a profound conclusion or summary that has yielded me an epiphany. To the extent that the following entry is cohérent at all, it will simply be the poorly synthesized and wide ranging thoughts I've had during this trip articulated in literary form.

The history of the Normans is long and complicated, it's length and duration subject to debate. For the purposes of my trip, however, it can be said to have started with the initial Norman invasion of Frankish lands; followed by their other exploits and conquests in Europe and the Mediterranean, and reaching it's apogee in Bayeux, with the Battle of Hastings.

The Normans main act in the drama of European History can be said to have ended upon the deposition of the last Norman king of Sicily by the Germans. The fact of the matter, however, is that the Norman fingerprint was irrevocably branded upon European History and society. The modern British, French, and many other European peoples are, to one degree or another, the descendants of the Normans.

On the whole, the Normans were not incredibly pious and righteous figures in Christian history; for some time they actually proved more of a threat to Christendom than the Muslims did. While they were eventually redeemed, at least in part, by their adoption of Christianity, the trails of blood and destruction the Normans left in their wake all across Europe and the Mediterranean undoubtedly played a fateful role in guiding the subsequent history. The 4th Crusade stands out as the final scene in the Norman act, but they did not exit stage left.

In some general sense, the Normans, I think, can be seen as co-authors of the Protestant Reformation and the so-called European Wars of Religion. As I leave France I reflect upon the incalculable role the Normans have played in shaping the history of this land and this country, even if it's contemporary manifestation seems worlds away from it, only recollected for brief instances in the monuments that stand out amongst the slow encroachment of the modern city. In \240France, there were several occasions when, upon seeing something transpire, or seeing a specific group of people, like Africans or Asians, I was momentarily lulled into the assumption that I was in America. The modern French state has more than enough diversity, and thus far it has found its own, similar challenges, in dealing with it on a societal level. In this way, modern France and it's diversity is somewhat of a corollary to Norman Sicily at its peak.

And yet, in spite of this diversity, there is the uniformity of modern global pop culture that can scarcely be avoided when wandering about any french city. France is very much a different country than the United States, and often times in quite irritating ways, but insofar as the future is concerned, we would both do well to learn form our past and realize that we are much more alike than we care to admit.

Now, as I prepare to make the second leg of my journey, I reflect that the country I am going to, Morocco, was for many centuries the opposite side of the battlefield with Christendom, Spain being the contested territory, and France being the Christian camp. However oversimplified a view, it seems a testament to the redeeming aspects of human progress that I can now traverse this battlefield without suffering a scratch. Indeed, without even making the arduous trek, as I will be traveling through the air in a way the brutish Normans never could have imagined.

As already mentioned, for all their barbarism, the Normans managed to rule the multi-ethnic, multi-religious, and thoroughly compartmentalized kingdom of Sicily. Perhaps, if thinking back to the flight I will soon be taking, we can say that for all our differences, it is commerce that brings us together; a truth more or less unchanged since the time that Sicily was the wealthiest trading court in Europe all the way to the pressent day of capitalism and Royal Air Maroc.I will soon travel from the land of te Franks to the Land of the Moors, and my trip will end in that contested middle ground of the aforementioned Battlefield, Spain.