Paris on Steroids

We've packed a lot into our days here. Blitzed through the Louvre on Wednesday, which really took a toll on the eyes. I get museum eyes after about two hours, and we were there for many. At one point, while trying to see the French paintings, I got stuck in the Sully wing, which winds through an endless maze of mummies and hieroglyphics. Tried to be interested in that for a while (come on, Anna, when can you see this pharoah again) but it didn't take. I am, however, developing a new appreciation for sculpture. Cupid and Psyche is magnificent. It looks beautiful before you can even make out the forms. If I could steal it I would; I can see why people become obsessive art collectors. I wound up in the Italian paintings (the Mona Lisa gets no time to herself with the swarms of people and cameras in her room) and tried to comtemplate a Leonardo Da Vinci Madonna and Child. I'm finding that trying to describe things in writing while I sit in front of them is my best bet against coming away from these art-stuffed places with a confused jumble of impressions.
Thursday we went to Versailles. Gold and more gold. How did they etch in gold like this? Paintings cover entire ceilings, arched French windows, enormous fireplaces. I now what a frieze is. They're really cool at Versailles - cherubs, full-formed, bursting from swirling gold backgrounds. We had lunch on the lush grounds (they stretch for miles around waterways) and there a terrible thing happened to me. Without warning, a vast quantity of olive oil sprang out of the hummus container in my hand and poured down my pantlegs. Looked perfectly horrible - far beyond recovery. I'll probably be leaving them behind as a gift for our wonderful hostel.
Friday we went to Notre Dame to see the inside and climb the towers, and happened upon a noon mass. Also happened upon a friend that I knew was going to be in Paris around this time - a fortuitous meeting and great to see a friendly face in a city where we know no one. We actually only know each other through our younger siblings, who are great friends, so neither of us quite recognized the other. She was thinking "That must be a Krestyn" and I was thinking "That must be a Dillon" until we approached each other gingerly after mass. She - Mary Katherine - arrived in Paris three weeks ago and is going through some hassle trying to get set up to attend the Sorbonne for her master's degree, so we were each a face from home for the other. She showed us her university area (where Thomas Aquinas taught) and graciously invited us for dinner on Sunday. I love what a small world it is.
Friday night we walked up the Champs-Elysees and climbed four hundred stairs to the Arc de Triomphe (well, it felt like four hundred) for one dope view of the city. A misty moisty evening but still a dope view. On our way back down the boulevard, we popped into Haagen-Daaz for the best ice cream of our lives after such a hot hike up the Arc, and people-watched.
Saturday we went to the Rodin Musuem. I didn't really know who he was before, but he has a cool style. Raw in a good sense. He was called "the dreamer whose dreams flowed through his hands." Humanness seeps through the pores of his figures.
And while I'm talking about pores... I could say something about the smells on the subway but actually, I want to say something on a general note about Paris' pores: they seep with beauty. Most sights are as I imagined they'd be - the glittering Champs-Elysees, loaded with perfect people and shops, the white dome of Sacre Coeur resting on Paris' only hill, Notre Dame's peaceful majesty (which has become my favorite hang-out, night or day. I sit in the square and stare at the towers, while the pidgeons swarm about, feasting on tourist crumbs at my feet, people throng around the cathedral and along the river, the famous bells sound every quarter of the hour, and I wish that I had a little memory box to assign these ones to, to pull out, dust off, and see as clearly as now). What's pleasantly surprised me has been the pervading lightheartedness of the Paris people. For a big, bustling city, it's bustle is about as leisurely as it could be. The night culture has a feel unlike any I've seen in a big city - not synonymous with craziness, but merely enjoying the evening, be it in a bar or cafe, at a concert, or just strolling down the streets (I know it has its red-light district, but it's really not that bad. just kidding, mom). In London people start clearing the streets at 1o pm, while here they're just beginning the evening. We went to a cafe at 8:30, and there were more people there at 11 (having dinner) than when we arrived. I don't think I could get sick of cafes. They're so muti-purpose - You can eat dinner or only a crossiant, read, write, converse, or just sip a drink and watch the world go by. For a people-watcher like me, it's great. I kept reading before I got here that Parisians love to see and be seen, and I kept thinking, how can they tell so much? Here's how: they actually place their cafes strategically along the streets, with prime fishbowl windows for easy gawking. And while I'm talking about cafes, I have a tidbit for Phantom of the Opera-Lovers: there's a cool Starbucks in the Opera quarter, full of chandeliers and wood floors, that will make you feel like you're on the set. The opera house itself is built over a lake, which supposedly inspired the musical.
One more tidbit for all of you, that I can't seem to gracefully work in here, but I can't leave it out, so I'll just drop it on you: Mary Jane got chased off the subway by a tall dark handsome French man in a suit. Awed by her beauty and grace, he couldn't resist.
Back to Paris' beauty-seeping pores. It's beauty that strikes you before you know you've been hit. Sights that are beautiful before you know what they signify. They got art right here. Maybe because they do prize leisure. But it seems it must also be because they're passionate, and have felt pain. From all the sin and horror that men have pulled down on their heads, such works of grace? I'm reminded of God's words: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness." Isn't that what real art speaks? That pain has been felt, and that from it, a glimpse into the beauty of God is grasped.
So these days have been great indeed. Although our time in Paris is drawing to a close, I think I'lll see it's lights again.