After an exhausting day Friday, I was ready for a long night's sleep. That sleep ended at 11, when Oops kicked me out of my room for cleaning. Having slept through breakfast, I headed out to fend for myself on the streets, finding salvation in a chocolate croissant from the bakery around the corner. With nowhere in particular to be, and being in no rush to make any plans, I began to wander through the city and, after about an hour, I stumbled upon a farmers market in some out of the way square. Figuring it would soon be time for lunch, I set about gathering a picnic. Most of the vendors didn't speak English and, since I only know four phrases in Fench ("I don't understand," "Do you speak English?" "I don't speak French," and "Shit, it's raining," this last one being printed on an umbrella my mom has at home), I was forced to assemble my meal using mostly hand gestures. I bought a baguette, two cheeses, and some raspberries. I stuck the lunch in my bag and headed off again, aimlessly exploring the winding streets, stopping for lunch when I emerged at the Jardin des Plantes.
Lunch was incredible (perhaps in part due the appetite I'd worked up on my walk). The two cheeses, selected for me by the man from the cheese shop, were both absolutely amazing: sweet and soft and distinctly un-butter-like. The bread and raspberries were excellent complements, but it was the cheese that had me enthralled. I ate my fill, packing up the rest for later and began strolling along the Seine.
I arrived back at Notre Dame at 2:30, just as a free tour was beginning and, never one to pass up anything free, I joined in. The tour was interesting, but was really not much more than an excuse to reexamine the intricacies of the artwork within the cathedral. I then wandered around to the back of Notre Dame, to look at the legendary flying buttresses that support the improbably thin walls. Behind the church, I discovered a small park with a band playing and, quite happy to relax, I decided to hang out there for a while.
There were rows of benches under rows of trees (parks in Paris all seem to be organized into impeccably symmetrical rows) so I grabbed a seat in the shade and got out my book. Shortly after sitting down, I felt someone behind me tap my shoulder. I turned around, prepared to apologetically explain that Je ne parle pas français, but there was no one there. I scanned the tree above me for nuts, berries, or other projectiles, but the tree's branches bore only leaves and a few idling pigeons. And it was looking at these pigeons, and then at my shoulder, that I realized what it was I had felt. Merde!
I cleaned myself up as best I could and quickly relocated to a bench beneath an unoccupied tree. There I continued to read, all the while silently hoping that none of the fashion-savvy Parisians sitting nearby would take too much interest in the white mark on my left shoulder.
When the band finished, I decided to go take a look at the Centre Pompidou, home of the modern art museum, and perhaps best known for its colorful piping on the building's exterior.
I didn't go into the museum, lacking both the requisite money and understanding of modern art, but I did sit outside the Centre for a while, watching street performers and eating the rest of my picnic lunch. By then it was 7:30 and, figuring that the sun was about to set, I decided it was an excellent time to visit Paris' iconic radio tower:
It took about an hour to reach the top of the tower. I had to get through a security checkpoint, two elevators, and three long lines full of pushy American tourists before I finally made it to the uppermost observation deck. It was worth it. Paris at night was beautiful, and being 1000 feet above the city on a clear, warm August night was absolutely perfect. Of course, being 1000 feet in the air, one is invariably overcome by two universal urges: taking photographs and spitting over the edge. Fortunately, I managed to contain the latter urge and limited myself to photography. Scattered across the city, I could see the twinkling lights of the many sites I had already visited. I attempted numerous close-ups of these illuminated landmarks, but lacking sufficient zoom on my camera, you'll just have to settle for a generic Paris-at-night landscape.
On the way down, I bypassed the elevators, opting instead to take the stairs, a zigzagging flight working its way groundward through a Batman-esque cage of blue-lit steel. Upon reaching the bottom, I was able to gaze back up at the tower, tapering skyward until it reached the small observation deck high above my head.
It was as I stood at the base of the tower that I felt a drop of rain on my head. Gazing skyward past the observation deck, I saw that the sky was still clear without a cloud in sight. And so I was led to a sickening conclusion, not unlike the one I had reached mere hours before in the park. Merde, il ne pleut pas.
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