Movin' out

Sunday morning I finally bade adieu to Oops, packing up my bag and vacating the dorm at 10:58, barely before the necessary checkout time. My plan was to move out of the city and spend a few days staying with an old friend of mine, Valentin Léon, who lives in the nearby town of Chartrettes. Only flaw in the plan: Val didn’t yet know I was coming.

I first met Val about eight years ago when we were both in middle school; he came to stay with my family, a friend of a friend coming to America to improve his English. Since then, I’ve maintained only the loosest of contact with him, never met his family, and, until a couple weeks ago, had never given him the slightest indication that I hoped to stay at his house this summer. And so it was with unfounded optimism that I went to the nearest payphone, called Valentin, and declared that I would like to come stay with him. That night. He graciously agreed to host me, though admitted he wouldn’t be home until around 3 AM. He gave me his home number and instructed me to call his parents to work out the details, asking only that I give him a few minutes to call home and give them a heads up.

So I went down the street to café, and spent the next hour reading my book and nursing a petit déjeuner français. I figured I should give Val as much time as possible to explain to his family that an American they’d never met would be showing up that their house that afternoon. When I did finally call, I was amazed by the generosity of Val’s mother. She enthusiastically insisted I come and helped talk me through the process of catching the 6:30 commuter train, promising they would be there to meet me at the station. And so, with a plan worked out for the evening, I set off to enjoy my last day in Paris.

I hopped on the Metro and headed to the famous Arc de Triomphe, it being the sole remaining item on my I-will-feel-like-an-idiot-if-I-don’t-see-this list for Paris. When I emerged from the subway, my first impression was that the arch was much larger than I had imagined. Through a severe misestimation, I had been expecting a structure roughly the size of a house, a notion I quickly abandoned when I saw the size of the people milling around the arch’s base.


Especially after dealing with the lines at the Eiffel tower the day before, getting to the top of the arch was a piece of cake. All it took was €4, a student ID, and the willingness to walk up 284 spiral steps. On top of the monument, I was rewarded with another spectacular panorama of the city, perhaps even more satisfying than that from the Eiffel Tower, as this time I was afforded a view of the only city landmark photographable from a distance.


The descent from the arch took me down another long spiral staircase, this one equipped at its base with an inexplicably short ladder, making me wonder if I might have not been the only one to dramatically underestimate the arch’s height.


From the arch, I strolled down the Champs-Élysées, past the long line of glitzy fashion stores – excuse me, fashion museums (a semantic distinction ostensibly employed to sidestep Paris’ blue laws). Upon reaching Place de la Concorde, I took a short detour past Laduree, the gourmet pastry shop that boasts Paris’ most famous macaron (a double-layered almond-based cookie that, beyond its name, has absolutely nothing in common with a macaroon). I bought a strawberry macaron. It was delicious.

Next, I stopped by the Opéra Garnier, a grandiose building constructed on top of an underground lake, and best known worldwide for the its legendary phantom. The theater was beautiful, highlighted by the ornate chandelier high above the audience. I was hoping to explore the nooks and crannies of the place, but access to everything above the second floor was cordoned off. After a while, though, I noticed a couple heading up a flight of stairs for which the rope barrier was unhooked and lying invitingly on the gound.* Not one to let others have all the fun, I followed close behind and was able to enjoy a much more satisfactory tour of the opera house’s upper levels.


On my way out, I couldn't resist attempting a timer shot of myself on the distinctive Y-shaped grand stairway. For those who don't know, these timer shots are my dad's signature documentary technique and, over the years, have produced hundreds of photos of my family, and thousands of photos of unwitting strangers' knees. And so, Dad, I dedicate these next two photos to you.

Finally it was time to leave Paris. I returned to Oops for my backpack and set off to meet the Léon family. All went according to plan and I was met at the station and taken back to the house to a warm welcome and a home-cooked French meal. After five days traveling on my own, it was a wonderful change of pace to be back in a house and to be so well taken care of.


* I may or may not have passed by this stairway five minutes earlier and surreptitiously removed the barrier rope from its hook.