Paris: Notre Dame

Back to Paris again, and the 19^th of February:

After leaving the Louvre, I started making my way east toward the Notre Dame de Paris. But, I made one additional stop on the way: the Pont des Arts. Here I admired the thousands of ‘love locks’ affixed to the bridge for quite some time. If only Nic had been with me. Alas, since he wasn’t, after about twenty minutes of ruminating on mushy things, I continued on my way to Notre Dame.

Some of the 'love locks' on the Pont des Arts.

After carrying my backpack all day, I'm the new Hunchback!

The bells, the bells!

'You who seek help: Enter'

 Now, I have to say that—for me—there’s not too much to say about the famous cathedral. It’s a beautiful building, don’t get me wrong, but I was not able to see what constitutes its most noted area: namely, the bell towers. (They offered tours of it—but the line was far too long, and I was starving!) 

Instead I stuck to the interior, which featured beautiful stained glass windows!

After my abbreviated trip to Notre Dame—don't judge, I told you I was starving!—I crossed the road toward Aux Tours de Notre Dame, an indoor and outdoor café, where I picked up one of the most amazing crepes I’ve ever had! Seriously, the woman made the crepe in front of me, and then added (at my request) Nutella and a banana. Tres magnifique!

(NB: This is not my photo!)

Stay tuuned, 'cause there's still more to come!

You Won't Care About Most of This but, Gurl Look At That Hair! (I'm Sexy and I Know It!)

Time for another quick break from the Paris narrative!

This morning, courtesy of Groupon and my wonderful mother, I went on another walking tour—and this one was a lot less gruesome than the Jack the Ripper tour from a few weeks back! 

The topic of this morning’s walkabout was Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee, and (as I’m sure you all know by now) I’m a sucker for this kind of stuff. There weren’t many details about what we would be looking at or where we were going, but participants were promised that it would highlight

the best, the worst, the most fascinating and the most worrying moments of the life of Queen Elizabeth II in honour of her Diamond Jubilee. We see where she was born, some memorable locations and some of her favourite places as well as discuss her successes and achievements during her long reign.  She has had her ups and her annus horribilis; she has seen changes more far-reaching than any monarch and has handled this with dignity and poise. (Coutours Website)

That was enough to rope me in, so off I went…

NB: Most of you will probably find this boring as all-get-out. Nic was actually laughing he was so bored. But it’s my blog and, damn it, I’ll write what I want to!

So, we met near the Bond Street tube station, which is a bit north of Buckingham Palace (near Soho, actually), and then proceeded to walk about ½ mile down Davies street. En route, we paused near Claridge’s, which Emma—our guide—informed us was home to various deposed and exiled (and just visiting) monarchs from other countries in the earlier part of the 20^th Century, particularly after World War I. 

NB: This photo is not mine!

Emma further explained that Claridge’s was/is the setting for most of the ‘thank you’ banquets hosted by visiting heads of state (following the banquets hosted by Her Majesty), because most embassies do not have adequate security for such functions.

Now, I don’t know how much I trust this little tidbit—if she had said it was because the embassies weren’t large enough to accommodate the large parties I might have been less skeptical. But security concerns? at the embassy? at a time where the head of the corresponding nation is visiting? Sounds sketchy to me…

 

At any rate, it was also while standing in front of Claridge’s that Emma began telling us about the current queen’s grandparents’ (King George V and Queen Mary) efforts to distance themselves from their Germanic links during the WWI era. Such efforts included dropping the family surname of ‘Saxe-Cobourg Gotha’ in favor of the more English-sounding ‘Windsor.’ Similarly, King George and Queen Mary largely did away with the old (German) matrimonial restrictions, which eventually allowed for their son—and England’s future king—Bertie to marry (then-)Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, (then-)Princess Elizabeth to marry PrincePhilip, and Prince William to marry Catherine 'Kate' Middleton. Finally, Emma told us a bit about King George and Queen Mary’s roles in setting the standard for present-day monarchical expectations.

(For the record, it was also around this time that she stopped over-explaining things to this li’l ol’ American, because I pointed out that I was in the midst of Pope-Hennessy’s ginormous biography of Queen Mary, and that I had already finished comparable ones for Queens Victoria and Alexandra and the Queen Mum.)

From Claridge’s, we continued down Davies until we hit Berkeley Square, and then we hung a left on to Bruton Street for our first ‘official’ stop: 17 Bruton Street.

Though the original home no longer stands (it was bombed during WWII), this Mayfair address is where Queen Elizabeth II was born on 21 April 1926. At the time of (then-)Princess Elizabeth’s birth via c-section, 17 Bruton Street belonged to her maternal grandparents. 

The street as seen in 1904. (NB: This is not my picture!)

Today it’s a nightclub and is next door to a Bentley dealership. But there is a plaque that marks the spot on the wall of said-club…it’s above the sectioned-off smokers section. *SMDH*

Now, a quick note about the pictures in this entry. Most of them are not mine, simply because there wasn’t too much worth snappin’ pix of. So, for illustrative purposes I’ve included a couple of corresponding images I found on the web. There you have it…

Moving on, quite literally across the street: the former shop of Norman Hartnell. Within the walls of this shop, Hartnell designed dresses for famous figures such as Merle Oberon, Marlene Dietrich, Elizabeth Taylor, and—most importantly for my purposes (excepting, maybe, Oberon)—the eventual Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, and Queen Elizabeth II. 

Perhaps the best-known of Hartnell’s designs was the wedding dress he created for Her Majesty:

NB: This photo is not mine!

 After discussing Her Majesty’s wedding for a bit, we continued on down Bruton Street and made our way over to the Royal Arcade on Old Bond Street, which houses the queen’s official chocolatier—complete with Royal Warrant above the register, Royal Seal affixed to the window, and the queen’s portrait above the preparation area. This was all by way of getting us to Bond Street proper. Now, I have to say: this is definitely another of those areas of town where I do not fit. I mean, fer realz. (Though the Louis Vuitton store—see here—sure was beautiful to look at!) Then it was a quick right onto Grafton and a left onto Albemarle.

It was on the corner of Grafton and Albemarle that we found Garrard & Co.’s jewelry shop. The significance of Garrard’s is that, for many years, they were responsible for the creation and maintenance of the Crown Jewels—including the iconic ‘little’ crown worn by Queen Victoria in so many images. 

(NB: This is not my photo!)

Unfortunately for them, they also seemed to have a knack for ticking off Queen Elizabeth II. (Or so-said our guide.) The first hiccup in their relationship was immediately following the wedding of Prince Charles and (then-)Lady Diana Spencer, when Garrard’s decided to sell exact replicas of Diana’s wedding ring—which they had the plans for because they had designed it. The next hiccup came when they hired Jade Jagger (Mick’s daughter) as their creative director, and she started steering the company in a different direction. And a third hiccup occurred when they hired Christina Aguilera as the ‘face’ of Garrad & Co. As a result, in 2007 a statement was released by Buckingham Palace that Garrad’s services were ‘no longer required’ and a new Crown Jeweler was announced. (Jagger was also fired shortly thereafter.) Ouch.

Leaving Garrad’s behind, we trekked over to St James’s Palace, followed by quick stops to Lancaster House, Clarence House, St James’s Park, and finally Westminster Abbey. Since I’ve talked about all of those places before—and didn’t really learn anything new here—I won’t go into any further details with those.

Other random things I saw today, however, included James Lock & Co., where the first Bowler Hat was created (but which you should order using the name ‘Coke Hat’ [pronounced ‘Cook’]); White’s, which is one of—if not the—oldest Gentlemen’s clubs in London, and which counts the Duke of Edinburgh and Prince Charles amongst its members (NB: there have only ever been two occasions whereupon a woman was allowed entrance to White’s—both times it was Queen Elizabeth, and she had to be granted permission by special vote.); Hunter Boots, the official boot makers of the Duke (and possibly the Queen too); the former site of Texas’ Embassy (from its brief time of independence—according to our guide, the king was still smarting over the American Revolution, and so he gladly threw his support behind Texas’ attempts at remaining independent…I sure as hell wish he’d fought harder!); and, in that same courtyard, supposedly the site of the very last duel fought in London.

Okay, I’m sure you’re all bored to tears by now. In fact, even I was a bit bored there toward the end of writing this out. But it really was fun, you’ll just have to take my word for it!

One final note: after leaving behind the tour, I made my way over to nearby Soho where I finally got mah hair and eyebrows did! YAY! Thank you, Youssef from Groovy Hair Salon, for being both within my price range and giving me a look that Nic has referred to as ‘brash and Euro!’

Paris: The Louvre

The last entry devoted to my time in Paris ended with my stroll through the statue-filled Jardin des Tuileries. As I pointed out, at the eastern end of the garden stands there stands another arch—the Arc de Triomphedu Carrousel—which marks the entrance to the world-famous Musée du Louvre. That was my next stop on 19 February.

NB: This is still part of the terrible, awful, no-good, very-bad hair day!

Now, my friend RC recommended that I skip the Louvre in favor of the Musée d’Orsay. In the end, I wound up not doing this for two reasons:

First, as I noted in the other post, the line for the Musée d’Orsay was ridiculous, and while there are certainly some paintings there that I would have loved to see—e.g., ‘Whistler’s Mother’—I just wasn’t willing to spend such a considerable chunk of my vacation time standing in line. 

Second, I cannot fully escape the cultural inculcation I’ve received over my lifetime, meaning that I wasn’t going to pass-up the opportunity to see one of the world’s most renowned museums and the art it holds. 

Sorry RC—this was just one of those times where I had to pass on your much-appreciated and highly-regarded advice!

Whereas the line at the Musée d’Orsay was enormous and unmoving, the one at the Louvre was, shockingly, almost nonexistent. It only took about five minutes for me to move from the back of the line, through the security checkpoint (under I.M. Pei’s spectacular glass Pyramide du Louvre), and down to the ticket-lobby. 

After about another five minutes (of waiting for a ticket machine), I had my entry pass.

Now, before I go too much further, I have to say one thing: those websites that list the Louvre as one of the biggest museums in the world…Are. Not. Lying! We’re talking four huge, sprawling levels arranged in the shape of something like the letter ‘A’ laying on its side.

Map--notice the 'No Photography' and other icons in the lower-right.

 I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I got lost—and not just ‘Oh, I’m in room 2.61 instead of 2.62’ lost. No, I’m talking about lost as in ‘I’m on a completely different floor and on the opposite side of the building than I thought.’ 

But I wouldn’t trade a moment of that being lost—everywhere I turned was something else incredible. And there was so much that I didn’t see, simply because I was beyond overwhelmed and because I could never find it (e.g., Michelangelo's Captive).

But let’s talk about what I did see…

Standing on 0 (the ground floor), beneath the sparkling pyramid, I had the choice of three directions to start from: Richelieu, Sully, or Denon. I opted for Sully, simply because it was the direction I was facing at the moment, but from there I wound up moving over to Denon because I started seeing signage that the Mona Lisa was in that direction. (After all, if for some reason I wound up not seeing anything else the Louvre had to offer, I had to ensure that I at least saw that famous work!)

As I made my way toward Leonardo’s enigmatic painting, I came upon a massive marble staircase (the Daru staircase)…and there, at the top of said-staircase, was the Winged Victory of Samothrace! 

NB: This is not my photo, but perfectly shows the perspective I was describing above!

This sculpture, which Julian Bell cites as having been sculpted circa 190 BC, is one of those artistic works that I’ve wanted to see since I was a child—no doubt owing to some Carmen Sandiego-related incarnation I'm sure. 

And then, to come across it so unexpectedly, towering over me in such an epic manner… My goodness, it was a breathtaking experience! 

Equally amazing was the fact that one can just reach out and touch it! (I’m sure the Louvre—and future generations—would prefer that you didn’t, of course).

Now, as a quick aside, you may think to yourself after seeing my photos, ‘Why didn’t he take more pictures? He was at the friggin’ Louvre!’ 

Well, the answer is that there were many areas where the taking of photos was prohibited. This did not, of course, stop anyone (including moi)—but I really did want to try to respect the rules, and so I at least limited my picture taking.

Moving on…

From Victory, I moved into the wing devoted to paintings. I knew I was getting closer to the Mona Lisa, and so I walked a little faster…

And then, suddenly, there she was, in the center of a partial wall, erected in the middle of rooms 1.6 and 1.7!

The 'real' Mona Lisa--behind bullet-proof Plexiglass!

I kind of felt sorry for all of the other artwork in the room, because it might as well have been invisible. 

At any rate, DaVinci’s masterpiece is safely secured behind a thick sheet of bullet-proof, light-disrupting Plexiglas-looking material (meaning that you can finally take photos of it!) and, as other observers have noted, is much smaller than you would think.

After snapping a couple of pictures, I just stood there for about 10 minutes…just looking at it, and trying to absorb every moment. 

Of course, I found the experience slightly problematic thanks to a reading I’d just done for my ‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’ class en route to Paris. The essay, John Berger’s ‘Ways of Seeing’—which was based on the work of Walter Benjamin—said two things that really FUBAR’ed my ability to just embrace what I was seeing: 

1.) ‘When the camera reproduces a painting, it destroys the uniqueness of its image. As a result its meaning changes. Or, more exactly, its meaning multiplies and fragments into many meanings’ (12). In essence, what Berger means by this is that—through the process of reproduction—in today’s culture when one observes the ‘original,’ rather than focusing on the meanings that they could decode in that moment, they are instead reminded of the moment—and its attendant implications and meanings—when they first saw a reproduction of the image (which likely happened before seeing the ‘original,’ just as I saw countless reproductions of the Mona Lisa before finally seeing the ‘real’ thing last week).

2.) Furthermore, rather than simply seeing the art for whatever it is, the act of reproducing artwork (sub)consciously forces you into thinking of it in terms of a binary (i.e., this is the original, not the reproduction). As a result, the concept of rarity is affixed to the original, which in turn drives up the market value of the piece. ‘But because it is nevertheless “a work of art”—and art is thought to be greater than commerce—its market price is said to be a reflection of its spiritual value. Yet the spiritual value of an object…can only be explained in terms of magic or religion. And since in modern society neither of these is a living force, the art object…is enveloped in an atmosphere of entirely bogus religiosity’ (14).

MEANING IT’S ALL BULLOCKS AND WHY DID I PAY €10 TO GET IN HERE TO SEE SOMETHING WHOSE MEANING IS FALSELY AUTHENTIC AND WHOSE MEANING I CANNOT TRULY COMPREHEND BECAUSE SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE I SAW A REPRODUCTION FIRST?!

Yes, this messed me up.

But, at least I can say I saw the ‘real’ thing—and here’s another reproduction of it that I made to prove as much:

Why, oh why, didn't I hop into the bathroom and fix my hair? For goodness' sake! BAD QUEER!

I had to do a bit of color-enhancement owing to the Plexiglass, but I did take this image.

From the Mona Lisa we move to another object d’art that I’d wanted to see for as long as I can remember: the Venus de Milo!

Perhaps it was just the remnants of my earlier pontification on art that was influencing me—or maybe, by the point I reached this icon of the Roman Love Goddess, I had just reached the point where I had been exposed to too much beauty in one sitting—but, despite loving my time in front of the sculpture, I wasn’t as moved as I’d expected to be.

And now I've got a face like a moon... *SMDH*

Still, it really was amazing to finally see the Venus de Milo!

Now, I’ve touched on the ‘big three’ that I—like so many other tourists—wanted to see while I was at the Louvre. But, by no means does that mean that this was all I looked at, or all that I enjoyed. In particular, I was moved by the Renaissance-era paintings in the room flanking the Mona Lisa—like, really moved. As in: I got a little misty-eyed. 

I think the two paintings which I was most moved by in this area were Reni’s ‘David vainqueur de Goliath’ (c.1604) and Campi’s ‘Les Mysteres de la Passion du Christ’ (c.1569). And with both of these amazing paintings, it’s the usage of colors that really got to me.

Regarding the former, David’s skin-tone was this amazing, almost translucent bluish-white. (And, yes, I acknowledge that as a person from Jerusalem he should not have been white, but it’s not like I can go back in time and ‘fix’ Reni’s color palette or racist tendencies—work with me here!) The severed head is a bit unnecessary—though Biblically accurate—but that's counteracted to an extent by the amazingly textured fur sash that David is wearing! Ugh, I wish I had a photo that did more justice to this beautiful piece!

Concerning Campi’s painting, for me it’s all about the ‘window’ into Heaven seen in the upper-right. Again, the photo does this masterpiece zero justice—the vivid, almost dazzling gold used therein is beyond description. Likewise the various shades of pink interspersed throughout are jaw-dropping!

There’s so much more to say about my experience at the Louvre—almost too much, and so I won’t risk cheapening the adventure by failing to eloquently express it all. 

What I will say by way of conclusion, however, is that the time I spent there was one of two side-trips (the other being Montmartre) that absolutely made the entire Paris trip into the amazing experience that it was—I will never forget my time spent within this grand ol’ palace!

‘You'll Have a Gay Ol’ Time...’

It’s taking me a bit longer to blog about my Paris experience than I thought it would and, in the meantime, I don’t want to miss out on referencing things that are happening in the here and now. To that end, I’m going to set aside Paris for just a moment, and tell you about the start of my weekend…

But first, a bit of set-up: my sleeping habits are totally out of whack, and have been for the duration of my time in London (even before I moved in to Club Lithuanian Frat Guys—who, by the way, I’m more convinced than ever might actually work for the bratva because none of them ever seem go to work of any kind!). Most nights, I am unable to fall asleep before about 2:00 AM.

What’s worse, is that for the last two weeks in a row, I have not been able to fall asleep on Wednesday nights at all! The first time this happened, I assumed it was because of the pounding music coming from Olik’s room, and that I was wound-up following a midnight confrontation with him about it. (I hate conflict, you see, and it makes me feel incredible anxious before/during /after.) But then, again this week, this whole lack-of-sleep on Wednesday night happened, and I’m not sure why.

_____

(Mostly) Unrelated Segue

I’m sorry, I need to interrupt the flow of this entry for a moment. I just went downstairs to check on my laundry while in the midst of composing this entry, and ran into Olik, who is completely pissed (in the British, drunken sense).

He cornered me in the hallway, put his arm around me—which, by the way, is the size of a small tree trunk—and asked if I was bothered by the music he’s blaring at this moment. Not wanting to get into it with him again, I said that it was fine because I wasn’t doing homework, but that if I started later I might ask him to turn it down. 

At that point he nodded his head and smiled and said, ‘You’re a good person—I like you. You’re like family now.’ 

Good Lord, does this mean that I’m now part of the bratva, too? I swear, if anyone tries to kiss me on the cheek while I’m staying here, I will be getting right-the-fuck-out!

End Segue

_____

Back to the Wednesday sleeplessness issue, the reason this is problematic is that my school week begins early on Thursday morning, meaning that said-lack-of-sleep makes me feel like I’m in a fog for the next two days’ worth of classes (because, as most people know, the second day is almost worst than the first). Then, by the time Friday afternoon rolls around—and I’m finished with my classes for the week—I’m exhausted, jumpy, and feeling overall weird.

So, now that you have this understanding of my mental-, emotional-, and physical-states in mind, we can proceed to Friday (24 February)…

When I got home on Friday afternoon (circa 2:00 PM), my upstairs flatmates were already going full-force with their music and drinking. Mind you, all I wanted to do was sleep for a bit. But, that wasn’t going to happen—even after asking them to turn it down, they didn’t. This just added to my agitation. 

In short, my only option was to get out of the flat before I put my fists through a wall. That’s when I ultimately decided to accept my friend TvH’s offer to go out with him and his friends to Soho that night.

A facefull of Purple Steel before goin' out...

Fast-forward to 10:30 PM, and I was making my way from the Tottenham Court Road tube stop toward The Edge. Now, although The Edge consists of multiple stories, we never left the ground floor. This is mostly for three reasons: 

(1) TvH, L. (his boyfriend), and I were waiting for the rest of the group to show up;

(2) the bar—complete with hot, shirtless bartenders—was within easy reach; and,

(3) there were hot go-go boys dancing on the stage (which is tucked back behind the disco ball seen in the upper-right of the photo below).

The Edge, ground floor. (NB: This is not my photo!)

Owing to some stereotypical gay drama, the last two members of our group didn’t arrive until around 1:30 AM. But that was okay, because the music was good (I was shocked by how much ‘new’ music I actually recognized), and the remix the DJ played of Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’ was amazaballs!

Eventually, four hours after arriving, the group decided that it was time to check out someplace else. So, en masse, we made our way into the gaybourhood streets. After a stumbling stroll, we finally arrived at G-A-Y Late.

Now, unfortunately, after standing in line for about 15 minutes, the bouncer allowed four of us to enter but arbitrarily blocked the fifth, saying he was too drunk. Mind you, we were all at the same level of sobriety—in fairness, we should all have been blocked.

Well, not to be thwarted, we once again staggered into the streets (pausing briefly at one of those port-a-urinals—using that was a bizarre experience to be sure, but better than being caught on CCTV doing something you shouldn’t, I guess!)

NB: This is not my photo, nor is it the one I used. Just for the record.

Next stop: Ku Bar. My recollection of Ku Bar basically consists of another hot, shirtless bartender with pecs like boulders and nipples like diamonds, a bit of dancing—which, I’m sure to the non-drunkards in the room looked something along the lines of the Elaine Benes dance—and a marine layer of that artificial club-fog that smells like a cross between artificial sweetener, armpits, and ball-sweat. But, there must have been a bit more to it than just those three things, because I also have a distinct recollection of feeling like it was reminiscent of my once-favorite stomping ground, Velvet Nation.

Finally, at around 3:30 AM, it was time to head home…

Except, I was a bit turned around, as were TvH and L. As an acquaintance of mine of Facebook just wrote about his similar experience this weekend, ‘after 3 hours of traveling back and forth like a homecoming hooker’s walk of shame, we said fuck it and tried to hail a cab. Tried. None of those bitches would pick us up.’ That pretty much sums up our attempt at leaving.

 

Eventually, after walking in circles—Piccadilly Circus, to be exact—for a bit, we found a bus that would take us to Canning Town station, from whence we could all catch trains to our respective flats. (Of course, this decision also necessitated that we wait until 5:30 AM for the trains to start running again…with all of us dressed for going out, and not necessarily dressed for warmth.)

But, I made it home safely (albeit not until after sunrise), and without being part of a mugging scenario this time. YAY!

Paris: Early Morning Stroll

School interfered with my ability to update yesterday and earlier today but, finally, I’m back—accompanied by a bit of Edith Piaf in an effort to drown out the thumpa-thumpa coming from upstairs (a different flatmate this time).

At any rate, travel back with me now to the morning of 19 February 2012:

I knew I had a lot of ground I wanted to cover on Sunday, so I started early. My first stop: the famous Arc de Triomphe, which stands proudly just to the side of the Charles de Gaulle-Étoile metro stop, and straddles the Place Charles de Gaulle.

Now, a word of warning before you look at the pictures below: I really did try to do something with my hair that day. In fact, when I left Giovanni’s Room (my hostel), it looked quite nice. But le vent had other ideas—meaning that every single picture of me taken on the 19th is a hot mess. Hot. Mess. That being said, here are the photos:

 Getting back to the world-famous piece of architecture, its purpose is to memorialize those French citizens who lost their lives during the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars, and buried beneath the arch is France’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

(On an unrelated note—and I don’t know if this is actually true or not—according to the Wikipedia store, the ‘eternal flame’ atop the Unknown Soldier’s resting place was the inspiration for the flame that now burns near President John F. Kennedy’s grave. Also, just to demonstrate how big it actually is, in 1919 a biplane actually flew through the memorial arch. You can find the video here.)

From the Arc de Triomphe, I made my way south-east along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. According to the owner of Giovanni’s Room, this stretch of street—which runs between the Arc de Triomphe and the Obelisk of Luxor—is famous for its expensive shops and celebrity clientele. I have to say, I don’t know if that’s true or not (not that I really have any reason to doubt him) simply because everything was still closed as I was walking by. Oh, other than La McDonald’s.

However, I didn’t make it all the way down Champs-Élysées because, at its crossing with an avenue named after Winston Churchill (at that point), I was distracted by a trio of beautifully designed buildings: Le Grande Palais, Petit Palais, and L'Hôtel national des Invalides. I never made it into either of the first two, simply because opening hours and time did not allow. As for L'Hôtel national des Invalides, I’ll discuss that in a subsequent posting.

You can see the edges of Le Grande and Petit Palais on the left and right respectively, with L'Hotel national des Invalides in the distance.

Petit Palais--unfortunately, I accidentally deleted my photo of Le Grande Palais.

The dome atop L'Hotel national des Invalides.

For now, let’s just focus on the bridge that spans the Seine between these three gorgeous buildings: Pont Alexandre III. As the pictures below demonstrate, it’s quite stunning. It is also from this vantage point that I first glimpsed the Eiffel Tower during daylight hours.

My first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower during daylight hours.

The Eiffel Tower, as seen from Pont Alexandre III.

 

From the Pont Alexandre III, I continued heading east along the northern bank of the Seine. It wasn’t long until I came upon the Placede la Concorde (where stands the earlier-mentioned obelisk devoted to Pharaoh Ramses II), and then—a bit further down—the Jardin des Tuileries.

From a historical perspective, perhaps the most interesting thing about the Place de la Concorde is its bloodied link with the French Revolution. It was within the area of this square that 'Madame Guillotine' separated the likes of King Louis XVI, MarieAntoinette, and Maximilien Robespierre from their respective heads. In fact, it has been estimated that over 1,300 people were executed here over the course of a single month during the ‘Reign of Terror.’ Quite a change from the somewhat whimsical air that the Ferris Wheel gives to the square today.

Place de la Concorde

As for the Jardin des Tuileries, its origins date back to the mid-16^th Century, at which point it served as the (private) garden for Tuileries Palace and the Dowager Queen. In later years, it switched back-and-forth between the monarchy and the public courtesy of various revolutions. Today, the palace after which the gardens take their name is gone (as is the monarchy), and its grounds are open to the public.

As one approaches the Louvre, which stands elevated along the eastern end of the space, (s)he comes to a round pool surrounded by beautiful sculptures. To the west the observer can just make out the Place de la Concorde, and to the southwest is the Musee D’Orsay (which, quite sadly, I did not make it to because the line to get in was even longer than the one at the Louvre!).

Facing east, toward the Louvre.

And so, that brings us to the close of this entry. There was still plenty more to see that Sunday, but what remains really does deserve separate entries…

 

Until next time!