April in Paris: Tuesday

Tuesday, April 5th

The Joys of Traveling with Friends

• Breakfast in the hostel, croissants and baguette, and lots of tea. We then hopped into the metro and emerged from the dusk of the interior by the banks of the river, blinking in the bright light. Waltzed and sashayed along the walkway by the banks, imagining the Amelie soundtrack playing, and reached the Musée d'Orsay around 11, and admired the massive clock faces and turn-of-the-century decoration. The museum was once a train station, built upon the ruins of of a palace, but was self-consciously constructed (circa 1900) so as not to clash with the grand Palais d'Honeur or the Louvre just across the Seine. It must have been the most beautiful terminus, ever. As a museum, it is still incredibly lovely, with the high, spacious center gallery that must once have been filled with the smoke and groaning of its locomotive inhabitants; now instead of tracks and ties there was a pristine marble floor, and the walls are lined with sculptures and paintings instead of newspaper stands and impatiently waiting travelers; the massive clock faces still remain, however. It was gorgeous. We waited in the expected, through not unmanageable line, and somehow, miraculously, got in for free. God bless EU student cards. The things are amazing. This meant that we a) missed a second 45-minute-wait line, and also did not have to pay the £10 ticket price. Renoir, Monet, Manet, Whistler, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Degas, Bouguereau, and so many more. It was overwhelming, but in a wonderful way.
• Divine pastries. Flan and apple tart, pulled apart with sticky fingers on a street-side bench, eaten hurriedly and greedily, crumbs flying.
• The Jefferson girls' school - Amy got all excited, and told us Paulie Jefferson's life story. 
• Schwarma and falafel sandwiches in the Latin Quarter, followed by gelato, because, you know, why not. 
• Met Katherine's friend, tried to go to the Pere Lachaise cemetery, but it was closing - crashed back at the hostel instead, then walked around after dark, saw the whirling scarlet arms of the Moulin Rouge windmill, glowing in the gloom, (resisted bursting into song, but only barely) and climbed Montmartre to stare at the lightwashed Sacre Coeur. Still gorgeous, and better to view in the company of two or three other people, I discovered. Late night dinner - French onion soup with a slice of cheese-coated baguette floating in the salty broth, and roast chicken served by a silly boy with dreadlocks and a cute grin, who didn't even tease us about our lack of French.