Left Minneapolis ::: Sept 4
Madrid ::: Sept 5-6
(travel day ::: Sept 7)
Barcelona ::: Sept 8-10
(travel ::: night train)
Paris ::: Sept 11-14
(travel day ::: Sept 15)
Brugge ::: Sept 16-17
(travel day ::: Sept 18)
Amsterdam ::: Sept 19-24
(various day trips with Amsterdam as homebase)
(travel day ::: Sept 25)
Hamburg ::: Sept 26-30
(travel day ::: Oct 1)
Berlin ::: Oct 2-3
(travel day ::: Oct 4)
Prague ::: Oct 5-?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Patrick Swayze and the Train to Brugge
This sort of news probably doesn't reach Paris, which makes it good that I have internet and the kind of friends who find this relevant. Patrick Swayze passed away.
I had some time to kill on the trains from Paris to Brugge, so I listened to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack (which just so happens to be on my iPod), in remembrance of my first celebrity crush, Patrick Swayze. The man I was supposed to marry when I grew up.
It occurred to me that the answer to everything I ought to be looking for in a man has been right in front of me all these years, sitting on my DVD shelf.
Compiled below is a list of qualities that potential suitors from this day going forward must possess. These are the standards by which I fell in love when I was 5 years old. Why I ever deviated I will never know.
1. Is a misunderstood bad boy with a heart of gold, that everyone comes to respect.
2. Looks that good in a t-shirt and jeans (I may, however, disqualify potential candidates for wearing black jeans with a black t-shirt).
3. Is willing to put himself out there musically or otherwise, no matter how cheesy the result (ref: She's Like the Wind).
4. Dances dirty.
5. Would never let a good friend down, and will come to the rescue when he/she is in trouble.
6. Will take responsibility even if he is not to blame, and is willing to stand up for other people no matter what it costs him.
7. Possesses professional dancing abilities and has endless patience to teach me, no matter how many times I step on his feet or try to break his back.
8. Has superior balance and coordination, allowing him to dance on a log suspended over a ravine.
9. Would never bother with AAA or a locksmith. He is resourceful.
10. Would sneak a peek if I were changing in the back of his car.
11. Hangs out in a bungalow (I will accept apartment or house, as well), shirtless, and listening to vinyl.
12. Will punch Robbie or other miscellaneous men in the face for daring to suggest I am easy and have no standards.
13. Is the kind of man that every girl wants, but will give all the hoes the cold shoulder when he finds the one he loves (me).
14. Isn't above crawling on the ground, groveling, and playing air guitar to Mickey & Sylvia's Love Is Strange.
15. Ultimately will not back down when the boss asks him to perform the pachanga (or other such ludicrous ideas).
16. Will remind me to think positively if I ever say, "You can't win no matter what you do," or other such defeatist statements.
17. Drives fast on dirt roads.
18. Will not put Baby (yours truly) in the corner.
19. Must be able to lift me over his head, while I'm in a perfectly horizontal flying superman position, ala the final dance sequence in Dirty Dancing.
[EDIT] 20. Does not have spaghetti arms.
I feel like this is not too much to ask. If you, or anyone you know, meet all or most of these conditions, please apply. Thank you.
Lucky strike extra: Will haunt me from the grave, learn to move objects with his spiritual energy, possess an irritable black woman's body who is posing as a psychic, convince her to find me so that he can profess his undying love and say one last goodbye, while simultaneously uncovering the plot that led to his murder and is about to threaten my own life, and thwart my would-be assailant. Steamy love scene involving clay, potter's wheel and the Righteous Brothers is entirely optional.
Paris ::: Day 4 ::: Montmarte, Pigalle (the Sex District) and the Eiffel Tower
On my last full day in Paris, I had a few more things that were on my must-see list before I go. I tried unsuccessfully to get another night in my hotel, but alas, not possible, which means it's probably time to go anyway.
Taking the subway to Montmarte drops me off at Pigalle, the middle of the sex district, which according to my geography is at the very bottom of the hill that is Montmarte. The Moulin Rouge can be found here.
Heading up the hill, and many flights of stairs tucked in alleyways, I make it to the top of Montmarte to find... tourists. Montmarte is known for being a neighborhood where many famous artists kept their studios. Many of the same artists whose work I loved seeing at the Musee d'Orsay. A centralized area at the top of the hill capitalizes on this with many artists selling their work, reproductions of many French posters for sale in gift shops, and the occasional street musician and living statue (not nearly as well done as the ones in Barcelona).
The Sacre Coeur cathedral also sits at the very top of this hill, which has a lovely view of the entire city, except, sadly, the Eiffel Tower cannot be seen.
I wandered around this area, did some shopping. I picked up several French posters to add to my collection back home and I purchased a more expensive scarf, so that I could feel even more Parisian.
Leaving the touristy area, I wandered around Montmarte, which seems very quaint and residential. I wished I could live here.
Some signs pointed the way to the Montmarte Cemetary, and so I thought why not, I'll have a look. I loved seeing the cats sunning themselves on the crypts.
My plan for the evening involved taking the subway back to the Champs-Elysees to pick up some of Paris's most famous cookie, the colorful macaroons at Laduree. I waited in line with many other people who had the same agenda.
I took my Vanilla, Butter Chocolate, Coconut, Pistachio, Lemon and Raspberry treasures to the Eiffel Tower. I found a spot on the grass and intermittently, ate the cookies, read a book and contemplated the Eiffel Tower.
I was hoping to see the light show, but as it were, I had time to get just one photo of the tower as they turned on the floodlights before it began to downpour. Everyone scattered, including me, to the nearest subway. No sparkly light show for me this time.
I got on the subway train, and saw the Eiffel Tower one last time before the train disappeared into the tunnel.
The silly image of Paris I had was one of accordion players on every street corner wearing berrets and playing La Vie En Rose constantly. I didn't hear it once. The closest I came to that reality was hearing the man in the apartment directly across from my hotel window practice his accordion on his open balcony. Maybe I should have called out a request.
So I put Louis Armstrong's version of the song on my iPod, while I rode the subway back to the Bastille, and was sad at the thought of leaving tomorrow.
Taking the subway to Montmarte drops me off at Pigalle, the middle of the sex district, which according to my geography is at the very bottom of the hill that is Montmarte. The Moulin Rouge can be found here.
Heading up the hill, and many flights of stairs tucked in alleyways, I make it to the top of Montmarte to find... tourists. Montmarte is known for being a neighborhood where many famous artists kept their studios. Many of the same artists whose work I loved seeing at the Musee d'Orsay. A centralized area at the top of the hill capitalizes on this with many artists selling their work, reproductions of many French posters for sale in gift shops, and the occasional street musician and living statue (not nearly as well done as the ones in Barcelona).
The Sacre Coeur cathedral also sits at the very top of this hill, which has a lovely view of the entire city, except, sadly, the Eiffel Tower cannot be seen.
I wandered around this area, did some shopping. I picked up several French posters to add to my collection back home and I purchased a more expensive scarf, so that I could feel even more Parisian.
Leaving the touristy area, I wandered around Montmarte, which seems very quaint and residential. I wished I could live here.
Some signs pointed the way to the Montmarte Cemetary, and so I thought why not, I'll have a look. I loved seeing the cats sunning themselves on the crypts.
My plan for the evening involved taking the subway back to the Champs-Elysees to pick up some of Paris's most famous cookie, the colorful macaroons at Laduree. I waited in line with many other people who had the same agenda.
I took my Vanilla, Butter Chocolate, Coconut, Pistachio, Lemon and Raspberry treasures to the Eiffel Tower. I found a spot on the grass and intermittently, ate the cookies, read a book and contemplated the Eiffel Tower.
I was hoping to see the light show, but as it were, I had time to get just one photo of the tower as they turned on the floodlights before it began to downpour. Everyone scattered, including me, to the nearest subway. No sparkly light show for me this time.
I got on the subway train, and saw the Eiffel Tower one last time before the train disappeared into the tunnel.
The silly image of Paris I had was one of accordion players on every street corner wearing berrets and playing La Vie En Rose constantly. I didn't hear it once. The closest I came to that reality was hearing the man in the apartment directly across from my hotel window practice his accordion on his open balcony. Maybe I should have called out a request.
So I put Louis Armstrong's version of the song on my iPod, while I rode the subway back to the Bastille, and was sad at the thought of leaving tomorrow.
This is the hotel where I stayed. The quiet bar next door, Cafe du Passage, is where I spent most nights. I had a total crush on the server, but was too chicken to strike up a conversation. :(
I also ate a few meals here, at the Le Bastille. Right out front was the entrance to the subway, which made for some good people watching.
Paris Metro
I love the subway in Paris. It's fast and easy. Easier than walking. The other day I couldn't figure out from which direction to leave the Bastille. I wandered around the monument, checking my map every couple of paces and trying to match a street name with one that led to the Louvre.
After being distracted by an outdoor market for a good 30 minutes (where I purchased a cheap scarf, so I could feel more Parisian), I gave up the thought of walking and hopped down into the subway. Instead of having 8 or more roads from which to choose above ground, there are only 3 lines, each with 2 directions below ground. Simple.
Not only that, but I could ride the subway all day, just listening to the woman's recorded voice call out the stops. Saint-Paul. Hotel de Ville. Chatelet. Louvre-Rivoli. I repeat them over and over in my head, trying to memorize the pronunciation.
Champs-Elysees was a tough one. I've spent my entire time in Paris practicing shahn-zay-lee-zay in my head every time I see it written.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Paris ::: Day 3 ::: Louvre and Musee d'Orsay
Yesterday I had breakfast/lunch at the Le Bastille where I contemplated the golden ass-end of the figure on the Colonne de Juillet soaring high above the center. My first day here, this is how I knew when I was on the correct side of the Place de la Bastille (when I saw the butt).
I ordered something delicious. Little pillows of pasta with a chive sauce, I believe. It was rich and lovely, and the grated parmesan was tasty, in that perfectly stinky way.
The waiter would say "Ok, thank you" after putting down each item on my table. Water carafe would go down. "Ok, thank you." Parmesan bowl. "Ok, thank you." Silverware and napkin. "Ok, thank you." My espresso would arrive. "Ok, thank you." I wasn't sure if he was making fun of me or Americans in general. Or maybe he just liked to say "Ok, thank you."
After tracking him down for my tab, he asked my name. Megan must not translate in French very well because what he ended up repeating sounded a lot like Maggot.
One thing I'm having real trouble with in Europe is getting the check at the end of the meal. My plate gets whisked away, and my beverage sits empty, and yet no check arrives. I wait and wait, until I can't take it any longer and my hands go flying in the air, trying to get a the waiter's attention.
After breakfast, I headed back to the Louvre. It occurred to me after I had already been to the Louvre that my favorite work of art, which I've only ever seen a small-scale model of at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, may in fact exist somewhere in Europe. And my internet search said that, in fact, it is in the Louvre's collection.
I discovered Pajou's Psyche Abandoned in high school, while ditching class or skipping lunch to wander around the MIA -- I'm not sure which, but at least I was doing something worthwhile, right? The agony in her face and pose seemed so powerful. I had never been moved by a piece of art before.
As a side-note, this sparked my interest in the story of Psyche and Cupid, which is well documented in classical art. One of my favorite school projects was compiling this story, as told through paintings and sculptures. The Louvre has many of those pieces and it was very fun to see them in real life.
So I went back to the Louvre to see the actual Psyche Abandoned. Luckily my pass is good through December, and my internet research told me exactly where to find her. So I was quite efficient in tracking her down once I got there.
I admired her for some time. The closest I will ever come to revering something I think was at that moment. I was in awe.
I took my photos to remember the moment, and then headed out to the Musee d'Orsay, which I had been looking forward to.
The difference between the Louvre and Musee d'Orsay is like the difference between black & white and color television. The paintings at the Louvre, in my limited eye for art, all seem to have the same general color palette, subject matter and technique. The collection at Orsay, to me, is like seeing works of art from the most visionary of artists. People who broke the mold and tried something new. At least in my humble opinion.
Going to these museums has been both fun and frustrating. I cannot understand why so many people go to a museum only to take a photo of the artwork in front of them. Here they are, experiencing this painting or sculpture or whatever in REAL life. And yet they insist on seeing it through a camera LCD screen.
Not that I should concern myself with whatever floats anyone else's boat... but what about getting up close, seeing the three dimensional nature of the surface of a painting. There is incredible detail in how the paint was applied to the canvas, if one looks. Or seeing the true color, not some computer or ink-on-paper interpretation of it.
These are well documented works of art. If a memory of it is needed, pick up the postcard in the gift shop. It's not like it will be any better represented by the amateur photographer with the shaky hand and crooked framing.
When I go to a museum, I generally have a strict policy of no camera. Only does it come out if I want to remember to find out more about it later. But that's a 2-second snapshot.
I say that if you're not viewing art with your eyes, there is no point in being in a museum (and in my viewing angle, which I guess is the crux of the matter).
That said, Musee d'Orsay was incredible, and I picked up a dozen postcards in the gift shop to remember my favorite pieces. Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, Monet, Manet, Cross and Klimt astound me... Surprisingly Van Gogh and Picasso, not so much.
And the cut-away model and paper dioramas of the Paris Opera are sweet.
For the last part of the day, I decided to pass under the Eiffel Tower. It's been a cold and gray day, so I decided to come back on my last night in Paris to see it lit up.
I ordered something delicious. Little pillows of pasta with a chive sauce, I believe. It was rich and lovely, and the grated parmesan was tasty, in that perfectly stinky way.
The waiter would say "Ok, thank you" after putting down each item on my table. Water carafe would go down. "Ok, thank you." Parmesan bowl. "Ok, thank you." Silverware and napkin. "Ok, thank you." My espresso would arrive. "Ok, thank you." I wasn't sure if he was making fun of me or Americans in general. Or maybe he just liked to say "Ok, thank you."
After tracking him down for my tab, he asked my name. Megan must not translate in French very well because what he ended up repeating sounded a lot like Maggot.
One thing I'm having real trouble with in Europe is getting the check at the end of the meal. My plate gets whisked away, and my beverage sits empty, and yet no check arrives. I wait and wait, until I can't take it any longer and my hands go flying in the air, trying to get a the waiter's attention.
After breakfast, I headed back to the Louvre. It occurred to me after I had already been to the Louvre that my favorite work of art, which I've only ever seen a small-scale model of at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, may in fact exist somewhere in Europe. And my internet search said that, in fact, it is in the Louvre's collection.
I discovered Pajou's Psyche Abandoned in high school, while ditching class or skipping lunch to wander around the MIA -- I'm not sure which, but at least I was doing something worthwhile, right? The agony in her face and pose seemed so powerful. I had never been moved by a piece of art before.
As a side-note, this sparked my interest in the story of Psyche and Cupid, which is well documented in classical art. One of my favorite school projects was compiling this story, as told through paintings and sculptures. The Louvre has many of those pieces and it was very fun to see them in real life.
So I went back to the Louvre to see the actual Psyche Abandoned. Luckily my pass is good through December, and my internet research told me exactly where to find her. So I was quite efficient in tracking her down once I got there.
I admired her for some time. The closest I will ever come to revering something I think was at that moment. I was in awe.
I took my photos to remember the moment, and then headed out to the Musee d'Orsay, which I had been looking forward to.
The difference between the Louvre and Musee d'Orsay is like the difference between black & white and color television. The paintings at the Louvre, in my limited eye for art, all seem to have the same general color palette, subject matter and technique. The collection at Orsay, to me, is like seeing works of art from the most visionary of artists. People who broke the mold and tried something new. At least in my humble opinion.
Going to these museums has been both fun and frustrating. I cannot understand why so many people go to a museum only to take a photo of the artwork in front of them. Here they are, experiencing this painting or sculpture or whatever in REAL life. And yet they insist on seeing it through a camera LCD screen.
Not that I should concern myself with whatever floats anyone else's boat... but what about getting up close, seeing the three dimensional nature of the surface of a painting. There is incredible detail in how the paint was applied to the canvas, if one looks. Or seeing the true color, not some computer or ink-on-paper interpretation of it.
These are well documented works of art. If a memory of it is needed, pick up the postcard in the gift shop. It's not like it will be any better represented by the amateur photographer with the shaky hand and crooked framing.
When I go to a museum, I generally have a strict policy of no camera. Only does it come out if I want to remember to find out more about it later. But that's a 2-second snapshot.
I say that if you're not viewing art with your eyes, there is no point in being in a museum (and in my viewing angle, which I guess is the crux of the matter).
That said, Musee d'Orsay was incredible, and I picked up a dozen postcards in the gift shop to remember my favorite pieces. Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas, Monet, Manet, Cross and Klimt astound me... Surprisingly Van Gogh and Picasso, not so much.
And the cut-away model and paper dioramas of the Paris Opera are sweet.
For the last part of the day, I decided to pass under the Eiffel Tower. It's been a cold and gray day, so I decided to come back on my last night in Paris to see it lit up.
Breaking my rule about cameras because she doesn't have a postcard in the gift shop. I checked.
Positioned directly across from Cupid. How cruel is that. Actually, Psyche Abandoned was commissioned to be a complementary piece to this work by another artist of Cupid fashioning his bow.
Musee d'Orsay was a former train station. Love the space and all the light.
And there it is. THERE it is. The Eiffel Tower.
The Seine. It's kinda stinky, like the Mississippi River. Reminds me of home.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Cafe Rey-Bastille
This cafe makes me like Paris. At first I wasn't so sure about this city. A lot of the cafes seemed intimidating, like I would be breaking dress code wearing sneakers, and insulting everyone with my Americanness and zero grasp of the French language. This place seemed eclectic and lighthearted.
It's on a bright, sunny corner by the Bastille. In the morning, one woman runs the place. She shouts out "Bonjour" to everyone who enters. And there is one man making crepes at the corner of the building for the cafe and for people on the street.
Like many cafes, the patio seats are arranged facing out towards the street, so that the cars and pedestrians are the players and the street is the stage.
It's on a bright, sunny corner by the Bastille. In the morning, one woman runs the place. She shouts out "Bonjour" to everyone who enters. And there is one man making crepes at the corner of the building for the cafe and for people on the street.
Like many cafes, the patio seats are arranged facing out towards the street, so that the cars and pedestrians are the players and the street is the stage.
Paris ::: Day 2 ::: Louvre and Champs-Elysees
Spent my second day wandering around the Louvre. Saw the Mona Lisa. Check that one off the list. And since I was right there, I walked up the Champs-Elysees to see the Arc de Triomphe and get a pizza and French beer at Vesuvios.
Look at all those silly tourists trying to get a photo of the Mona Lisa from a mile away...
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