The Power of the Sun

The sun is obviously a rather influential force in the world. Sometimes, with all the praise it receives, you'd just swear the world revolves around it or something. As a kid it was lost on me why Captain Planet required the sun for rejuvenation (as does Superman I believe... Captain Planet, in retrospect you are such a poser!). My European travels have cured me of this misunderstanding, however, and I now understand what sort of power the sun can exert on us, even individually.

It happened specifically in Paris. I spent three full days there. The first day was generally overcast, featuring the types of clouds that sometimes let enough light through to compel the wearing of sunglasses, yet not enough to generate any warmth. In other words, they were not rainclouds, but they were nonetheless unenjoyable. I spent this day visiting and then wandering down the river, starting at Notre Dame and ending at the Eiffel Tower. I only went in/up at the Pantheon, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower, satisfying myself for the time being with the outdoor areas of locations such as the Louvre. I did not climb at Notre Dame because the length of the line was borderline absurd. The second day it rained, which sucked to be frank. It wasn't really raining when I set off in the morning, so I went to Notre Dame, hoping to climb the bell tower as soon as it opened. I got there fifteen minutes early and still wound up waiting about an hour. It was well worth it though, because the view from the top was very nice, featuring the infamous gargoyles I had hardly been able to notice when looking from the ground. The problem, of course, was that the rainy, overcast weather limited visibility, as evidenced by this ghostly picture of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. To some extent it added to the atmosphere of Notre Dame.

The spectre of the looming Eiffel Tower

Num-Nums! (My favorite gargoyle)

While the weather may have helped spookify the gargoyles of Notre Dame, it also crappified the city of Paris. I took shelter by visiting the Louvre, as did the rest of the tourist population, as evidenced by the crowds. Perhaps the Louvre would have been cooler and more amazing if it wasn't at the tail end of a three-week European journey. By this point I had seen so many depictions of Jesus, and so many ancient ruins, that I couldn't stomach much more. Maybe if I knew even the slightest about art I could have appreciated the artwork for its skill... but I don't know anything about art. I wandered about a bit to warm up, saw some Egyptian stuff, some Greek stuff, some Medieval European stuff, and of course the Mona Lisa (200 people packed in a room in front of a 2' x 2' painting of a rather plain looking woman... a bit of a let down. Again, maybe if I knew about art...), and then took off into the cold drizzle.

At this point I was feeling a little weary from a combination of the weather and the general experience of the packed Louvre (I'm not big on crowds). I looked at the list of things to do I had compiled, trying to decide where to head next. In such a mood the choice seemed obvious. I hopped on the Metro, bound for the Pere Lechaise Cemetary. All I knew about it was that it was home to Jim Morrison, of The Doors. I wanted a picture of that for my friend Brandon. Good reason to visit a place, huh? Of course that is the joy of traveling alone: you can visit places for no reason other than that you want to do something stupid, and nobody will argue that it is more worthwhile to go see the Arc de Triomphe.

Jim Morrison is indeed dead and tucked away in Paris

The cemetary is home to many more than Jim Morrison, of course. Oscar Wilde is also lying mildly peacefully within the fenced in walls of Pere Lechaise. I say mildly peacefully because his grave is absolutely covered with lipstick marks (and a bit of friendly grafitti) from admirers. Ya got me as to why people are so anxious to kiss a dead guy, but whatever. There are also memorials to all the various concentration camps of WWII. One interesting grave I stumbled upon was that of Abelard and Heloise. They are an infamous medieval couple (Abelard was a philosopher), whose love letters to one another help define the romance of their time period. I learned about them during one of my classes at Royal Holloway, so I found it a bit ironic that I stumbled upon their grave, which was enormous. To be honest, I walked past it about three times, thinking "boy, that's a big grave," without stopping. Then I saw on an information sign that Abelard and Heloise were in the cemetary and set out to find them, only to discover their grave was the big thing I kept walking past.

Oscar Wilde is a player, even in death

Pere Lechaise was like a city built for the dead

That was my last stop for the day. I simply couldn't bear any more being out in the rain. Plus, I'd done my fair share of walking. That night featured a lonely meal, and lonely "chocolat noir" crepe, with the loneliness accentuated by the drizzle and clouds. The next day didn't begin too much better. There was no rain, but the perma-clouds persisted, and I chose to begin with the catacombes. While waiting in line to enter a bird crapped on my head, of course, presumably knowing that I was an English speaker. The catacombes are a depressing, though interesting, sight for their scale and the anonymity of death that is implied in seeing so many carefully arranged bones deep beneath a city. Needless to say, the last day of my trip was off to a particularly cheery start.

Not how I hope to spend eternity, all broken apart and
stacked with countless others

As the went on, things got generally brighter though. It never rained, and though the clouds were not leaving, they seemed to lighten. I wound up at the Picasso museum, whose work to me, the untrained eye, seems a bit less heavy than what I had seen during the rest of my travels. From there it was on to the Sacre Coeur. Again, having seen so many I was weary of churches and didn't spend much time exploring the structure itself. Outside, however, were some really fun to watch street entertainers. I can feel eyes rolling (Mom), but they're part of the experience too. Plus, you should have seen the break dancers. Finally I took off for what would be my final new sight: the Arc de Triomphe. Somewhere along the way the clouds finally, after three days, broke, and the sun emerged. This of course made the Arc de Triomphe, a big thingy that is eerily similar to the Arch of Constantine in Rome, in the middle of a giant traffic circle, much more interesting. I was even able to witness the changing of the flower ceremony thing for the tomb of the unknown soldier. It thought it looked like the French troops were poorly trained (they couldn't march or line up properly)... and then like they were line dancing:

Dance party!

With the sun out I wanted to run to the Eiffel Tower and get some nice pictures of it before it got dark. I had wanted to go at dark anyway to see it all lit up anyway, so I hustled to beat sunset. Turns out I didn't have to hustle at all because it stayed light until nearly 9 pm (it was about 6:30 when I set off to find it). As I walked I nearly settled my judgment of Paris: that it was a decent enough city, but generally a depressing place, what with the gargoyles and bones and traffic circles around important monuments. Then I saw the Eiffel Tower against the backdrop of a bright blue sky and late afternoon sign. I reassessed. Paris can be beautiful, or even absolutely gorgeous. I still hesitate to say that the entire city is gorgeous, but I do not hesitate to make the observation that one's perception of a city is in fact almost entirely dependent upon the weather conditions. Those last few hours in Paris were immeasurably better than the earlier three days...