Le Pont des Arts

Originally build in the early 19th century at which time it was the first metal bridge in Paris, the Pont des Arts’ smooth, sparse arches span the Seine from the Louvre to an important looking building that will never be l’hotel de la Monnaie [the mint] no matter how many times I claim it is.

Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The subject of a George Brassens song, Le Vent, the Pont des Arts is classic, timeless, Parisian.

But at night, the bridge comes alive in a less savory way. Teenagers and college students of all nationalities flock its uncomfortable wooden slats for nighttime debauchery. Although it is mostly a popular spot for lycéens [high-school students] and lacks the authenticity of the Canal St. Martin and the class of the quays of the Seine, the crowded and tawdry bridge can still be a lot of fun.

I first visited the Pont des Arts under unusual and random circumstances back in November. You’ll remember the Chinese photography student named Marshall – with his too-skinny legs in his too-skinny jeans and his broken glasses taped together, seemingly par hazard but probably done just so to concoct and idealized artsy imagine – with whom Hannah had, bien sûr, made friends at the European Film Festival. When the last film of the night had been cancelled, Rebecca and I (somewhat reluctantly) and Hannah (inherently less so) took up Marshall’s offer of free entertainment for the evening. We ended up on the Pont des Arts drinking mini Kronenbourg bottles that Marshall had provided while he captured video for some sort of photography-related art project. It was an altogether bizarre but enjoyable evening that introduced us to the Pont des Arts camaraderie (I distinctly remember the blonde-haired, pink-cheeked French youth innocently offering up his white Dixie cup as he requested a bit of beer).

It seems only appropriate that my second and final encounter with Pont-des-Arts nightlife arrived on my final Saturday night in Paris. The experience occurred equally by hazard. I had spent an absolutely wonderful Saturday with friends. The day began at the Champs-Elysees stamp market (featured in Charade) where Rachel and I spent altogether too much money on old postcards. After lunch at Rachel’s place, as rain began to fall, the skies cleared and we met up with Rebecca and Amy for a lazy afternoon at a Marais café. Berthillon ice cream and a stroll along the quays of the Ile-St-Louis concluded the evening. We headed back to Rebecca’s place where she cooked us a lovely Frenchified American dinner. Stuffed and satisfied, we decided to venture back outside for a nocturnal stroll.

That is when, on a whim, we stopped chez Ed, the local épicier [grocer] – this time, we had to supply our own Kronenbourg – deciding to do the trashy American thing and join the crowds on the Pont des Arts. Rachel objected of course, but there was no stopping us. Why not enjoy such a warm summer’s eve among the drunken masses? The girl who puked mere feet before our original resting place on the bridge provided an adequate counterpoint, but we settled in elsewhere and managed to have a good night (plus, what Parisian night is not complete without a little public vomiting?).

With laptops, boom boxes, guitars and other instruments filling the air with the sounds of summer, we settled in to listen and observe. I particularly enjoyed a raucous version of the Cranberry’s “Zombie” and the mother who had brought her young daughter out to dance with the drunken guitarists. We applauded the cunning of Red Cross volunteers who swarmed the bridge looking for donations. We debated once again the function of that domed building that was not la Monnaie. We guessed and remarked upon who was American and who was not picking up multitude accents and languages. And I simply felt a part of something, there on the packed wooden slats.

There among something so un-American, so seemingly clandestine, four quiet, unassuming American girls sat, watched and listened, taking in for one of the last times (at least for me) the carefree breeziness of a Parisian night.

Amsterdam sans souci

With the songs of the same name by Guster and Peter Bjorn & John ringing in my ears, Ben and I set off for Amsterdam ridiculously early on the day after my last class before break.

The train plowed through Belgium quicker than the Germans (too soon? I don’t think so) and made stops at all of the Netherlands’ major cities – which are surprisingly close together even for the tiny speck of a country that is Holland – before finding its terminus and our destination at Amsterdam’s Central Station.

Once we had located our adorable, canal-side hotel, one member of our party took an epic nap while the other explored the nearby Museum Quarter and the adorable Prince William Canal, noting interesting restaurants and attractions along the way. For dinner, we tried out the nearby Pancake Corner where I ate a “pizza pancake,” and Ben tapped his England nostalgia for some fish and chips.

We ended our night at the Van Gogh Museum which is open in nocturne Friday nights, complete with DJ. The atmosphere was fun, and the art was great. The large collection of Van Goghs was laid out chronologically, and detailed texts – always translated in perfect English – gave context and insight into Van Gogh’s troubled psyche.

The next day was full of walking – a common theme of our vacation(s) – and colonialism. We walked “Farther Afield” as our guidebook put it to the Tropenmuseum. Formerly a testament to the colonial glory of the Netherlands (yes, the tiny country was a colonial power, controlling the massive Indonesia for hundreds of years), the “Tropical Museum” now hopes to offer ethnographic “stories” from across the world. It was a bit like the Musée Quai Branly but much more anthropological. And although the cartoon Indian with an accent fit for Apu clearly crossed the line of good taste and cultural sensitivity, the museum was well-done and held the attention of two self-proclaimed po-co enthusiasts. Plus, an exhibition on the influence of Vodou in Haiti was enlightening and surprising.

After learning that the National Maritime Museum was closed for renovation – along with half of Amsterdam – we strolled about the harbor and back to the Leidseplein, the bustling plaza located near our hotel. We chose a British sports bar for dinner. This helped to cement Ben’s theory that Amsterdam is really just an extension of the UK. He says that Amsterdam was the most like Great Britain of any city he’s been to (outside of GB, of course).

The omnipresence of English and Dutch’s tonal familiarity helped to add to this Anglophonic atmosphere, but for me, the most important factor was le style de vie of the Dutch. They seemed so laid back, so breezy, so…happy. After living in Paris for four months, it was a shock to see Europeans who looked and acted carefree. They smiled and laughed as they passed, leisurely riding their bicycles. They weren’t overly concerned with their outfits, and they weren’t threatened by the English language the way the French are. They were visibly happy, something so rare chez les Français. It was a welcome break from my French surroundings.

Our third day in Amsterdam was filled with more museums. Having purchased a money-saving “museumkaart,” we had free access to all the state-run museums; tapping our frugal Dutch heritage, we profited. Although Amsterdam’s equivalent to the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum (“state museum”) was limited due to renovations, it offered a very manageable selection of the Dutch masters, including a sizeable Rembrandt collection and a number of Vermeers.

We tried to stop in at the Filmmuseum, but after a confusing exchange with the friendly cashier, eventually learned that they didn’t have an exposition showing.

The foam (fotografiemuseum Amsterdam) proved interesting, however, and we finished our night there before heading to the Pancake Bakery. Suggested by our guidebook, the intimate eatery offered over 50 varieties of traditional Dutch pancakes. Ben’s cinnamon-apple and my cheese pancakes were excellent, and the friendly service reminded me how different from Paris Amsterdam really was.

On our final day in the city, we finally embarked into the panic-attack inducing, tourist-filled areas of Amsterdam. Until this point, we’d mostly mingled amongst natives on the outskirts of town, but we decided we should see the city center before we departed. We dropped our bags off at Central Station and walked down Damrak. We found them alright; tourists swarmed the street like screaming teenagers at an ’N Sync concert circa 1999. Souvenir shops, fast food and tacky museums abounded. I found it hard to see the allure of this people-filled destination. I much preferred the quiet canals and local parks we had spent our first three days exploring. But the crowd-think mentality apparently rules among tourists. The good thing is this collective thinking makes them easy enough to avoid: simply hop on a side street or take the next road over and life will be nearly tourist-free.

After fighting off the crowds, we saw an intriguing contemporary art exhibit in the “New Church” – another Pont Neuf situation considering the church dates from the 15th century. Since Amsterdam’s contemporary art museum was closed for renovations – shocker – select pieces were on display within the church. The theme of spirituality united the exhibit, making the randomness of contemporary art more palatable. As always with the Dutch, the text accompanying the art was extensive and informative, this time presented in a take-home booklet.

We spent the afternoon in the amusing Amsterdam Historical Museum and passed by the “Old Church,” a 13th-century wonder located squarely in the Red Light District, just before closing.

We caught our bus to Prague later that night without a hitch.

We’d seen so much in Amsterdam that it felt like time to move on, but I was still sad to leave that laid-back Amsterdam style and those glorious canals behind.