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.
Décalage horaire has always been one of my favorite French phrases; it means “jet lag,” but it seems to communicate something more. Horaire communicates the time element, but décalage means “gap” or “discrepancy.” A more literal translation might be “time discrepancy.”
This hidden sentiment within the French phrase seems to reveal the fact that there are more than just differences in time zones that change as we travel around the world. The fundamental way that we view time and its passage differ from one place to another.
Although I’ve long ago adjusted to the jet lag I at first suffered from upon returning home – waking up at the obscene hour of 6 a.m. each morning was irritating for this night owl – I still seem to suffer from this “time discrepancy.” I’m back in the U.S., but I am judging the world around me by the French paradigm that I came to understand and appreciate.
I am sure Columbus is a lovely city, but it just doesn’t stack up to my Parisian ideals. Likewise, I am having trouble adjusting to my 40-hour work week. One of the things that I loved about Paris was how secondary work seemed to be to them. Some may call the French lazy, but this indifference to their jobs showed how much they truly valued the important things in life. They worked, but they always found time to spend a leisurely afternoon at a café or stroll through the park. I have yet to master the art of striking that balance.
Friday I ventured again outside the périphérique with my friend Rachel to see the beautiful house and garden of Claude Monet in the charming Normand town of Giverny. This post is mostly an excuse to show off some stunning photographs, which still do not at all capture the vibrancy of the real thing, but I will try to recount my lovely day in words as well.
After just a 45 minute train ride, we were transported into the quaint and spirited region of Normandy. A pleasant (although hot under the beating sun) five-kilometer walk brought us into the delightfully pretty town of Giverny, home to Claude Monet from 1883 to his death in 1926. The tiny village swarmed with tourists, and we had to wait nearly two hours to enter the Fondation Claude Monet, the artist’s former home and gardens. The wait, however, was well worth it, and pleasant company helped to pass the time.
Once inside the gardens, we were overwhelmed by the colors and smells of rows and rows of beautiful and diverse blossoms. The flowers were each so stunning and lively; the colors were so vivid and striking. As the sun continued to beat down, we took shelter in the Japanese garden portion of the grounds. Bamboo shaded pacific paths besides trickling streams. Tranquility reigned in this iconic garden where Monet’s water lilies were found.
The colors of Monet’s house, especially the dining room and kitchen, were almost as vibrant as the gardens, although the crowd in the house made it a bit difficult to take it all in peacefully. Throwing a final envious look over the full and flowering garden, we stopped by the bookshop for some postcards and headed out.
We visited Monet’s grave in a calm, little cemetery. Then we found a pleasant little field in which to enjoy our picnic before embarking on the heat- and sun-filled walk back to the train station and our ultimate ride back home to Paris.
In all, it was a lovely day and an unforgettable sight and experience. What a wonderful start to my amazing last weekend here in Paris.
I had my end-of-the-year language evaluation yesterday, and I have to say that I think it confirmed what I've been feeling. Sure, I made a number of fautes [mistakes], but I could feel the change in my tone of voice, my gestures and my rhythm. I felt completely comfortable speaking French.
And that's how I've come to feel about my year here. It's only just recently that I've become fully comfortable with my surroundings: Paris, France, French, etc. This makes it all the more unfortunate that I have to leave so soon. I am increasingly jealous of my friends who are staying for the summer or even for just a month - anything to extend the experience and delay the inevitable.
But one day, we'll come back. It will never be the same...we'll never have the same liberty, the same naivete, the freetime, but we'll find a way. Several months ago, I would have said that my abroad experience had satisified my desire to explore Paris; I probably would even have said that I didn't feel a strong urge to come back in the future. But, oh so suddenly, something has changed. Perhaps it's the inevitablity of my return, but I am now hoping and dreaming that I can find someway to live in Paris again, no matter how briefly.
Yes, I’ve been claiming I could all along, but it was a mere mirage au début.
I wish I could remember the exact moment. I would love to recall how it happened. I don’t really know how to explain it. Something has changed in me and I don’t know what it is.
France, tu m’as changée, tu m'as touchée …mais je ne peux pas l’expliquer ni en anglais ni en français. France, you’ve changed me, you’ve moved me …but I can’t explain it neither in English, nor in French.
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons
