Part 8 (2/2)
Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett
Started the day off wonderfully, visiting the 17th century Hotel de Sens, a scrumptious medieval architectural confection of towers and archways. Partook of the delightful hot beverage chocolat in a cafe, confirming the reputation of the French as the ultimate purveyors of extraordinary tastes.
It has come to my attention, under the psychological ministrations of Charlotte McGrath, that I have allowed the issue of details to escape my life. It has further occurred to me that my journal entries, while full of whimsical and hopeful observations, have nonetheless excluded certain details not always flattering to this author. With that in mind I am including a Personal Addendum to my journal, NOT for publication in the Mulgrew Sentinel: Experienced abnormal level of brain rot and displayed intelligence roughly equivalent to a lima bean by getting on the Wrong Train and becoming lost somewhere in the vicinity of the Arc de Triomphe. Displayed outrageous levels of dull wittedness by engaging Kindly Elderly man for directions and having absolutely no ability to communicate in French. Continued acting like an enormous addlepated dunderhead, until two Unnamed Good Samaritans personally escorted me to the Musee du Louvre, where the kindness and technological savvy of Lewis Pilsky enabled me to, forty minutes after the appointed time, rejoin my group at the fabled oil depiction of that amused n.o.blewoman known throughout the world as Mona Lisa.
Paris rocks!
Nine.
I had viewed more masterpieces than I ever thought possible in one afternoon. As I lay facedown on my bed on the deuxieme etage of the VEI, my feet throbbed and felt uncomfortably hot, like they were about to go supernova and splatter carbon and stardust up into the stratosphere.
Bonnie and Janet were napping too, but Charlotte was undefeated by our hours at the Louvre. I could hear her flipping through her guidebook, muttering occasional remarks, and scratching notes with her Bic ballpoint. I could practically hear her brain working as she figured out how many places we could visit during our free afternoon tomorrow. This might be an opportune time to show her I was as good as my word, that I was making an effort to find out seule what Paris had to offer, instead of relying on Charlotte to figure it out for me. Using the force of ten oxen, I lifted my head off the pillow and looked over at her.
”Hey, Charlotte,” I said.
She peered at me over her gla.s.ses, lips still pursed in reading-small-print mode.
”You know what I would really like to see while we're in Paris?”
”What?” Charlotte asked, one eye still on her guidebook.
”The Pere Lachaise Cemetery,” I replied.
Charlotte gaped at me. I gestured toward my pristine guidebook, which I'd unpacked and leafed through before collapsing on my bed.
Taking advantage of Charlotte's unusually speechless state, I pulled the removable metro map from my guidebook.
”It seems to me that if we get on the eleven train here, at the Hotel de Ville stop, and transfer here, at Republique, to the three line, then it's just three stops to Pere Lachaise. I know it's a little outside the city center, but I think we could make good time and have a few hours to stroll around.”
Bonnie had risen silently to a sitting position on her bed, like the Bride of Frankenstein but, well, more wholesome-looking.
”Pere Lachaise?” she asked. ”Jim Morrison is buried there! Man, I wouldn't mind visiting the Lizard King.”
I knew Jim Morrison was a legendary American rock star who'd died in Paris around thirty years ago, because my father had insisted on educating me in the ways of the fossil rock G.o.ds. The Lizard King thing was a mystery, though. Maybe he was one of Bonnie's seventeenth century relatives.
”There's someone there for everyone,” I said, sounding like an advertising jingle. ”Writers, actors, musicians. Oscar Wilde. Sarah Bernhardt. Chopin!” There WERE some advantages to reading one's guidebook. I'm sure I sounded Supremely Knowledgable.
”I know that,” Charlotte said patiently. ”I just wasn't aware that YOU knew that.”
”Well,” I said, fanning myself with the metro map, ”I thought it was time I did a little research.”
”Interesting,” said Charlotte. She arched an eyebrow. I have a theory that Charlotte practices arching her eyebrow in private, in front of the mirror, as a way to convey serious thoughtfulness. I'm totally supportive.
”I'm game,” said Bonnie. ”Maybe I'll run into some old friends.”
Yikes. I hadn't considered any possible paranormal high jinks; that might get creepy. But Charlotte looked positively enthusiastic. She obviously wanted to encourage me in my new ways.
”I think that's an excellent idea, Lily,” Charlotte said. ”There's a huge amount of history there.”
”It was founded by Napoleon!” I shouted, unable to contain the self-pride in my historical Parisian knowledge.
”I don't want to go to a cemetery,” whined Janet, who was sprawled on her bed with one arm dangling over the side. ”I want to see the Eiffel Tower! I want to take a cruise on the river Seine! I want to climb the Arc de Triomphe!”
c.r.a.pstick. The girls all had to stay together, which meant we had to agree unanimously where to go.
”We're supposed to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner the night before we go home,” I told her. I proudly waved the copy of the trip schedule I had borrowed from Bonnie. ”So you'll see it then. It's better at night anyway, according to my guidebook.”
”What about the Seine? What about all the little shops on the rue de Rivoli where I can buy French objets? What about the men in berets and les chic Parisiennes? I mean, actual REAL chic Parisiennes.”
”Listen,” I said, plopping down on Janet's bed next to her. ”I bet we could talk Madame Chavotte into showing us the Seine and the rue de Rivoli tonight after dinner. But tomorrow is our last Free Time. Madame Chavotte would definitely never take us to Pere Lachaise. So let's go there ourselves and witness a place that's really vital to the history of Paris, that's like, three-dimensional history because all these famous French figures are right there beneath us!”
Janet still looked unconvinced. It was time to play the trump card.
”You know, Edith Piaf is buried there,” I said.
Janet sat up with a start.
Jackpot!
To the non-Francophile (read: normal person) the name Edith Piaf probably means nothing. However, I had found a little section on Piaf in my guidebook. To the Franco-obsessed, Edith Piaf was recognized as the greatest popular singer of modern French times. I had learned that she was tiny and sang with a tragically tight vibrato. And she was now dead, obviously. But there were droves who wors.h.i.+ped her like the Sloane Rangers wors.h.i.+ped Lindy. Dear Readers, what could be more a more suitable homage to French culture than shedding a few tears over the grave of Piaf?
”I'll even take your picture by her memorial, as a keep-sake,” I said. ”You'll kick yourself later if you miss the chance. I think it could be very important to you, Jah-nay.”
I know, I know. It must have seemed like I was bribing her by p.r.o.nouncing her name in Franglais, and in part I was. But I had also realized that though I thought it stupid, and superficial, and embarra.s.singly obvious, this girl wanted to be called Jah-nay. Who was I to judge?
”Well...” Janet began tentatively.
”Yes!” cried Bonnie, perched regally on her bed. ”I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING!”
I looked at Charlotte in alarm. Bonnie might be having some kind of serious and traumatic spontaneous past-life regression. But Charlotte's expression was nothing but happy.
”Well done, Lily,” said Charlotte. ”Welcome to Paris.”
When it came down to it, I surprised myself and everyone else by suggesting we ask the boys if they wanted to join us. I had no personal interest in watching Chaz and Bud toss a football between headstones, but I did feel it would make a big difference to Lewis if we asked him to come along. As for the Mysterious Tim, since he had miraculously ”recovered” from his stomak big, it might do him some good to see people having a good time around him and with him, even though they didn't know the ident.i.ty of his older sister. He would see I was as good as my word.
There was a little grumbling, particularly from Janet, who somehow felt the presence of American boys at any Parisian landmark was unattractive and counterproductive and would detract from her experience. Bonnie, as always, was up for anything. So the invitation was extended and accepted, and after spending a morning with Madame Chavotte touring the modern gla.s.s cake of the Bastille Opera House, and lunching on peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches at the VEI, we were ready for an adventure.
I am pleased and proud to report that the metro directions I had put together were accurate (though I'm certain Charlotte checked them over and discreetly supervised our every step). We came out of the metro onto a quiet, wide street with cobblestone sidewalks and smaller versions of the rounded beige buildings I'd gotten used to in Paris. We walked through the open gateway and it felt like we'd stepped into Wonderland.
”Man, it's like the inner city of the departed,” said Bonnie. ”Get a load of that energy s.h.i.+ft.”
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