Paris

FRANCE
February 17, 2009
A Masterpiece of Flesh and Blood
Travel Writing
Article 2

There is a certain kind of solace in solitary activity. Groups of people can be boisterous and indecisive. Many times a cup of coffee doesn’t taste as bold or a book isn’t as profound when they are experienced in the midst of a sea of faces and tangle of spoken words.

I experienced two hours alone in Paris this weekend, and although they had a hint of disappointment and a handful of anxiety, they were the two best hours of my trip.

On the last day before I left, I had many last-minute sites to see. I planned to visit Versailles, Place de la Bastille, the Orsay Museum and Notre Dame Cathedral. The most important site to me was the Orsay Museum, which boasts a substantial collection of Impressionist paintings by Monet, Degas, Renoir and many others.

Because our trip to Versailles and Bastille took longer than my group expected, they decided to skip the Orsay Museum to make room for our other excursions. Unable to give up the hour I had planned to pour over the wide brush strokes and passionate compositions of the Impressionist painters, I decided to break away from my group and take the metro to the Orsay Museum myself. After our group decided to meet at 6:30 p.m. in front of Notre Dame, we parted ways in the Bastille metro station. I felt confident and independent walking through the underground. I took the RER to the Musée d’Orsay stop and swiftly exited the train, the wind in the tunnel tugging playfully at my coattail as I walked.

I emerged from the metro station into the fading light of sunset and rushed to the nearby entrance of the museum, noticing the closed ticket counters and empty lines. Was I too late? Had the museum already closed? I checked my phone and it was 5:10 p.m. The museum closed at 6 p.m.

Once I reached the doors, my fears were confirmed. A tall dark-skinned man in a stiff, black suit stood at the entrance turning people away with an impassive look on his face. In my desperation, I tried to argue with him, but the language barrier worked heavily against my favor. I was not going to get into the museum.

Turning to walk towards the Seine River, tears of frustration and disappointment came to eyes. My solitary excursion was worthless. I would not see the Impressionist paintings.

Without even noticing where I was walking, I strolled across the Seine on a pedestrian bridge into the Garden of the Tuileries. I stopped at the very edge as the last rays of sunshine spread out behind Luxor’s obelisk at the west end of the garden.

Even in the winter cold, people filled the garden. Some of the visitors were obviously tourists with cameras around their necks and maps in their hands. The locals sat on chairs among the soft white statues that peppered the garden paths, or walked hand in hand.
I suddenly felt at peace. I was in Paris, the city of love, and there was a wealth of beauty around me. Beauty that did not need to hang in marble-walled museums behind glass cases, or be encased in paint and subjected to a fixed form.

The beauty around me was wild and fluid – living. It was the beauty of a child braking free of her father’s hand and running to the edge of a fountain, pushing dark ringlets out her fascinated eyes as she watched a spigot of water. It was the beauty of two women sitting quietly beneath a mythological statue, seemingly transformed into nymphs by the magic of the garden. It was the beauty of a youthful couple wearing black jeans and rollerblades, stopping by a stretch of green grass to sprawl out on their backs and look up at the sky.

I turned away from the garden knowing I had witnessed a masterpiece of art. I switched on my iPod and put my headphones in, shutting out the sound of evening traffic as I walked parallel to the Seine to Notre Dame. I approached its doors after the sun went down and the lights of the city were reflecting in the river. As I walked through the stone archway, I heard organ music. It was Sunday mass at Notre Dame. The air of the cathedral was thick with the smoke of numerous white candles and the cinnamon scent of incense. I stood amidst a sea of faces and a tangle of spoken words and yet I was solitary – an observer. As worshippers shuffled and stared, sang and recited, I watched another masterpiece of flesh and blood: a work of art.