A Mime, A Beret, and the Champs-Élysées

Trying to look as French as possible here.

Champs Elysees: Part One

One day when I'm traveling dishonestly, I will wake up early (or stay out all night) so that I can walk the Champs Elysees when it's empty of people. I will take the Metro there which will be the perfect apertif because even before I'm off the escalator from the Etoile stop, the top of the Arc de Triomphe will reveal itself to me and the sun will be peaking beyond it and the air will be cold and full and it will be quiet and devoid of crowds and camera flashes.

That one day was not Saturday and I am a schmuck for only visiting Paris in August because I am always bothered by the flocks that clog up the spaces. I am also a schmuck because I am part of the problem. That said, the Champs Elysees at capacity is better than most of the world empty or full.

This time I didn't bother to visit the Top of the Arc, which isn't what it's called, but since the top of Rockefeller Center is called Top of the Rock, I think the tourist offices should collaborate. Or definitely not.

My favorite part of the top of the Arc de Triomphe was seeing the symmetry of thirteen streets converging and when you look closely, every street offers a view of a pedestrian near-fatality if you give it enough time. Also, they have photo exhibitions of French leaders inside and when I was there last, someone had scratched out Jacques Chirac's face in a picture of a military procession.

The commercial strip of the Champs Elysees has the charm of a thousand tourists trying to take pictures of themselves with the Arc de Triomphe in the background in the middle of the massive street. It only works well if you have one person with you who is willing to die on account of your vanity. Thus, the only good pictures are of hot Italian girls and of course, the ones I took of myself.

Last time here, I stopped and bought a Cuban cigar and sat smoking it with a Heneiken on the street at 2 in the afternoon. I just had a 18 Euro hamburger on the Champs Elysees, which came without a bun as the French do until I complained and got a stale brioche for my troubles. I then asked for American mustard instead of dijon and the waiter shot himself on sight. Being French, he missed his own temple but slipped onto some ketchup and looked wounded enough to get six months of paid leave from the French government. Some will say it didn't happen, but La Monde reported that it was all the plot of Israelis.

So this time, I skipped the Atkins burger, still full of Croque Madame and I ambled past all the shops, including a Planet Hollywood and two McDonald's. I resisted the urge to order a 10 Euro Royal with Cheese a la Vincent Vega and then avoided an espresso I direly needed from McCafe, which is a separate coffeeshop in the front of the McDonald's on the boulevard. This stretch is the best for people watching because travelers come from all around the world to look as snotty as possible at all the outdoor cafes along the street. I walked to the Avenue de Franklin D. Roosevelt and saluted the man who freed France ('merica!), sitting down to watch children cautiously approach a mime dressed like an Egyptian mummy.

My friend Nick and I recently had a conversation about killing a mime in public and whether it would scream. What we decided was that if they mime stayed quiet as you started to stab, you must grant him his life because he is truly devoted and that is respectable enough to outweigh justifiable homicide. I will leave you with this aphorism: If a mime dies falling into the Seine, does it make a sound?

So I continued, passing the block that features FOUR different palaces, none of which I cared to photograph or the record names of, but they were pretty and I moved to the L'Obelisque at the Place de la Concorde.

From this place, you can see the Arc de Triomphe lined up at the end of the street, the Eiffel Tower in the distant skyline, and the golden obelisk flanked by horsey statues in one swooping panorama. It's really impressive for being French.

Champs Elysees: Part Deux

From here it's the Jardin Des Tuileries, which I think counts as an extension of the Champs Elysees all the way to the Louvre. I think the spot where all these points meet has to be my third favorite place in the world (the first two being Jaffa and the fire escape outside Natalie Portman's window on W. 11th St.). It's near perfect even crowded as it was. I can't articulate it. Being foolishly seduced by such things, I stayed for a half-hour and wrote a bad poem:

The Most Perfect Poem

I sat down, in a wooden green armchair,
above the Tuileries, I sat down
to write the most perfect poem; one
that would slake the thirst of the thousand
diving swallows here or even assuage the
marauding pigeons; something she would
read and see a movie build within and smile
and hunger (for popcorn) and cry
(like a baby for sleep), the kind of work
that would be dog-earred and coffee-stained
in notebooks and wallets across a population.

So I wrote it.
And you'll never see it. And you'll never know
what secrets I carry through my blood, worlds curling
like worn stamps, ones you don't already know, out of
your sight and out of your reach, locked in the safety of
my backpocket.

The gardens stretch back to the Louvre, with paths and statues and benches and trees and pools and different spaces and designs and arrangements of flowers and hedges. The northern part of the garden has a huge Ferris Wheel and a Tilt-A-Whirl (which in France is called a tit-a-pissoir) and everyone looks happy all screaming and enjoying the view and life and stuff.

In all, I spent four hours on a stretch of Paris reaching no more than two miles, if that.

By the time I finished, it was too late to visit the Louvre or the Musee D'Orsay so I bought a beret and spent 45 minutes on the Pont Neuf taking pictures of myself. Passersby (especially English people) were exceptionally amused by this as I pouted, middle fingered, scoffed, and furrowed my brow. I was going to buy props like French bread or cigarettes but I wasn't hungry for either. I actually made some friends by this and additionally, chicks TOTALLY DIGGED the beret, I got a lot of looks from French girls than I had before. I may rock this look back in the States.

Could you resist this punim?

I was tired by the end, so I went back to the hotel and rested up for the night ahead in Montmartre.