The cabby and the hair

After spending much of Tuesday morning depressed in bed after being told that my hair looks like a mullet and my beard makes me look old, I finally got going and hit Musee D'Orsay. But first I needed food, so I got me a banana and chocolate crepe, just like Laurie never could used to make. Yum. And washed it down with a Coke Zero. Of course.

Anyway, the Orsay was grand. Impressionism and post-impressionism were refreshing after seeing so much ancient and classic art on this trip. Van Gogh and Monet, among others, had it going on. It's fascinating to read how some of them were received (or ignored) in their time. For instance, Rodin (I believe) had one of his sculptures roundly booed upon its public unveiling. Good taste or not, how great is it that the public cared that much?

8.1 greats, I believe.

(By the way, the ticket woman at Orsay asked how old I am ... Apparently there's a discount for 25 and under and she thought I might make the cut. Take that, hair haters!)

After the Orsay I went back to Notre Dame. Got there by 6; signs and books say it closes at 6:30. Guy at door says no. It's 5. I point out that sign says 6:30. He just shrugs his shoulders.

So I meander down toward the Latin District (there's a Dan Quayle joke here somewhere that I can't quite put together) and walk by the Pantheon (didn't I already do that in Rome?) -- which was closed, so I didn't go in. Seems to be a common theme here -- I walk by without entering.

"Paris: Come visit and walk by our stuff."

So I walked by Jardin Luxembourg and am reminded, "der, you were here before." There is an amazing large-print gallery of vivid photographs from around the world (a Russian ship stuck on ice, New Orleans, famine in Africa, underwater scenes, 9/11, etc.) outside the jardin, along with that friendly giant head you see atop this blog.

Then grabbed a bear at a cafe in the Latin Quarter and people-watched for a while (clearly I meant "beer" but that typo was too funny to fix). It's a cafe/restaurant-filled area near the Sorbonne, which I also walked by but not it. Lots of people -- good social scene. Fun area.

FUN FACT: The vast majority of Parisians smoke. But probably only about a third of them actually carry a lighter. Still, at least half dispose of their cigarettes by tossing them in the street. Keeps the street-sweeping industry booming.

Fast forward past my mad dash to find a bathroom (found a friendly McDonald's just in time) and eventually I head up to Sacre Coeur, a church at the highest point in Paris. It's night, so I'm looking for a good vista. I trudge up a long, steep staircase and do irreparable harm to my knees (didn't I already d this in Rome?) but finally make it up there. Plenty of tourists being entertained by some guy singing "Mrs. Robinson."

Church had just closed (crap) but the view of the tower is lovely. Unfortunately, must of the rest of the city is obscured by trees, a restaurant and marching German soldiers. But I see the hourly tower glitter show and get a few decent pics.

Run into a few Americans. Some of us head back down, cross the party-filled Pont du Artes, get amazing views/pics of the Seine at night and had to a bridge with an ever more spectacular view of the tower. Had the same "holy crap" feeling I did when first arriving in Venice. Took that view in for a while. Perhaps a little too long, as ...

FUN FACT: The last train leaves at 1 a.m. I got to station at about 1:01 (damn German efficiency). I find a cab driver who is happy to take my green American money (he don't take cards and I'm low on Euros) so off we go. I try to explain where I want to go.

"Pont du Neuilly (noo-ee)."

"Porte Maillot?"

"No, it's past that. Neuilly."

"What? What is address?"

I show him the address on the pocket PC. He tries to put it in his GPS but clearly is struggling. So we drive a bit.

"This is Porte Maillot."

"OK, it's farther -- Pont du Neuilly."

"You know where it is?"

"I can get there from train station."

"What train?"

"Pont du Neuilly."

"OH... Pont du Neuilly (noo-eeeeeeeeee)."

Apparently my slight mispronunciation caused all sorts of problems (didn't this already happen in Rome?).

"It's off Rue de Chateau."

"Your French is very good! I don't speak good English."

"You are doing OK. ... It's the third right. Un, deux, trois."

"HAHA - very good, very good!"

Lucky it wasn't the fourth street -- in French I can only count to three.

"I know a little English ... 'hello ... How are you ... How much? ... Where are you going ... Goto hell.' Not you!"

Thanks for clarifying.

So my Lebanese cab driver named Michael -- who has a brother named Johnny -- dropped me off, happily took my U.S. Dollars and went on his way.

And I took a nap and prepared for the final full day of European craziness.