Notes from the non-shopaholic
And the shops in Lyon will blow your mind away. Or maybe they just happen to sell what I think will convert me into a shopaholic. I mentioned the little shops downtown – that’s where Mahmud, my itchyfoot robot, was born. There are toy shops that will literally make you melt at the prospect of not being able to buy everything they sell. From Guignol puppets, human-faced tin robots (the classic ones, Mahmud’s long-lost brothers), to those little wooden figures whose joints fold when you press the bottom (I don’t know what they’re called, but they’re delicious eye-candy indeed). There’s even a specialized Tin-Tin shop.
You can find Little Prince paraphernalia everywhere, as expected, because this is, of course, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s domain (the airport is named after him). And they’ve got a beautiful Little Prince musical box, coloured blue, nonetheless! Bravissimo!
Now, I didn’t think there would be better quality comics other than Sandman (Neil Gaiman is pure genius). Apparently, I was wrong. The words comic book to me is associated with matted sheets of paper and low-quality rendering, the kind that you can fold and put in your back pocket and fold into paper airplanes when you’re bored. Nothing prepared me for French comic books. They have shelves and shelves of them, everywhere, all ranging from different styles of rendering and mood and extravagance. Glossy paper! Hardbound covers! HIGH QUALITY! Each box is an artwork in itself. It’s an eye-opener to see how a word we’ve automatically linked to a visual in our pretty little heads can have an entirely different meaning in France. But then again, regarding the previous sentence, it’s the same all around the world, right?
Now, about the selection of art materials. Their art paper selection is heaven on earth. Ranging from whatever size you could want, to whatever thickness you desire, to whatever medium it can hold. Everything. Complete. I went to one art shop in Lyon and it had everything. And I’ll bet that was just a tiny art shop. Heaven on earth, I tell you. But the prices will drive you to hell.
Inversely Proportional?
People warned me I would be stunned by the costs in Europe. I’m aware of all the labor-wage-should-be-proportional-to-societal-cost-of-living ladida, but still, it’s shocking. Shocking in a rueful kind of way, making you see the gap between countries and cultures. I could jump to the topic of the peso-dollar rate skyrocketing from 2 pesos to 52 pesos in a span of 50 years (complete with my theories and speculations of the dramatic drop-rate), but that deserves a focused political essay, and I am by no means feeling political tonight.
Example: PHP150 for Coca Cola. ‘Nuff said. And if you don’t believe, I still have the receipt.
Last afternoon delights
The bus ride from Julien’s place to downtown fascinated me each time. But that last afternoon in Lyon was heart-tugging. It’s funny how you form your impressions when you least expect it. That last afternoon, right at the part of the bus ride where you’re offered a glimpse of Lyon – the pastel building facades, the Basilica, the chimneys – I found my impression : Lyon’s charms are like dimples on a cherubin’s cheek. Charming and alluring, slyly secretive. I’ve always thought dimples were marks of something special, and deeper, in a person. A little nest for kisses.
Back to Paris
And if Lyon was all that, then Paris would be bright red lips. Seductive and full. Paris once again was like a burst of light – the sights and sounds were magnified, and people were fast, modern figures moving through a centuries-old backdrop.
Paris was choking with tourists and tour buses and tour guides and tour groups. Most of the residents were on holidays, clearly marking the Tourist Invasion (out to find the perfect Kodak moment).
Now, do you really think it’s necessary to tell you about climbing the Eiffel Tower (only till the 2nd level because the lift was out of order)? Or taking the boat ride down the Seine? Or craning my neck upwards at Notre Dame? Or touching the edge of the pyramid at the Louvre? And telling you how deliciously foreign it was to the senses, how it made me feel extremely alive and detached at the same time, or how it all didn’t register in my brain till 5 minutes after?
No, I didn’t think so, too. I’m sure you get the idea.
I see dead people
A half-day in Paris was dedicated to looking for Chopin. In the heat of the afternoon we combed the excessive but beautiful gravestones in search for famous dead people (that sentence sounds horrible, forgive me). We found Chopin, Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf. The alive continue to haunt the dead.
(On a more personal note, I would like to make a personal apology to My Beloved Tristan Tzara, whose grave I thought to be in Pere Lachaise, but was in another cemetery all the while. Tristan, forgive me. But in a way I’m thankful I never saw your headstone — you remain more alive to me now than ever. See you at the Cabaret V, xoxo, Kala)
Fécamp, Normandy
2 hours away from Paris is Fécamp, where the Dukes of Normandy officially resided till the early 1200s. Now it’s a busy fishing port, home of the Benedictine Palace, famous for its distillery (a Benedictine monk during the Renaissance concocted the recipe for this famous liquer containing myrrh and juniper oil), and boasts the famous cliffs and beaches whose shores were landing points for Allied invasions during World War 2.
After the mountains and snow and all the monuments in Paris, it was refreshing to see the beach. The trip to Normandy itself was worth; picturesque, serene, almost bare. Julien and I played guessing games all the way back to Paris; at one point the train stopped in the middle of the tunnel, and I took certain pride in reverently handing our tickets to the ticketman who asked for “Les billets, s’il vous plait, mademoiselle”. Indeed, it doesn’t take much to make me happy.
Currently listening to Tom Waits’ Mule Variations, which, funnily enough, has a song titled “Filipino Box Spring Hog”. Have I mentioned Tom Waits is fantastic? Hum. More soon m’absolute dearies! *already asleep*
