Ah. The much anticipated Bastille Day.

I’ve been in Paris on one another occasion on their National Independence Day. Study abroad, and if I’m being honest {which I am}, that was a little bit longer ago than I like to admit.

I have great memories of my Bastille Day. Well. Kind of.

Mostly, I was drunk and you know when you’re in the midst of those drinking days, everything seems like it was so awesome. And I’m sure most of it was, but also, I was drunk. Who knows? It, as well as I, could have been royally stupid.

The other thing you need to know about Bastille Day : it’s the day my Pop decided to check out of Earth and go hang with his peeps and my gma on the other side of this physical plane.

I always liked the fact that he picked Bastille Day to depart. That way, each year, there’s a celebration happening. Happening in France, but hey, it counts. It’s a damn National Holiday. No one can say shit about that.

So my Bastille Day. I had grand plans and visions. To wake up at an unnamed ungodly hour of the morning, which totally didn’t happen. Why is it that late night ideas always sound so damn good late at night? But then it’s another thing when the alarm goes off.

I’m sorry, but this Taurus, is not up for sacrificing her sleep. There’s a reason they call it beauty sleep — I need it. After hitting snooze for an hour, I finally got up, got coffee going and am starting to kick myself for choosing sleep over Bastille, when I hear all this commotion outside.

The Universe was on my side, and brought the parade and those fancy looking Gendarmes right to my door step. Or window step.

It was perfect — the entire French Army marched right by me. And I didn’t even have to leave the comfort of my chair. Nor my coffee cup. Now that’s my idea of a parade.

Talk about entertaining. I mean, just check out these outfits. The white gloves! The scarves! The chefs hats! The tassles {tassles?!}! The sashes!

I just couldn’t take it, or them seriously. All that was missing were some ribbons and bows. The machine guns would briefly put me in check, and then all I’d have to do is see another one of those chef hats {and they do look just like chefs hats!} come by, and I was done. Could not stop laughing.

Come to think of it … I wonder if they went into battle with scarves on? If I were on enemy lines, that would definitely distract me. Could be a good side tactic. Catch them unawares. The white gloves would totally seal the deal on that one.

 

Post parade, I was ready to put some of my earlier “grander” plans into action. Some of the big museums were open gratuit today. A word that should translate universally : free. Amen for national holiday’s.

I dig free. Free anything. But when it comes to museums being free. Hold onto your seats. See. I grew  up thinking all museums were free. That’s what happens when you grow up in the D.C. area.

National Zoo. National Museum of Art. National Museum of Natural History. And so forth. It wasn’t until I was well into my 20’s, that I found out that museums cost money.

Just goes to show you when you grow up with something, how it becomes the norm, the standard.

Anyway, free museums speak my art language. I wasn’t going to pass up such a good deal like that. Off I went on le métro.

I got off at Concorde, only to realize the station was closed, due to security reasons. It was running stops for connections, but that’s it. So I waited for the next car and got off at Madeleine. Where I was greeted by swarms, throngs and more swarms of people.

I pretended that I was super famous, like Brangelina. That they were all there for me. About one minute of playing pretend was enough crowd craziness for me — sorry, Brangelina, but it’s not really my thing. I’ll leave you and the paps to it. Though a couple photogs every now and then … I could deal. You know, selective recognition. That hopefully leads to {more} free goods.

Almost all the main streets leading down to the Concorde area were still blocked off from the parade. I tried to ditch the crowds and stick to smaller side streets. Worked like a charm. I even found myself sitting in a church. Don’t ask which one, because I can’t remember. I just knew I had to go in as I was walking by. How can you not go in churches you pass by in Paris?! Right.

Once I hit up with Rue de Rivoli, I was able to cross over to the Les Tuleries. This leads to the Louvre, the ferris wheel … basically it’s an area anyone would recognize in a picture – no pre Paris visits required.

See. This is where I was:

I decided I better get something to eat before hitting up the Louvre, and ate a ham and cheese baguette in les Tuleries. With the most perfectly lovely view of the above.

But, who was I kidding about the Louvre? What delusional mindset was I under? When I got over there and saw that line, you couldn’t have paid me to wait in it. Well, you probably could have. If the price was right. But, no one was there to offer me a thousand Euros, so to hell with that.

I walked over to the other side of the Palais Royale, which really is still part of the Louvre. Okay, so technically they created a whole other museum – Le Musée des Arts Décoratifs, but it’s part of the Palais and does connect to the Louvre.

It was totally the opposite over there – no line, barely any people. Hell yes I will gladly give you 9€ for that.

The entrance for this museum is where the second lamp post is — the one closest to the Palais. If you can even make that out in this picture.

I had no idea what the f a museum of “decorative arts” was prior to this visit. And I still don’t really know, since it was a total mélange of everything. I do mean all types of genres.

From jewels to clothes to Medieval tapestries, to cartoon drawings and Louis the V or VIII or was it XVIIII to the third power’s desk chair — there it was. So when you find yourself going to a decorative arts museum, all I can tell you is, they’ll have all kinds of random stuff thrown in there and then call it an exhibit.

I started off with Louis Vuitton. Which was rather interesting. The whole history of LV, beginning with his first steamer trunk. With a dash of history of French clothes mixed into it, which was also intriguing.

Really, I loved seeing the outfits. I wonder how I would have done wearing a corset? I’m sure on the one hand, I would have loved anything that made me look thinner, even back then, but on the other, I probably could barely breathe. So that would have meant I couldn’t have eaten all those great croissants. Now, that’s just no fun.

The further in you got into LV, the edgier it became, i.e. : present day. The following speaks for themselves.

 

 

I call dibs on the goat. And one of those knight helmet things.

Next up was a quick run through some Middle Ages and Renaissance rooms. I move quick in museums. I have no business being one of those people who stops and looks at every single thing foreeeever. We all know one of those. I can’t do it.

It’s like me with shopping. I love it and I’m quick. No hours on end in stores. I know what I want. I can take it all in quickly, and I will only spend time on what interests me.

In terms of the Renaissance objects d’art, this armoire spoke to me. Literally. For me to take his handsome, devlish self home.

How thoughtful of the Musée des Arts Décoratifs! How did they know I have been on the hunt for an armoire just like this one.

You know, something à la 13th century. From Saint Ouen. Yes, I think this will do just nicely.

After whispering sweet nothings, and promising to ship him home, I hit up Babar. Yep, as in the elephant cartoon.

I freaking adored Babar when I was little! Maman got me hooked on it. It started with a book, and that’s all it took. She gladly supplied my Babar addiction with more books and shows. Even then we were all about le français. Us being in Paris, it was just meant to happen. How else could it be?

And how else could I continue going on post Babar in that place? That’s a damn hard thing to beat, so I figured I better leave on a high note, and started trucking over to Les Invalides : note: free. I was determined to get something free.

I had the most beautiful walk … I took to the river, walking along, staring at the D’Orsay across the Seine. Stopping to feel the wind blowing my hair and the sun warming my skin. The sun. There’s something I haven’t seen much of.

It’s been unseasonably cool and rainy here the past week. In fact, it poured twice just from me getting off the metro at Madeleine to making it out of the Decorative Arts museum.

Now when I walk Paris, I prefer not to consult maps. I have a general and very solid idea of where everything is, and I typically glance at a map before heading off anywhere. Once I’m on my way, I like finding my destination on my own. It forces me to take different routes, leading me to new sights and experiences.

However.

I ain’t no dummy. And I ain’t going to waste time. So when I found myself on an unknown street in the 7th arrondissement, that had twisted and curved more often than I would have liked, I busted out my Paris By Arrondissement booklet. Which just freaking rocks. It’s the best map ever ever. Every single street is in that sucker.

I quickly glanced, and was on my way. Only to meet further twisting and curving. Just as I was feeling a little uneasy and thought about consulting the map, I found myself staring at a church.

Enter heart palpitations and shortness of breath.

Basilique Saint Clothilde.

I opened the door to this place, after a prolonged and necessary gawking on my part, and could hardly believe it. I was alone.

Alone!

How was no else in there?! How did I get so damn lucky to have the entire Cathédrale to myself. I had to tell myself to breathe, to try to stay calm, I was so beside myself.

The history, the gorgeousness, the stain glass windows. The pure beauty.

I sat there for … for who knows how long. I didn’t want to leave. I thought it might feel freaky in there, being alone. It didn’t.

Nor did I even think once that someone could come in and murder me or try to sell me for sex trafficking. And that’s impressive, because I’m always thinking about twisted scenarios like that happening when I’m alone in places.

I found myself praying. I think I’ve done more praying in the past two weeks than I have in the past two years. It’s something about centuries old cathedrals that will do that to you.

I can’t help but feel … loved. Enveloped by an utter sense of peace and security in these churches. Perhaps that’s what draws me in. Why I feel so pulled to go in them all the time. That love.

It’s a communion I feel too, with something greater than myself. I will call that God — which includes My People. In fact, I feel so close and so holy and whole when I’m there. I am completely present.

It’s just beautiful.

So beautiful and so holy that I even had to bless myself off with some holy water. I know I’m not catholic, but come on, it’s holy water. How can holy water discriminate?

Les Invalides only turned out to be about six minutes from this church. While it wasn’t as mobby as the Louvre, it was ridiculously packed. I spent a total of four minutes in there.

I walked in. Saw the great ceiling and architecture and saw all the Napoleon’s buried there. Cause, yeah, of course, there can’t just be the one Napoleon {which would be Bonaparte}, there has to be like seven.

Forget it.

And seriously, who can stay all that long in there anyway? There’s just not much to see. How can there be when it’s just a a big tomb to look at?

The rest of my Bastille Day will have to be discussed in another post.

Two words: Bateaux Mouche.

And a few more words … I thought it was going to be tacky. Really, a bateaux mouche ride for Bastille? It was divine. In fact, I might take that back about the Brangelina thing, because I could get used to high rolling on some boats a little more frequently.

With some photogs. Can’t forget the photogs.