>photo blog #3
>christine’s mediterranean extravaganza: the third stop, august 11-16, 2005
the fountain in place st.michel, flowing boisterously on the side of a café
cupping le palais de justice
quand t’on traverse pont neuf, nous sommes capturé par l’horizon.
in place de la concorde, i held a sunbeam between my nails.
impatient cars honked wildly behind me as i stood in the centre of chaotic champs elysée traffic to snap this photo. and of course, i “triumphed.”
the sun shimmers off la seine like a starburst.
on la rive gauche, i found a pub called the great canadian. they didn’t serve molson or labatts, but they did have a huge statue of a mountie in the corner . . . cough.
i think this arch was erected to commemorate something jeanne d’arc did . . . i just liked its lavishness.
i told quasimodo to get the hell outta my way.
to quell political tensions after la révolution, france stole this ancient egyptian obelisk and placed it in hotbed place de la concorde. that was 250 years ago. give the damn thing back to egypt already.
when you look through l’arc de triomphe, down champs elysée, and past place de la concorde, you see the things the camera lense overlooks.
doesn’t it look like a huge finger is about to tip over la tour eiffel?
when hitler marched through paris with his army, he wanted to visit the top of la tour eiffel, but the lift had “mysteriously” broken. so the collossal prick had to climb, step by step, all the way to the top. after he left, the repairman “miraculously” pinpointed the problem with the lift, and fixed it with a simple screwdriver.
i think this shot gives you a better idea of its glorious massiveness.
i had to elbow a roomfull of japanese tourists out of my way to stand face to face with mona lisa. while they snapped at me to take my photo and move on, i stubbornly stood there motionless for 10 minutes . . . and let the magnitude and mythology of this piece infect me.
point zero des routes de france, which is situated right in front of notre dame, is the point from which all distances from paris are measured. this is one of my favourite photos.
i rode a batobus along la seine, and listened to the sounds of the ancient waters. moments after this was snapped, that fricken flag lapped water right up in my face . . . message received.
i sat on the steps of la seine for a long time, wondering what notre dame’s decaying gargoyles would tell me if they could whisper.
in the middle of a pedestrian market in village st. paul, i thought i might indulge in some douchebag-ery (take note of the woman over my shoulder laughing at me).
you haven’t experience paris unless you’ve sat on the patio of a café, quietly ordered un chocolat chaud et un croque monsieur, and written fiendishly in your journal like bo-ho beatnik.
jeremie was a rollerblader who did tricks for the tourists outside la notre dame. he performed a trick with me in his arms. i kissed him. he autographed my shoulder. i ran my fingers through his mullet. he took off his shirt.
ain’t i a stinker?
jeremie’s rollerblading partner marc took wendy and i out for drinks in st. germain dés près. although his smile is gargantuan, marc’s actually not a “hom.” although she looks like a docile american, wendy’s actually quite raging. even though i’m devilishly grinning, i’m actually an angel.
my last day in paris, i found molière’s place of death. the greatest misanthropic, satirical playwright of the neoclassical era . . . being a theatre snob, i almost hyperventilated. that was a great morning.
(the sign translates to, “i want us to be sincere, and as a man of honnor, that we never utter one word that doesn’t come from the heart.” – molière)