Updates

First off, after a few weeks of nail-biting and self-doubt, I'd like to declare that we finally have our Indian visas! Woo-hoo!

I haven't managed to write that in here because I'm very bad with time management these days. Haven't even finished writing about the trip in Provence. With one month left before we go, there are a couple of property issues we have to settle before flying off to Whoknowswhere.

To explain, we've been a little worried because the process for Indian visas is a bit strange. The embassy doesn't accept applications, a third party British company takes care of that. They have an online system that I heard has made the process a lot faster compared to a few years ago, when people could wait half a day in queue before the visa officers give them the time of day.

So we did this online thing, filled-in the form electronically, printed everything out nice and orderly-like so when we go to the visa office all we have to do is pay. When you get there you also have to get your picture taken, special Indian Visa style that only they can make, so you can't do it on the cheap by taking a picture of yourself and cropping it at home. So we did that, pasted it on the forms as prescribed, everything neat and orderly-like. And in fifteen minutes from coming in, we were called to the counter and we showed my form first and the woman tells me I can't get the number of months I'm asking for and I can't go back and forth from Nepal to India because I'm a journalist, plus that means I have to sign some special forms saying I can't be writing while I'm in India as a tourist. Whutda?

Well, we reason that I'm not a journalist, I'm a writer, that's different. I'm a writer of the mundane. And she said India does not make a distinction, and those are the rules. The company says all writers are journalists and therefore cannot stay longer than 3 months and have to sign a journalist's waiver. What have you got against writers?! But, ok, it's their country and I'm just asking to be let in. So, to get it over with, we decided to say I'm a housewife. H photocopied the form stuck to the wall, we paid for that too, no free forms here. I filled up the new form, H was again his stressed-out self, and I submitted my hand-written form, H surrendered his internet application. The new guy at the counter asked H why his was computer-generated and mine was not, but we paid for the visa applications anyway and then we went home. But on the way home, doubt was gnawing on H because they might trace my application and find out I wrote "writer" and that mightn't help my case and we might have just thrown away our money if my application is not approved for suspected fraud. Oh lord.

But thank heavens they were happier to let me in than to nitpick. I paid a little extra too, because I have a Philippine passport. They were supposed to call us when our passports are ready for pickup, but they didn't. We found out online. Blessings of the internet age. After a week and 3 days, I got my passport back in time to go to the Philippine Embassy to get something processed. That day was action-packed too.

I wanted the be at the embassy in the afternoon so I made some adobo flakes that take a long time to prepare - but maaaaan, it was good. I don't know why I never thought of making it in the first place. I know it has to do with the dry adobo disaster I served to H's friends who came for dinner two Saturdays ago. My failure inspired me, so to speak.

Anyway, so I'd planned to go to the Musee d'Art Moderne after filing the paper I needed processed at the embassy, because they are on the same Metro line. I scurried around the house thinking of the things I needed: camera, map, guidebook, passport, re-printing the papers that need signing because I realized the bottom was cropped wrong when I printed two nights before (we were watching Breaking Bad so, no attention to detail at all)... plus I had to remember to photocopy the last page of my passport for the embassy requirement, and drop off two letters for H at the mailbox.

Of course, knowing me, I would forget something as important as getting the photocopies done before I get on the Metro. Well, when I got to the embassy it was 15 minutes before closing time and I had to rush out and find a photocopier because, of course, our embassy doesn't have a photocopier. So I get to La Poste, a guy with dreads is there, he keeps pushing the button and nothing comes out. Now I'm worried that the machine is broken. So this happens for about five - eight minutes until he decides to ask for help, and he tells me to go ahead and try. I try it, it works. Turns out, he thought the copies were ten cents, but it was plainly written on the machine that it's 20 cents. Go figure. But I still thank him for letting me go ahead. I get back to the embassy on time, I get it done, POW, it's closing time. I always make it by closing time.

After that, I went for a walk along the Seine at Ave. New York, in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the long way to Palais de Tokyo, home of the Musee d'Art Moderne, where I took a time out from my suddenly hectic life. After we got back from the trip, I thought we could relax in Paris; but I was running all around, seeing friends, partying, cooking, writing, seeing other friends, doing errands, dancing, seeing to the needs of drunk strangers in our house. You know, Saturday night.

When I got home, H hadn't moved from the couch. He was playing the new Assasin's Creed and finishing the adobo flakes. Smh.

I wanted to write about the museum trip too but I only got 4 hours of sleep last night, working on something computer-y that's also annoying me, because I just found out there's something wrong with my Adobe InDesign. Well, to reset it, even online, I have to have the installation CD apparently, the installation CD that's IN THE PHILIPPINES, dammit! That's why I'm trying to repair it online, stupid Adobe-eating numbskulls! Whooo. Breathe in. Breathe out. So I try to download a trial version on H's PC, it takes 5 hours, by the time it finishes, a day of free trial is gone. Yay. So I have to work fast. I can't sleep. Coffee, coffee, coffee. I know what I'm doing is worth all the headache anyway. I hope I could tell you what it is now. But it's awesome. It's gonna be awesome.

I pray for the end of technical glitches NOW NA!

C'est Chaud

Somewhere behind La Louvre, there's a bar, a quiet place, so inconspicuous that very few people know about it and there's not a long line of people trying to get in. Well, under this bar there is a cave, and in this cave there was a DJ playing ragga vinyls and a handful of people dancing in what is probably the last hot day of summer. And depending on how the unexpected events of the evening were put to an end (because we left at half past 1 am), they would either be back dancing in the basement, or throwing fisticuffs above ground.

The handful of people who were invited to the underground bash mostly knew each other, except for me. I only met this group of people tonight; while H met F, the guy who organized the party, a few years ago at a charity event. It was a night of good vibes and songs of freedom. I tried to speak a little bit of French, but most of them were too drunk to understand my accent. I talked mostly with the Chinese guy who's into heavy metal and moved to Paris solely because he followed the French heavy metal band he loved from youth, sans contacts, speaking 6 months worth of French lessons. Well, now he's their official photographer and he's been living in Paris for 8 years. Respect, mon pote (my friend).

But MAN, was it hot! "Il fait chaud!" (Literally, "it makes hot," because "c'est chaud" means "that's tough.") It was so hot that we went back up a couple of times for fresh air or a glass of beer. Sometimes H and I would be left downstairs with the DJ and it would feel like a private party for two.

My aging knees gave out at around 1am, and I told H I was having a bit of a tummy ache because of, oh I don't know, maybe the falafel from the Latin Quarter? So even though he wanted to dance some more he said he would go and get our stuff and we'll say goodbye to everyone. I waited outside, watching an unintentional parade of fashion-forward 1st Arrondissement types. But when time came to say au revoir, we noticed our peeps had retreated to the far end of the street. And the partygoers were acting weird, talking in clusters and avoiding H's questions about where we could find F. (Except for the Chinese guy, he was still in the mood to talk about heavy metal.)

Eventually we found out F allegedly did something that made him a pariah all of a sudden. And no one was in the mood to go back to the basement, in fact one of the party-goers wanted to beat F's head in. So, H said we were actually leaving at the right time... except, as we were about to go on the scooter, H finally spotted F at the fountain, staring at the horizon. I asked H if he wanted to talk to F, he said, "Yeah, but what about your tummy? It's hurting, diba?" And I told him if his friend needed him, he better spend a few minutes at least to see if he is ok.

So we went to console F at the fountain, and, you know the word "crestfallen"? I'd only realized what it looked like then. He said his friendship with the others was over now, and it was too bad because he organized the party for the birthday of his accuser.

When we left him, F was making his way back into the bar. The others were just outside, huddled together in front of a perfume shop. Meanwhile underground, still spinning records, was the DJ -- playing music for a nonexistent crowd, unaware of what had transpired, and clueless about what to do with the surprise birthday cake that was brought in at the most inopportune moment.

We rode into the night, the sweat making our shirts stick to our backs. It was a hot evening, but that's not why c'est chaud.

Au Père

One of the strange touristic highlights of Paris is its cemeteries, the most famous and the largest of which is the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise... but it's not just for the morbidly inclined.

Perhaps it's the peaceful atmosphere, but when the weather is nice some Parisians come here for a stroll or spend a whole afternoon reading on one of its park benches.

It was a pleasantly balmy spring day when I finally convinced H to come with me to the cemetery. A gentle breeze made the leaves quiver in the trees and my goth self shiver with excitement.

 
Anyone can come inside and detailed maps are downloadable from the web. We got one at the entrance (because I forgot mine at home!) for about 2 euros. It's highly advised that you either have a good sense of direction or a map because the place is HUGE (43 hectares to be exact), and you can lose time just trying to figure out where you are.

It is so wide and so old that there are sections where you can forget you are in Paris.

  

In fact, if you're not paying attention, you could become lost. It's one of those places I could see myself spending hours just exploring, going up and down hills, reading epitaphs and staring at the lovely monuments to the dead.

Going up.

Going down...

Going up.

Going down.

Going nowhere.

The cemetery boasts of beautiful architecture from bourgeois families trying to outdo each other since the early 1800s, when Napoleon-I turned the former Jesuit hospice into a cemetery (then called the Cimetière de l'Est).

Bourgeois fer realsies.

Chilling effigies of Grief.

But the biggest attraction are the famous artists, celebrities and political figures buried here.

The most crowded areas were the tombs of La Môme...

And the larger-than-life frontman of The Doors.

(Whose death anniversary was, incidentally, just this week.)

In fact, some come to Paris just to pay him homage. To control the crowd, metal fences were installed... not that they help much. Some fans took to vandalizing the tree just across his tomb to scribble messages of undying love.

But there is no bigger monument of worship here as the sculpture of Sir Jacob Epstein for the final resting place of author, iconoclast, outcast Oscar Wilde...

The sphinx used to have a penis, but someone took it.

Whose tomb is covered in kisses.

From a new generation of outcasts from around the world.

Which is perhaps fitting for the man who wrote the verses:

And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

The crematorium.

But more than a place of pilgrimage for fans of the long departed, it is a place that affords one the opportunity to reflect on life.

To see the forest for the trees.

And think about who you want beside you until the very end.

"You and Me"

I Like Big Buttes

H and I carefully planned our movie schedule for Fête du Cinema so we could see as many as we liked while having time within the week to see his grandparents (since it was the only time we could borrow his brother's car).

We saw four movies on the first day: Limitless, Midnight in Paris (the opening sequence of which prompted H to cry at the screen defensively, "It doesn't rain that much here!"), The Hangover (Very Bad Trip) 2, and the true to life French legal drama Omar m'a Tuer. The next day was a marathon for the boys: X-Men, Blitz, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Kung Fu Panda. Then we got back from Normandy just in time for the opening day of Transformers.

On the last day we had our choice of art films but they were dramas that could be seen at home so we decided to see just Malick's The Tree of Life at the only cinema still playing it: the Mk2 in Hautefeuille. It was scheduled for ten in the evening and we had a lot of time in the day to faire promenade.

The Temple of Sybil (styled after the temple in Tivoli) surrounded by a lake.

Nestled high above the 19th arrondissement is this man-made collection of hills and cliffs: the Parc des Buttes Chaumont.

A butte is a steep place with a flat top, just like the hill of the Sacre Coeur... which, incidentally, can be clearly made out from the Temple of Sybil.

Photo by H. Panakaw lang :D

It is popular with Parisians, painters, and newlyweds who cross the street from city hall to just have a nice photo-op in this oasis.

H's friend joined us when he learned we were going to be in his neighborhood.
Behind them is the district's city hall.

H said this place used to be just a mound of untillable red earth, a place where criminals were executed. Later, parts of it were bombed and excavated to form the park's distinct topography.

A welcome respite from the urban sprawl just opposite.

Two bridges allow entry into the island within the lake. An ersatz waterfall flows through one side to fill it with water.

The lush herbage is a great spot for picnics, an after-lunch catnap, or a quick roll in the grass.

 ... Much to Pan's delight.

We stayed there for a few hours while the sun played hide-and-seek.

After that we headed to Koe E Noor, a little hole in the wall near the Quai de la Loire that serves amazing Indian food.

A couple of apprehensive Californians went inside to look at the menu and H convinced them to stay because we went all the way from the 13th just for the excellent grub. They did stay and thanked us for the tip. When the restaurant owner heard about what H did, he gave us a free bottle of wine.

I got greedy with the lime pickle.

Then we scooted off to Hautefeuille in the trendy Saint-Germain district just in time for sunset, and the movie.

The last slivers of golden sunlight.

Viaduct Tales

It feels like summer again and we've been hitting the parks to get the most out of this wonderful weather. Paris has parks and gardens in every street, and one of my favorites was this -

A secret garden hiding in plain sight...

Ensconced over the heads of motorists, pedestrians, and unsuspecting tourists...

Perched as high as the egg-shaped armadillo roofs of Paris' iconic "batiments hausmannien."

The Promenade Plantée, which I translate to mean "plant-y walk," is the world's first elevated park according to Aviewoncities.com. The arcades below were turned into shops and galleries.

This abandoned viaduct used to be an eyesore, but see what some thoughtful landscaping can do.

It starts from the Opera Bastille and the trail goes all the way through to the Forest of Vincennes. We drive by here a lot when we visit friends in the 12th district.

The weather was awesome and we had just enough time to go to our favorite chinese restaurant in the 13th and scour the Surcouf below the promenade for an elusive gadget case. H gave me a little lecture on the unsuitableness of short dresses on scooters but all was soon forgiven, and everything was working out great.

It was shaping up to be a typical romantic day in Paris.

But it all ground to a halt when we heard a screetch and three loud bangs coming from below. It was an accident, H told me. I couldn't look. From the side I could see some people walking away as fast as they could, while some gravitated closer. Burnt rubber had left an inky stain on the pavement. Glass everywhere. A man had planted himself at the crossroad to direct traffic, then H noticed someone had started CPR on the pedestrian in the gutter. "That's so stupid, sooo stupid," he kept muttering. "There is water in the gutter, and it's red. They're making it worse!"

I saw a man raising his hands in the air and clasping his head as if the world had crashed around him. He was twisting away from the wreck. I saw a terrified young woman pushing a baby carriage, but all the while her head was turned towards the person in gutter. It is a sad and scary thing, but from the height where we stood I wonder now how much smaller all our troubles might seem to someone watching from much, much higher.

Perhaps like H and I, every one in this tableau had been looking up at the blue sky just seconds before, thinking how wonderful the day was and how it can't get any better.

We left at ten before five in the afternoon, according to the sundial, and spent the rest of our time with Mia who lived a corner away from the promenade.

It was one of those moments that made you think about how you want to spend all the remaining sunny afternoons of your life.