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.

Dumonsters

We went to the rooftop yesterday for aperatifs with friends but, surprise! surprise!, there were other people on our spot -- and they had a DJ! The people there were giving off a snooty vibe, and it really got on the nerves of some of our friends. (Je m'enerve!) One of them invited us over but H felt an aloofness, so I preferred to stay on the other side of the roof.

So there we were in our leather jackets and hoodies, sipping alcohol in plastic cups, looking every inch like outcasts, while on the other side the "in crowd" swigged their champagne... But once the sun set we unleashed the Party Dumonsters! H took my hand and I grabbed on to the whisky and we crashed their party.

I thought we would be home by ten pm, but we had too much fun that we had to bring the party back to H&M HQ. I don't remember what time they left, but H had a bad hangover and we struggled to get our butts out for fresh bread and fruits this morning.

Downstairs we ran into the people who threw the posh party, and they looked so well rested. But then, they're not natural party monsters. Unlike these freaks I met around France:

Nutjob

Pundit Cherry

Ms. Vuvuzela

Treebeard

Super Wan Tu Tri

Bella Pepper Flores

La Tristesse

I've always found sadness profoundly beautiful, and ironically, summer has always been a sad season for me. It makes me struggle with a bout of existentialism, which can get embarrassingly emo.

Confusion? Argument? Revelation? Moment captured at Breakfast In America...

after time spent at a limited-time-only exhibit on impressionism made us think: BURGERS.

Ever since I stared up at the ceiling during summer break between grades two and three and suddenly becoming conscious of the long road ahead, suddenly realizing my youth is fleeting, suddenly imagining the challenges that lay after, of entering a good university, finding a job, raising a family and growing old, of watching my parents whither away, and me following suit, or perhaps failing one (or all) of these steps and ending up without any clear direction, realizing time is ephemeral and chances lost are impossible to regain... ever since that summer night I've had an obsession with impermanence. There are no pills for eight year-old life crises, so my father put a Nikon SLR in my hands instead.

A kiss, a transitory display of affection, a short-lived moment, a speck in time.
Memories of it, however, are not.

We borrowed L's car at the start of this week so we can see H's relatives in the north before our so-called "big trip." It was bittersweet. Like any family, theirs had its share of misfortune and heartbreak, with some of the drama continuing up to now. But it was a chance for him to mend ties with estranged kin and say a proper farewell to those too sick to come to the Philippines, with a promise to return in perhaps a year or two. To H's shock, instead of saying "au revoir" his bedridden great uncle bid us "adieu," which is an archaic way to say your final goodbye.

The seaside cemetery at Sainte Marguerite sur Mer.

After two days of being fattened up by H's granny and her patissier husband, we went sight seeing in ancient Normandy and ended up at the door of H's friend near Deauville. The morning after, their cat proffered an unnecessary display of homage to me: a dead bird. H was doing the dishes so I took the little sparrow outside for a funeral. It was so fragile; with eyes half open and one inadequate claw bent, it looked oddly peaceful to me. So I took a picture of it. (If you are disturbed by death, the next image might shock you so look away now. But if you've helped an injured bird before then the sight should be familiar.)

Sorrow for Sparrow.

When H saw me taking pictures he asked if I was sick or something...

Sick?! Where did THAT come from?

I had to make him understand why I found it lovely. I had to explain what his wife found so moving in  snapped claws and that frail, lifeless shell that it had to be immortalized in pixels.

It is not the residual of time served in prime time TV pornography journalism, I'm not even going to hide behind the all-encompassing excuse that is art.  Call it morbid, but the thought of death makes me appreciate this brief life even more. It is the sadness, la tristesse, that makes you want to drink up every minute of happiness without wanting to waste a drop.

Without it there would be no poetry, no art, no excuse for religion. Paint would never meet canvas to immortalize the ephemeral. Earthly man will have no desire to dream or hope. Without sorrow there is no joy.

And that is just sad.