I Ate That

They only ever called it...French Pizza.

I'm sure it had a real name.  I'm sure they even told us the real name, but it was still our first day over there, and our first meal, and we were all still a bit "Blarg!  France!" to pay too much attention.  But when they called it French Pizza, we all seemed to understand.

It's not pizza, not quite.  It lacks a certain pizzaness, that distinctly pizza quality that makes a pizza so, so good.  I don't know for certain that there's a sauce between the cheese and the bread, or if it was just the moisture from the cheese making the top of the crust a bit doughy, but there was an unusual, sticky texture to the thing that raised a couple of eyebrows.  The less adventurous among us took a few small bites, and discretely pushed their piece to the side.  They didn't know it, but they'd be sorry later.  

You have to understand that we were at the beginning of our European food journey.  The group we were traveling with had...well, we'll call them ideas about what American teenagers would be willing to eat.  Nearly every meal we ate was a chicken dish with some form of potato side.  Those who picked apart their quiche dinner that first night in Paris were crying for a little variety after the first seven days of chicken and potato.  Verdun?  De poulet et pommes de terre.  Vienna?  Huhn und Kartoffeln.  Monticatini?  Pollo e patate.  We were elated during our Austrian home stays.  Could hardly spell 'wienerschnitzle,' but I couldn't wait to eat it.  Ashley's joy at getting a little bowl of pasta in Venice was quickly over taken by near tears when it was followed by yet another plate of chicken and potatoes.  Oh, how we yearned for French Pizza then.

So I ate it.  It wasn't bad.  Cheesey, bready, a touch of hammy and just a little chewy, but not bad.  Not the best pizza I've ever eaten, but then, still not actually a pizza.

Oh, French Pizza.  Mystery of ages.

Chateau de Versailles

Versailles, France.  Summer 2004.

I haven't spent much time in palaces - there aren't a whole lot of them in the Midwest.  There was a girl in my second and third-grade classes whose father was a doctor, and every year she'd invite all of us to her family's estate for her birthday, or halloween, or some other occasion that called for a lot of people to be around to fill up all that space.  It was the largest house I had ever been in at age eight, and the only real reference I have when they tell us we're going to the Palace at Versailles.  

(Not a good reference, I know, but when you need a step up to reach the bathroom sink, any house with a wing is practically Cinderella's Castle.)   

I don't know much about Versailles before I get there - I know it's tied to one of the Louis', and I know that the Hall of Mirrors is supposed to be really impressive.  They set us loose with the promise to be back at the bus in three hours, and that's the place I want to get to first.  I walk in circles for ten minutes looking for the Hall of Mirrors before realizing that I'm standing in the middle of it.  They're restoring it - all the glass has been covered.

It's just massive.  I try to imagine someone living here, but it's so full of tourists and so presentational and so devoid of personality that it's hard to believe this sprawling, opulent building was ever someone's home.  Did Marie-Therese sigh with relief at the sight of it on the horizon when returning from a long stay away?  Did Louis XVI find comfort in the smell of his bed sheets after a long day of being the most important man in France?  How many members of the royal family (and the servants who tended to them) knew every inch of this building, and found every inch of it refreshingly familiar? 

 

Walking through the gardens, I can't imagine living in a place this large.  I know it's supposed to be self-contained for the royals, and I know that size is imperative when it comes to impressing foreign dignitaries.  But how easy it must be to loose yourself in all that space, how lonely to live in a place that wasn't ever really designed for you to live in, but to display the pride and riches of your country.  It's beautiful, to be sure.  But I wouldn't want to live here.

From the Inside

Yesterday's church, from the other side of the wall.

From the Outside

I no longer remember the name of this cathedral, nor the region of France that it can be found.   I only know that it's near the Swiss boarder.  If you recognize it, please inform me. 

The Tower

We can see it from the airport window, and our chaperones tell us, "We're going there first."  I'm sure they did that on purpose - take us to this thing that is so quintessentially, so iconically French right away to get it out of our system.  Wouldn't want us wandering the Louvre, or strolling through the streets of Montmarte thinking, "This is nice, but when are we going to the Eiffel Tower?"

We haven't even checked in to our hotel when we pull up next to it; our bags are still sitting in the belly of the bus.  Our guide hands us our tickets as we file off the bus, with a warning not to lose them, or we won't be able to get on the elevator that takes us to the observation deck at the top of the tower.  We all clutch our tickets tightly - we don't want to miss this.

  

It's so tall.  I've seen taller buildings, but the openness of the tower and the air around it makes it loom in the way American skyscrapers can't when they're surrounded by tall buildings.

Surrounding the base of the tower are men who Sell.  Cheap trinkets, stolen goods, and designer knock-offs, all spread out on blankets that can be gathered quickly if the police come around.  We call them Blanket Men, and we will see them everywhere.  There's equipment set up for some kind of photo shoot just beyond the line we're standing in, licensed sellers and their carts piled high with little statuettes and coffee mugs with Gustave Eiffel's face on them.  And of course, armed militia.   

  

There's a cry from the far leg of the tower, and a Blanket Man takes off running with a uniformed guard hot on his heels.  He nearly catches him - as he reaches out to grab the back of the Blanket Man's shirt, his foot slides out from under him, and he hits the gravel.  The Blanket Man jumps the fence, and the crowd goes wild. 

From the top of the tower, the city sprawls.  Rues and avenues spiderweb as far as the eye can see, and even from up here we can see that traffic is a mess (until I get to Uganda, Paris will be the most terrifying traffic experience I have ever had, even if our bus could easily crush anything in our way).

There are grey clouds on the horizon, and the wind up here cuts right through our lightweight jackets, and while we're all so excited to be here in this place seeing this city, we kind of want to get back down where it's a little warmer.  We have another three days in Paris, and the Eiffel Tower will stand strong wherever we go.

Statues - Paris

Statues and stone carvings captured in Paris.

Faces

Just a small collection of faces and heads.  These faces come from various locations in France, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, England, and Uganda.

Seen from a Riverboat

Paris, 2004. Forty-two Indiana teenagers pile on to a boat that promises to show them the underside of some of the city's thirty-seven Seine-crossing bridges. It's a first time in a foreign country for most of these kids, so even if that first rush of adrenaline at seeing the Eiffel Tower on the horizon has given away to jet-lag, and the overcast skies have made this July afternoon chilly enough for a jacket, and the ominously dark clouds hanging overhead threaten rain with every heavy gust of wind, it can't dampen the excitement that's been building since driving away from Charles De Gaulle Airport earlier that day. I can get seasick on a swing set, but my heart still beats fast in anticipation for a boat ride through Europe's most notorious city.

The guide speaks only French, but does string enough English together to tell us that the "N" on the upcoming bridge stands for Napoleon. The rest of her words rush past like river water, but I don't know that any of us would be listening to her even if she were speaking our language.  There's so much to see and we are so tired and the sights and the sounds and even the very air of this city feels unfamiliar.  I'd spent two weeks in Japan the previous summer, so I think I thought it might all have felt a bit old-hat, but when the history of a city is unfolding in front of you, you take notice, whether you understand the language or not.

Here are things we saw: