Praying to saints for all the wrong reasons

After so many years of not stepping into a church, it’s quite ironic how many I have walked through in the last few days. Nothing was quite like the Notre Dame (pictured above). In fact, I have not prayed in many years, and there was something so powerful about this cathedral that made me feel like I needed to kneel before the altar. It seemed that something so great and powerful begged for my faith, but then I remembered that it wasn’t God who was giving me this feeling, but a material object built by humans.


God never would have wanted us to expel so much into building a monument dedicated to him (though mostly it seems to be dedicated to various saints — which is even more pagan). So, I decided that if I am going to pray again someday, God would not want it to be in such a monstrous place that almost scared me into praying again because then it would not come from the heart.

These extravagant churches and cathedrals are testimony to the absurdity that has become religion, or at least, Catholicism. Jesus was against wealth and those who were wealthy. I can’t then, for all my life, understand Catholicism and how it has oppressed the poor and so many others for centuries. For example, in Paris and I know this happened in England as well, a Protestant wasn’t allowed to be treated by a doctor until they abolished their faith and converted to Catholicism. One of the museums had a list of people who refused and died from sickness because of these religious laws.

Palin and Napoleon I

In trying not to think about the tragedy that is Sarah Palin and the shootings that occurred yesterday in the states (everyone here is talking about it), I am in instead thinking about fritas (fries). Fritas here are classified as a serving of vegetables — every American’s dream; it makes for a good excuse in eating plenty of them!

I just finished visiting the Louvre (entryway pictured above), where the Mona Lisa and many other famous artworks are held. Most of the art (including a 3,000-year-old Egyptian piece that once stood in front of the Sphinx that now stands outside the Louvre) became a part of France during the reign of Napoleon I. Most countries will tell you that Napoleon stole most of the art that sits in the Louvre during his days of conquering the world; he “liked” many things. The French maintain this isn’t the case and refuse to give any art back to the respective countries. Egypt, by no surprise knowing how protective their archaeologists are, are the only ones who seem to give a damn and send a letter to the French government every year asking for the return of quite a few items. One item in particular the Egyptians wish to have back is the 3,000-year-old monument that tells the story of Ramses in hieroglyphics. It sits next to the only female statue of the city masquerading as a piece of French history. It’s quite laughable really.

This attitude of reminds me of the American government attitude. In fact, it was after hearing this story that I realized why the American-French relationship is so up-and-down. I have a cousin who is like a sister to me, and we often fight like sisters. My mother always said it was only because we’re so much alike that we fight in the manner that we do. The Americans are like the younger sister to the French — the basic mentality is so similar that we butt heads. We have our versions of the truth that is superior to everyone else — no matter how far it is from reality.

The French government claims the 3,000-year-old monument was given to Napoleon by the Egyptians and find it deplorable that they’re asking for it back. So here are two versions of the story on how this art arrived, but of course the French version is the most illogical. Somehow, though, the French win every year and keep this out-of-place statue that sits in alignment to the Arc du Triumphe and their national assemble; it is truly an odd site to see this hieroglyph sitting between all this French-ness.

Locking in love

More and more I see how this is the city of “love.” Aside from the bridge dedicated to lovers who attach locks to the wire railing and throw the key of the side into the Seines (the river that runs through the city) as a token of their eternal feelings for one another, menus are dedicated to appetites of two. Couples fill restaurants throughout the day sharing stories, discussing Franco politics — and probably American, as well. If they’re not snuggled up next to each other, many of these couples reach across the table with their hearts in hand, clasping the fingertips of their lover as if they can’t get enough.


And since I’m here without mine, for now I’m enjoying my newfound love: cheese fondu! Where has it been all my life and will I ever find anything so great in the states? I stab the fondue fork into the rock hard sourdough bits and swirl it around in the bliss that is cheese fondue until the bread softens. In between bites I listen to the cackling of the flame and sip my red wine. I don’t know what keeps the flame lit and that captures me even more. The potatoes dipped are good as well, but dry and bland compared to the cheese-covered bread. And once again, all is accompanied by a misty water vase that reflects the pink and red lights of the café.

As the fondue begins to brown (a sign that it’s time to stop!) the rain starts to fall onto the awning before making its way down to the cold, stone sidewalk.

Coffee and history

One of the many statues that adorn the city.

Café. The French know how to make a good cup of joe. If it is not good, then you much not have greeted the server properly upon entering. Tourists think the French are rude, and the French think tourists are rude. To avoid this misunderstanding, all a visitor must do is say “bonjour” upon entering any place of business, whether it’s a restaurant, a shoppe or a pharmacy. Pharmacies here are frequent and from the outside look like a California pot shop with a giant green cross lit up at the entryway that can be seen blocks away.


I sit here eating lunch mesmerized once again by the French present their food — everything is placed beautifully on the plate. Even the water is served formally in a clear glass bottle personally for each table to pout in the mini-wine glass. The food might not taste as great as it is presented, but I think to the regular French customer, this does not matter.

Across the way sits a woman who resembles my grandma Norma strikingly, but I do not know if she was actually French or not. I’ve seen many older French women, who resemble this grandmother and my great grandmother Deary on my mother’s side, who I do know was of French descent. I even smell her around the city, or maybe it’s the overwhelming amount of Catholic churches and holy water that I actually smell. Surely, I have French in my blood, and it’s a curious thought to wonder what distant relatives remain here, or at least connected ancestors of some kind…

I am glad I quit smoking cigarettes before coming here — it would have been too easy to make it a worse habit than it already was. Cigarette packs here read in bold, black letter, “Smoking kills.” in English on one side and French on the other. In 2007, the government outlawed smoking in public places, but I’m not sure what that means because people seem to smoke anywhere. Maybe the law means no smoking inside because that, mostly, doesn’t happen.

Today has been beautiful. Not a drop of rain has touched the ground.

There are several original Statues of Liberties that range in size throughout the Paris.

All is safe

I realized earlier that something I had said to a person in my hostel (thought I’m not sure I actually believed it at the time) couldn’t be more true: If I can do New York, I can do Paris. They say Paris can be a dangerous city, but I feel rather safe here.


I remember my first image of New York at the age of 9 was a ragged man sitting on the stairs to the metro with a stack of wallets. No one seemed to notice that he sat there separating the cash from the credit cards. You would never see anything of the like here as even the thieves have more respect and sophistication in their mischievous lifestyles. Like New York, however, the metro is the breeding ground for crime, which is why at first I thought I would avoid it as much as possible, but now I have other reasons. Paris is not that big. I don’t know the numbers exactly, but it is much like the size of Long Beach. More importantly, why would a visitor want to spend so much time traveling through the city underground when ever rue and avenue has so much amazing architecture to bear witness to?

With that in mind, I understand that part of the “perks” of staying in a hostel is getting to meet people, but I’m not here to make lifelong friends or to have sex. I hope it was just this one Brazilian who seemed to think it was okay to lecture me about traveling with a boyfriend at home as if hostels are for a place of “hooking up.” Can it just be that I’m a tight-budgeted traveler who wanted to visit this city since I knew of its existence? As well, I do not need a short companion to enjoy what I want from any city, and I think this man’s addiction to that is quite sad. For a city of “love,” these travelling men don’t understand the idea of fidelity and the sanctity of love.

I have lived alone since 20 — I am not one who needs others surrounding me to enjoy life. In fact, I get more joy observing from the outside, such as this moment while I write. I’m sitting alone nibbling away at my pizza as I take moments to watch the workings of the restaurant, giving the occasional smile and nod as necessary. My peace is sitting here alone without having to engage in conversation, and listening to every murmur around me; these are things I wanted to come to this city — and any place for that matter — to witness, and how can one do that without observing?

We could all maybe learn a few more things about each other if we stopped our mouths and opened our eyes wider. Infants are capable of learning so much their first couple years of life. Granted, much of this has to do with biology, but maybe it also has to with their inability to talk. When one isn’t using one of the senses, the others are heightened. Who is to say that speaking can be included in this theory?

The top photo is of the military grounds (which includes a Catholic church) and the photo above is one of the many different types of metro entrances.

Fashion, rain and cigarettes

It is wet. Like the sun acts for cheery Californians, the rain suits Parisians well. It is relentless and sophisticated the way it runs down the intricately placed cobblestones of the streets. The rain is always rushing to go some place, and it only has one form. Unlike the rain, though, Parisians do have a smiling place beneath their flat-lined lips — their expressionless gaze that makes one assume they’re unhappy. They hide this place of cheer behind their cigarettes and cups of espresso, and behind their language of formality. In France, the Parisian happiness rests inside the bars, where some laughter can be heard, and inside the chocolate shoppes, which are as frequent as 7/11 and Starbucks are in the U.S.


Scarves, silk, extravagant boots and jackets — Paris is not much for the ill-fashioned. Without these you are clearly the backpacking visitor or the poorest Parisian. There isn’t much color except the occasional red.

Women seem to dominate the city. This aspect may be my favorite of Paris. Men push the baby strollers and are often seen feeding the infant and cooing them. One would think this is a matriarch, though I am sure it is not.

International trip 2: Paris and Madrid

I have decided to convert my old blog into a travel log for journeys throughout my life. This is not for professionalistic purposes, but is for myself and those who care enough to read.