Paris, Part 3

Up at 7 am after eight hours of blissful sleep. I wonder if the two Belgian blondes I had the night before had anything to do with that. Those are beers, by the way, in case you’re wondering.

We took the C-line to the Eiffel Tower after breakfast and reserving a table at the Moulin Rouge for 8 pm, hoping to beat the crowds to one of the world’s premier, must-see, attractions. We did. Somewhat. There was already a queue when we arrived, one we thought long at the time, but nothing like the one that had grown by the time we’d reached the viewing gallery. By then the line was easily five times as long and growing by the minute. We thanked our lucky stars and good grace of forethought.

It’s a beautiful sight to behold, its wrought iron curled into loops, its entirety painted ecru, its height set with lights. It’s solid, it’s firm, it’s a gossamer web of riveted steel that sweeps up into the sky. Our first good view of it was from its base, our heads thrown back, its height seemingly curving back over us.
Armed guards surrounded the base, their automatic weapons at the ready, their eyes ever alert and suspicious. They looked lethal. They looked intent. I was saddened by their very presence. Why would anyone wish to destroy such beauty? Why would anyone want to target those who’d come to gaze upon it?

We joined the line and were immediately set upon by an Arabic woman who showed us a sign but did not speak. Bev read it and passed it on to me. It was a sad story, one written in English and replete with tales of her being stranded and homeless and not being able to speak either English or French and asking us for whatever little amount we might spare to help her get back home to her homeland and family. I took one look at her and saw a scam. She was too flush, too well dressed, her costume jewelry too clean, too there. I passed it back to her and shook my head. She, in turn, offered her sign up to the man behind us, and then those behind him. Most waved her off without ever reading the sign. And before long she was gone, we thought to find more receptive people, but we discovered later, upon leaving, that she’d gone on break. We passed her having lunch, smoking, talking English with those other homeless and destitute souls, who likely suffered the same plight as she did. They probably made a comfortable living on the kindness of strangers. By strangers, I mean tourists. Professional beggars never plead money from locals, I was to discover.

Bev got ogled and pinched repeatedly by an altogether ugly guy in an olive drab military tunic while we shuffled up the queue. I turned to face him, expecting that my scrutiny might dissuade him of further groping; it must have, because not only did he refrain from any further groping, his gaze floated everywhere but into mine. It struck me that he was the spitting image of Nick Tortelli from Cheers. Bev thought so too.

Between her and him there was an altogether oblivious well-dressed man who apparently didn’t believe in bathing. Probably for health reasons; you know, soap is toxic to the skin, a veritable carcinogen. His aura was far more intense than that of someone who skipped a shower now and again. He actually reeked. A thick, oily bubble hovered about him. He reminded me of Pigpen. Bev couldn’t smell him; there are hidden perks to having the flu; that might have been one of them, especially so considering that he crowded into the lift with us. Judging by the reaction of those who also shared that small space with us, I doubt that they appreciated his eschewing soap for health reasons, either.

Bev’s failing health dictated that this would not be a taxing day, so we took the lift up to the third floor of the tower. That doesn’t sound too high, but, in fact, it is. The first floor is 57 m above the ground, the second 115 m, the third (the viewing gallery) 274 m. The tip of the tower rises to 320 m, but to get up there you’d have to be an employee or a climber.

We took the stairs down, turning around for pictures, pretending to be one of those athletic few who walk, and sometime run, to the viewing gallery.

The rest of the afternoon was spent strolling and browsing and laying about. We spent more time in Shakespeare and Company. It was close to the hotel, close to cafes and restaurants. I almost bought more books, but found the strength to resist the temptation, thinking about how much my bags would weigh on the return trip. Rest, supper, relax, wait. Then the time for our evening excursion was at hand.
The minibus picked us up promptly at 8 pm, then others around town, first two young women from a hotel a block away (one of them, Heather, the woman I was chatting up the night before), an Australian couple, and lastly, a retired couple from an upscale hotel on the right bank.

We got to know each other a bit on the way there, launching into and stalling with traffic, lurching and racing forward again, rounding traffic circles, darting in and out of traffic. Heather and friend were a little late, having just arrived back from a Seine river cruise. They’d been racing all over town, trying to take it all in, with not enough time to do it. They were there for a dental convention even though they weren’t dentists. Their boss was, and he signed them in to all the talks they were to attend, and they promptly attended none of them. The Aussies were from Brisbane, and had heard of all the spots I could remember, Charter’s Towers included. The retirees were from Washington State as well, only a short hop from where the girls hailed from.

We tumbled out at the Moulin Rouge, basked in the glow of the reflected floodlights that bathed the red windmill, received our vouchers and cleared security. No cameras, security said, relieving the two girls of theirs. They did get them back when we left.

The show was total camp, but fun, made more fun by the sheer volume of champagne placed on our furthest corner table. The women invariably sprouted tall fanned fathers and posed and danced with breasts bared, the men rarely so. Never, actually. Maybe Vegas shows are the same; cruise ships are similar, if somewhat fully clothed. I understood none of it beyond, “Danse, danse, danse et danse,” couldn’t even glean what the show was about, if it even was about anything at all except “Danse, danse, danse et danse.” It began as some sort of Aladdin love story, then became something of a clown and circus affair. There was a history of the Moulin Rouge, from the Can-can to the 40s (post Nazi), to Elvis, to disco, to today.

Our table saw the bottom of three of the four bottles of champagne given us and we christened the fourth before the curtain dropped and we were whisked back out onto the street and into the awaiting shuttle that took us each in turn back to our hotels. We stayed up, sharing a drink with our new best friends, Heather and friend, before retiring to bed.

The champagne had made my head light. Three glasses of the stuff and a pinot noir with supper and a blonde (beer, remember?) afterward was swimming in my skull by the time I got to bed. I suspected that I’d have a woolly head the next day.

I was not disappointed.