Birthday in Paris: Part 4

Two of the oldest things on my bucket list have been to visit The Louvre and to wander through the Paris Catacombs. Today we would do both.

We fill up with another incredible baguette brunch and head over to Montparnasse in the 14th arrondissement. In a small corner park square sits a tiny green out building only slightly larger than your average backyard garden shed. Passing by, one would never guess that inside that tiny room lies a stone staircase that descends into a sprawling network of underground tunnels filled with millions of skeletons. Well, except for the 900 tourists lined up around the entire park. That might give it away.

Pro tip: Buy a "Skip the Line" ticket online ahead of your visit. You'll wait ten minutes as opposed to three hours.

In the 18th century, Paris’ cemeteries were overflowing into the streets. Graves lay open and the stench of rotting bodies filled the air. So a solution was proposed: exhume the bodies and relocate them. Officials of the time chose the old rock quarries beneath the city, once used in the Roman era to excavate limestone for building the city of Paris above. They were empty and far below ground, away from the public.

Beginning in 1786 and continuing for the next several decades, a team of Parisians exhumed, removed, and re-stacked the bones of roughly six million bodies down into the empty tunnels. The catacombs, as they are now called, span over 200 miles below the city.

Once you enter from outside, you spiral down five stories along a stone staircase. The air begins to cool. The smell of dry earth fills your nose. Quiet descends upon the group. You follow a narrow passageway for what seems like ages until it opens up to a single doorway, the plaque above it which reads "Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort!"

Then you walk across the threshold and gape at the scene in front of you. Photos do not communicate the sheer scale and immensity of this place. It truly feels like you’ve passed out of this life and into the underworld. You are surrounded by death. The remains of millions are stacked wall to wall, floor to ceiling, block after block.

Layers of shin bones begin at your feet and rise up to about your waist. Then a row of human skulls, placed temple to temple peer out at you. They are all different sizes and shapes. Some have bullet holes in them. Some cracked places just above the brow bone from some long ago blunt force trauma. Many even still retain their teeth to smile at you as you draw close, hold your breath, and gaze back at them.

Then above their heads, like a morbid layer cake, a row of femurs, knees pointed outwards. On top, all the smaller bones like finger tips and curling ribs are scattered. There is no mortar holding them together. Just the sheer weight of thousands upon thousands of bodies pressing down into the earth.

Further in, designs begin to emerge. Crosses. Arches. Altars. The outline of a person. Even a heart arranged whimsically out of fourteen craniums. Deep within, there are massive columns of bones. You know most of the laborers were probably just in a "let's get this horrible job over with" mentality but one guy, the one who actually seemed to enjoy being underground with skeletons was just like, "Well we might as well make this fun if we have to be down here for the next decade!" I bet he whistled while he worked and all his coworkers hated him. Joke's on them, now though.

At one point along our tour, Mike leaned back against a wall to fit a room into the frame of his camera. Only it was not a wall. I waved across the aisle and mouthed, “You’re leaning on the bones!” His eyes grew large and he carefully stepped away from the not-wall. Thankfully no one was near us in the tunnel to notice. I brushed the dust of a million crumbling bones off the back of his jacket and we moved on.

After wandering the subterranean passages for nearly two hours, we climb back up to the surface and re-emerge into the world of the living once more. To our delight, the gift shop is located directly across the street. Out of all the gift shops in Paris, this is the one I love the most for it is full of skulls. Mike and I spend half an hour inside excitedly pointing at shirts, posters, fridge magnets, candles, jewelry, books, DVDs, mugs, shot glasses, ice cube trays, buttons, and more. Between the two of us, we could have cleaned the store out. As we leave with our bags of souvenirs, Mike notes the oddity of a fancy shoe polisher at the door. It’s a puzzling detail but we put it aside for now.

On to Musée du Louvre, the largest art museum in the entire world. We hail an Uber back over to the 1st arrondissement where the Louvre Palace sits on the bank of the Seine, grander than any building I’ve ever seen. Winged angels and cherubs perch along the roof. A huge host of statuary line the balconies above. Great bronze heroes on horseback flank the entrance. Glass pyramids rise up out of the center courtyard. Ornate columns and balustrades everywhere you look.

As we paused just outside to take it all in, it begins to snow. I think my eyes misted up a bit just realizing that I’d finally made it there after a lifetime of waiting. It remains one of the most beautiful memories I have of Paris.

They say you cannot see all of the Louvre in one go and they are correct. However you can see about half of it if you get in early, caffeinate properly, takes breaks, and stay there until closing. Which is what we did.

With a minor in Art History and four years of art survey classes under my belt, I was able to provide Mike with personal audio guide on request for technique, symbology, theme, figure identification, translation, and explanations for why a seemingly insignificant black marble column was so important (Code of Hammurabi) or why that topless lady was pinching the nipple of her topless friend in the bath tub (Gabrielle d’Estrées et use de see soeurs, the king’s mistress is pregnant with an illegitimate child).

Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss by Antonio Canova

Mike, for his part, was exceptional in making observations and providing sculpture critique. He delighted in describing the way the fabric clung to the skin like sheer wet silk. The way the marble seemed to glow. The minute detail in the veins of a feather of a wing. The crook of an elbow. The muscle detail across a back. The wrinkle in the palm of a hand.

Photos of these works cannot accurately depict the skill involved nor their true beauty. Seeing them up close is a different experience altogether. You finally understand how Pygmalion could fall in love with his sculpture and believe that it would come to life.

As we took a break in one of the cafes to eat a chocolate ganache replica of the Louvre pyramid, we shared our favorite pieces thus far. Mike recalled the statue of Femme Voilée by Antonio Corradini. It’s a woman in robes, her face covered with a thin, sheer veil that falls down around her shoulders. The fabric of the veil clings to her face as she gazes at you from within. Simultanesouly beautiful and ghostly. It seems impossible that it’s all done in marble. That it’s a subtractive process from a block of shapeless rock. That people back then didn't have a bunch of dremel tools and power saws.

Mike also adds that the Louvre is filled with "A lot of weir babies and god shit.” He is not wrong on that point. For my turn I expressed appreciation for Winged Victory (above) and La Jeune Martyre by Paul Delaroche. The canvas is mostly pitch black night, except for a pale woman in a gossamer gown who floats in water at the bottom of the frame, her hands bound and a thin sliver of halo hovering in the air above her face. Although likely a Christian theme, she reminded me of Ophelia.

Of course, visit to the Louvre wouldn’t be complete without seeing the Mona Lisa. We popped into her gallery briefly and nudged our way up to the barrier that surrounds her portrait. It is not as tiny as so many claim! It’s 30 inches high and nearly two feet wide. It is only “small" when you compare it to the other paintings nearby, like The Wedding at Cana which is a gaping 32 feet wide by 22 feet tall. It is a lovely painting and I did not mind the small crowd of people taking selfies below it. If you can't beat them...join them.

We did reach our saturation point for art eventually, so we hit up four of the approximately 42 gift shops and made our exit from the museum. (I also buy a dozen macarons from a kiosk outside because macarons)

Back at the hotel, we collapse in exhaustion and starvation. Too tired to go searching for restaurant recommendations, we decide to try the restaurant directly opposite the hotel, Bistro Marloe. It was simply out of convenience, we did not research it. We did not make reservations. We just walked in. Unbeknownst at that time, I was about to sit down to the finest meal I’ve ever experienced in my life. Purely by chance.

In the center of the intimate dining room of Bistro Marloe sits a large butcher’s counter and a meat slicer. Upon this machine, our waiter sliced paper thin strips of aged Spanish ham for our appetizer. Iberico Bellota Cinco Jotas, to be exact. The finest ham in the world. We do not know this at the time though, I google it later. It is draped over a ceramic volcano-looking dish with vent holes, placed over a tea light candle to warm it, and plated with something resembling bruschetta. The ham is so tender and fine it melts in your mouth. It is not stringy or fatty like prosciutto. It is creamy. If I told my local hipster barista that I ate ham made from free-range black-footed Spanish pigs fed on a diet of special acorns he would likely climax from the words alone.

The appetizer was incredible but the entrées were even better, if it can be believed. Mike selected a gorgeous sea bass dish I do not recall the name of. I chose a veal stew consisting of tender bites of veal, carrots, squash, leeks, mushrooms, and gnocchi in a cream sauce, with shaved black truffle on top. Life does not get more decadent than this. Again, I wiped the bowl clean with a hunk of bread. We opted out of dessert, knowing there was a small crate of macarons back at the hotel. Also, we had plans.

Earlier in the evening we had secured a pair of tickets to the famed Crazy Horse cabaret. I’ll never pass up a burlesque show and this is reputed to the very best. We got dressed up and sauntered over to the show. Ushers guided us through velvet curtains, down red velvet stairs and into a small candle-lit theater. We’re seated in the second row on little tufted chairs, with a little table upon which a bottle of champagne is waiting for us. The flutes have sexy lipstick kisses painted on them. I love it all.

This particular show, Dessous Dessus (Upside Down), is being directed by famed couture lingerie designer Chantal Thomass. It is everything a burlesque cabaret performance in the heart of Paris should be. Sexy, naturally. Glamorous of course, with all the classic silk stockings and garter belts. But also fantastically artistic. The lighting and stage design is on par with any Cirque du Soleil. One memorable performer danced in front of a special black backdrop which she "painted" with bright, digital brush strokes created by wearing special motion capture bracelets on her wrists and ankles. With every graceful arc of her body, beautiful light ribbons trailed from behind. It was technically impressive and deeply sensual, all at the same time.

Other numbers were more playful, featuring rainbow colored wigs and pop music covers. Some routines veered more into straight-on eroticism, with spiky Christian Louboutin stilettos, flawless cat eyes, and perfectly rouged lips. And naturally there was a lip sync performance to Zou Bisou Bisou. But my favorite was a lady on a swing suspended above the stage. She began her number dressed as Marie Antoinette and finished in strobe lights, 80's glam and Alice Cooper's Poison. Fantastique.

But out of all the performances that evening, there was one clear standout: Shadow Puppet Guy. Now, when you go to see a burlesque show, you never expect to see a guy on stage making shadow puppets. You certainly never expect to be enthralled by it. And not in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought I would be in a cabaret giving a standing ovation to a man who made two bunnies eat clover and kiss by a series of tiny hand movements over his shoulder. But there we were. I've looked for him on YouTube to no avail, so my inadequate description here is all I can manage.

On the way out, we paused at the second best gift shop in Paris. Mike acquired a few Crazy Horse lighters and I proudly took home a fluffy black bath robe embroidered with the Crazy Horse logo.