Doing Paris
March 24, 2006 | 12:00am
PARIS, France – It is quite hard not to fall into clichés when writing about this city. If my companions didn’t intercede on my behalf, I would’ve strutted down the Champs Elysées wearing a beret, holding an impressive-looking baguette and whistling La Vie en Rose. Who am I kidding? I would’ve dressed up like a mime and tried to walk against the wind – to the amusement of the locals, who I imagine are thinking, "Is this how they think we act?" Thankfully, I flew to this beautiful city – the most beautiful one by far I’ve been to in my life – with my three best pals: my childhood bud Gino, photographer Jino and my sweet wife Yvonne. Paris is the place to be with the people you love.
But to start off, unconventionally, we all noticed the same thing about Paris. Their music sucks. Before you get all worked up and throw names like Air, Daft Punk and Phoenix like stones at me, I have to point out that everywhere we went it was all bad club music, faux-bluesy rock and La Vie en Rose. All of this performed with neither conviction nor imagination. Good for the French that they have a city that looks much better than anything ol’ Hollywood can build on their back-lots. Much like our own starlets in local showbiz, you don’t need to be able to sing a note if you’re that pretty.
First on the agenda were the sights. After loafing about Tuileries Gardens trying to fight the cold by eating freshly-made crepes and huddling about each other like a pack of mongrels, we try to amuse ourselves by taking snapshots of each other by the round pool where locals and tourists like to float miniature boats. I amuse myself trying to look for the exact angle used in the penultimate scene of a Taiwanese film I quite liked called What Time is it There? But soon the ebbing away of any feeling in our extremities forced us to take shelter in the Metro and pay a visit to the Hotel Gavarni for probable accommodations for our little more than a week stay. It was highly recommended by everyone from Mega magazine editor Carla Sibal to Tim Yap as a great place to stay.
As it turns out, the hotel’s manager, Xavier Moraga, is married to a Filipina and most of the staff are Filipino. We ask to speak to Xavier to show him our portfolios as artists. (Except for me, everyone in our party is a visual artist. In fact, Yvonne is in Paris to compete in a fashion design competition after winning the grand prize in Manila.) Xavier tells us that he plans to open the first art gallery in Paris to exclusively showcase Filipino art. He’s a nice guy and offers to buy us lunch by asking us, "Gusto nyong kumain?"
Around the corner, the restaurant is charming and almost full at about 1:30 in the afternoon. Some people are finished eating but prefer to converse leisurely rather than pay attention to the bill. Xavier orders wine and tells us that it’s like what soft drinks is to us. "But much, much better," he says quietly but with much emphasis. Now I’ve been told that the French are peculiar about their meat: they like it almost raw. Ambassador Hector Villaroel explained this to me that they prefer to savor the meat’s natural flavor. I put it down to them being cultured and ask the waiter that I’d like my beef well-done. Third-world style.
That night, we decided to grab Paris by its groin by going to the Eiffel Tower or Tour Eiffel if you want to sound smart about it. Again, words fail me as we alighted from the Bir-Hakiem Metro Station and so I chose instead to sing a few bars written by Black Francis…
Pioneer of aerodynamics
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
They thought he was real smart alec
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
He thought big they called it a phallic
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
As soon as we were aiming our cameras at the magnificent structure, we found ourselves deluged by black street peddlers offering us battery-powered, blinking mini-replicas of the Eiffel Tower. It was genuinely the only sad moment of the evening as we tried to fend off their repeated offers until one of them was offering to give us five Eiffel Towers for about 3 euro. Despite that, we managed to buy tickets without encountering too much of a line. Gino and Jino wasted no time in snapping away and asking us to smile for their cameras. Without much effort, we became tourists.
We bought tickets that would take us to the upper most floors. Stepping out onto the deck, we were greeted by a cold that no Filipino was ever equipped to handle. According to a sign, we were 10,761 km. from Manila but we were happy to be that far away if only for a brief time. (Before flying, we were all burned out from various things: the three of us from work and Gino from just becoming a father.) In fact, we had been on the subject on how grownup we had become. For once again, we wanted to be silly.
Getting an idea, Jino bet Gino a hundred euro if he would take off all his clothes right there on top of the Eiffel Tower. Seizing his lead, I put down a hundred more if he would do it. Gino was nonplussed and took off his jacket. Yvonne couldn’t help laughing but managed to ready her camera in-between guffaws. As he peeled off his shirt, Gino grinned and chortled. Already half-naked, he was about to unbutton his pants when a cold gust of wind came in. In the weak light, I thought I was able to see Gino’s nipples become hard. Not a pretty sight.
We weren’t going to let him off that easily and prodded him to continue. "200 euro is not even enough to cover hospital bills or perhaps bail," he chuckled. "Too bad, I was going to say it was a form of protest over France’s involvement in the war on Iraq."
(To be continued)
But to start off, unconventionally, we all noticed the same thing about Paris. Their music sucks. Before you get all worked up and throw names like Air, Daft Punk and Phoenix like stones at me, I have to point out that everywhere we went it was all bad club music, faux-bluesy rock and La Vie en Rose. All of this performed with neither conviction nor imagination. Good for the French that they have a city that looks much better than anything ol’ Hollywood can build on their back-lots. Much like our own starlets in local showbiz, you don’t need to be able to sing a note if you’re that pretty.
First on the agenda were the sights. After loafing about Tuileries Gardens trying to fight the cold by eating freshly-made crepes and huddling about each other like a pack of mongrels, we try to amuse ourselves by taking snapshots of each other by the round pool where locals and tourists like to float miniature boats. I amuse myself trying to look for the exact angle used in the penultimate scene of a Taiwanese film I quite liked called What Time is it There? But soon the ebbing away of any feeling in our extremities forced us to take shelter in the Metro and pay a visit to the Hotel Gavarni for probable accommodations for our little more than a week stay. It was highly recommended by everyone from Mega magazine editor Carla Sibal to Tim Yap as a great place to stay.
As it turns out, the hotel’s manager, Xavier Moraga, is married to a Filipina and most of the staff are Filipino. We ask to speak to Xavier to show him our portfolios as artists. (Except for me, everyone in our party is a visual artist. In fact, Yvonne is in Paris to compete in a fashion design competition after winning the grand prize in Manila.) Xavier tells us that he plans to open the first art gallery in Paris to exclusively showcase Filipino art. He’s a nice guy and offers to buy us lunch by asking us, "Gusto nyong kumain?"
Around the corner, the restaurant is charming and almost full at about 1:30 in the afternoon. Some people are finished eating but prefer to converse leisurely rather than pay attention to the bill. Xavier orders wine and tells us that it’s like what soft drinks is to us. "But much, much better," he says quietly but with much emphasis. Now I’ve been told that the French are peculiar about their meat: they like it almost raw. Ambassador Hector Villaroel explained this to me that they prefer to savor the meat’s natural flavor. I put it down to them being cultured and ask the waiter that I’d like my beef well-done. Third-world style.
That night, we decided to grab Paris by its groin by going to the Eiffel Tower or Tour Eiffel if you want to sound smart about it. Again, words fail me as we alighted from the Bir-Hakiem Metro Station and so I chose instead to sing a few bars written by Black Francis…
Pioneer of aerodynamics
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
They thought he was real smart alec
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
He thought big they called it a phallic
(little Eiffel, little Eiffel)
As soon as we were aiming our cameras at the magnificent structure, we found ourselves deluged by black street peddlers offering us battery-powered, blinking mini-replicas of the Eiffel Tower. It was genuinely the only sad moment of the evening as we tried to fend off their repeated offers until one of them was offering to give us five Eiffel Towers for about 3 euro. Despite that, we managed to buy tickets without encountering too much of a line. Gino and Jino wasted no time in snapping away and asking us to smile for their cameras. Without much effort, we became tourists.
We bought tickets that would take us to the upper most floors. Stepping out onto the deck, we were greeted by a cold that no Filipino was ever equipped to handle. According to a sign, we were 10,761 km. from Manila but we were happy to be that far away if only for a brief time. (Before flying, we were all burned out from various things: the three of us from work and Gino from just becoming a father.) In fact, we had been on the subject on how grownup we had become. For once again, we wanted to be silly.
Getting an idea, Jino bet Gino a hundred euro if he would take off all his clothes right there on top of the Eiffel Tower. Seizing his lead, I put down a hundred more if he would do it. Gino was nonplussed and took off his jacket. Yvonne couldn’t help laughing but managed to ready her camera in-between guffaws. As he peeled off his shirt, Gino grinned and chortled. Already half-naked, he was about to unbutton his pants when a cold gust of wind came in. In the weak light, I thought I was able to see Gino’s nipples become hard. Not a pretty sight.
We weren’t going to let him off that easily and prodded him to continue. "200 euro is not even enough to cover hospital bills or perhaps bail," he chuckled. "Too bad, I was going to say it was a form of protest over France’s involvement in the war on Iraq."
(To be continued)
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