Pretentious in Paris

PARIS, France – If there’s one thing that is dangerous about anyone who’s been to Paris, it’s the penchant to turn into pretentious pricks after seeing a few paintings and exchanging in some friendly banter in French with the locals. It was no wonder then after spending two weeks in the French capital, our motley troupe of naïve adventurers started one by one to refer to the Eiffel Tower as tout Eiffel. I was the first to succumb. Each time an opportunity arose, I volunteered to try my French out on unsuspecting Frenchmen. I would approach my victim and radiate charm as I said, pardon? If successful, I would then casually ask if they spoke English. Parlez-vous anglais? (After which, I would nod to the others as if to say, "I got it all under control." Of course, I would then project a face that would tell who I was talking – er, conversing with – that I am indeed up the evolutionary ladder from these natives). It was always sobering to hear the reply: Parlez-vous francais?

Museums…for once, listen to what everyone tells you to see. My wife Yvonne and I share a morbid fascination for the macabre and decided to go to the Musee de l’Assistance Publique. To quote our guidebook, the museum covers the "history of Paris hospitals, from the days when they were receptacles for abandoned babies…(and features) grisly medical devices." Although we did see an array of saws used for amputations (without anesthesia), it left us nonplussed. Of course, our other two companions Juan and Gino had just come from the Louvre and were practically in tears after seeing the Mona Lisa. (I’m not exaggerating. Juan relaxed his semi-permanent scowl; while Gino sported a face that I would prefer that he only shared with his lovers). We felt cheated and vowed to do things right from that moment on.

I won’t chronicle every museum but I feel that I have to share with you at least two. (Die of envy, luvvies.) The first and quite significant one for all of us was a trip to the Centre Pompidou which has – and again I quote from my guidebook – "the largest collection of modern art in Europe." At the time of our visit, they had a special exhibition about Dada, a post WW1 movement that was practically against everything – including art itself! To be honest and a bit pretentious, the whole experience was more religious for me than entering Notre Dame Cathedral. It was incredibly special for both my wife and I when among the art works featured were a couple by one of our heroes, Max Ernst. Even though more closely associated with the Surrealists – the mutant children of Dada – his iconoclasm was no doubt in welcome company.

Gino was bored. Even though he is a professional painter, he hates intellectuals. (A minor digression: he is co-founder with Von Ng, another painter, of what he terms the Ambient Movement. According to him, his works are equally great whether it be in a museum or in a public restroom). Besides, he would say, he wanted to see art – not bric-a-brac.

We were all greatly rewarded by going to an exhibition featuring the works of three painters, namely Klimt, Kokoshka and Schiele. It was such a surprise to see a line that went around the block in freezing weather just to see the works of these three great painters. (I must confess though I wasn’t very taken by Kokoshka. OK I’m dumb). Inside, it was packed with people of all ages. It was as if we were in the lobby for a movie like Star Wars. Juan wondered aloud if we could ever expect a turnout in Manila for a painting exhibition.

No photograph right? Well, that never stopped the ever-wily Gino – the bane of all curators – from getting that picture. For some reason, I always get roped into his shenanigans and again this made our friend Xavier from the Hotel Gavarni roll his eyes up in disbelief.

With all this museum-hopping, I was beginning to think that we earned the right to be pretentious. In fact, I couldn’t wait. I was about to strike up a very cultured conversation with someone beside me on the Metro reading Albert Camus when I heard Gino asking Juan: "I can’t get my head around it. This "sortie" must be a big place. It’s written on all the exits of every station we’ve gone too." Being naïve is such a fun state of mind.