Pont des Arts

Day 3

Tuesday, May 17: 

            "unbutton your blood down to your naked soul..."Jack Hirschman

                     

Casually lovely walk between boulangerie and le parque 

Playing poet on the Pont des Art. The padlocks on the fence
have the initials of couples that have visited the bridge written on them

Today feels like the first day of kindergarten--I've never been more excited for class. I got up and made coffee and breakfast, toast with butter and mustard topped with camembert (cheese) and a fried egg with salt and pepper. Then we jumped on the train to Monmartre where we had our first workshop at Cecelia's apartment. She gave us an assignment to write a postcard poem from anywhere in Paris to anyone you want (preferably someone dramatic)-- it just had to be something you would fit on the back of a postcard. After class we dispersed to find lunch, so we went to a boulangerie and picked up some quiche au saumon and a bottle of wine, and we found a park and ate. We were interrupted by a drunk French-Congo-an who took it upon himself to educate us about what is wrong with America and about, importance of smoking weed, and how its weird to sleep outside. He's a law student--very smart, and not at all aggressive, just drunk and preachy. ha. So Rose (our lovely French speaking friend) dealt with him in french, and after about an hour of ramblings, we had to excuse ourselves to go back to class for an ISA orientation (International Study Abroad). They took us to a cafe, and they told us how to avoid getting pick pocketed (peek pockdt), how to not speak too loudly because its rude, how to get ahold of them in case of emergency, blah blah. It was actually pretty helpful. I hope. At least I can try to not come across like an American idiot. Then a group of us walked across the Seine River, got some french onion soup and wine, then posted up on the Pont des Arts (the point of arts). Its a bohemian bridge over the Seine where all the locals hang out and drink and watch the sun go down. We sat for hours on the bridge, playing poet (angst-ing and writing) and then laughing at the pretension of playing poet.  

 Then we got some cheese-tastic crepes from a turkish guy and went home to sleep, sloshy with wine and emental. Voila. Day 3. 

City of lights as the sun goes down over the Seine