I boarded my Paris L'Open Tour bus and felt like a different person in my new city. As in many major cities around the world where you hop-on, hop-off an open-topped double-decker bus, there was headphone commentary to tell me where I was, a bit of the history and so on. There were four different routes to choose from and by reading the map for each tour, I knew I'd get a good feel for the city, its size and the layout. Until then, I really hadn't grasped the enormity of Paris.
I jumped on the Montparnasse Tour bus marked by the colour orange, and was immediately disappointed and slightly embarrassed by how pushy and rude an Aussie family were when boarding. I tried to act like I was not from the same land, and frowned at their behaviour. When I found it difficult to deal with obnoxious countrymen and Americans from then on, I'd just turn the headphones up louder.
I smiled as the sun hit my face and we cruised past construction sites that had designer-looking scaffolding and images strewn across them ' ice-skaters, divers and my favourite, firemen. Only in Paris, I thought to myself. It wasn't long before I came to fathom the incredible expanse of the city. It was massive and left me wondering whether I could possibly ever manage to see a tenth of it while I was working here.
I was astounded by the number of tourists, not just on the bus but everywhere. I lost track of how many people I saw dragging suitcases, wearing backpacks, taking photos. I wondered how the French coped with such an invasion, and if the city would look empty without them ' and me ' there. I didn't want to be a tourist, I didn't want to think like one or look like one. And I certainly didn't want to behave like one. Even as I sat there on the bus with a bag full of maps, my camera in my hand and headphones on, I chose to only ever consider myself a newly arrived local from that day forth.
I changed buses at Petit Pont and climbed on the Bastille'Bercy bus, looping around Place de la Bastille and past the Biblioth¨que Nationale de France. At Notre Dame I got off and like all the other visitors to the city, I marvelled at the most famous cathedral in the world: the spire, the statues, the rose windows, the sense of spirituality you could feel in a man-made structure.
I boarded the green Paris Grand Tour bus at the rue de la Cité on its way to the Musée d'Orsay. I got off at the musée and snapped a picture of two elephant statues out the front to email to the girls back home. I went into the museum and tried to imagine what it was like when the building was a train station with a never-ending flow of 200 trains coming and going each day.
The space was large, open, overwhelmingly filled with light. I wanted to scream, 'This is fantastic!' I wanted to share the experience of being there with someone else, and I felt my first pang of homesickness with a hint of sadness about being alone in such an important art space. I knew Lauren would've loved it.
I walked slowly through the museum trying to absorb each moment as I watched French art students sketching sculptures. I smiled at tourists taking photos of each other in front of artwork, just like they did back at the NAG. I glimpsed two lovers cuddling in a quiet corner, and I wanted to scream, 'Get a room!' in my usual cynical way. But I didn't. In my peripheral vision I noticed a man wearing a clichéd red béret, watching me observing others. I figured Paris was a city of watching, some might even say voyeurism, and I wasn't going to complain because I was doing it too. Everyone was watching someone.
I weaved through the gallery, taking in my favourite Impressionist Monet, the Post-Impressionists Seurat and Cézanne, and the great Symbolist Redon. I was in artistic heaven imagining what it might be like to give tours and lectures about the permanent collection there, and even their temporary exhibitions. I wanted to
I jumped on the Montparnasse Tour bus marked by the colour orange, and was immediately disappointed and slightly embarrassed by how pushy and rude an Aussie family were when boarding. I tried to act like I was not from the same land, and frowned at their behaviour. When I found it difficult to deal with obnoxious countrymen and Americans from then on, I'd just turn the headphones up louder.
I smiled as the sun hit my face and we cruised past construction sites that had designer-looking scaffolding and images strewn across them ' ice-skaters, divers and my favourite, firemen. Only in Paris, I thought to myself. It wasn't long before I came to fathom the incredible expanse of the city. It was massive and left me wondering whether I could possibly ever manage to see a tenth of it while I was working here.
I was astounded by the number of tourists, not just on the bus but everywhere. I lost track of how many people I saw dragging suitcases, wearing backpacks, taking photos. I wondered how the French coped with such an invasion, and if the city would look empty without them ' and me ' there. I didn't want to be a tourist, I didn't want to think like one or look like one. And I certainly didn't want to behave like one. Even as I sat there on the bus with a bag full of maps, my camera in my hand and headphones on, I chose to only ever consider myself a newly arrived local from that day forth.
I changed buses at Petit Pont and climbed on the Bastille'Bercy bus, looping around Place de la Bastille and past the Biblioth¨que Nationale de France. At Notre Dame I got off and like all the other visitors to the city, I marvelled at the most famous cathedral in the world: the spire, the statues, the rose windows, the sense of spirituality you could feel in a man-made structure.
I boarded the green Paris Grand Tour bus at the rue de la Cité on its way to the Musée d'Orsay. I got off at the musée and snapped a picture of two elephant statues out the front to email to the girls back home. I went into the museum and tried to imagine what it was like when the building was a train station with a never-ending flow of 200 trains coming and going each day.
The space was large, open, overwhelmingly filled with light. I wanted to scream, 'This is fantastic!' I wanted to share the experience of being there with someone else, and I felt my first pang of homesickness with a hint of sadness about being alone in such an important art space. I knew Lauren would've loved it.
I walked slowly through the museum trying to absorb each moment as I watched French art students sketching sculptures. I smiled at tourists taking photos of each other in front of artwork, just like they did back at the NAG. I glimpsed two lovers cuddling in a quiet corner, and I wanted to scream, 'Get a room!' in my usual cynical way. But I didn't. In my peripheral vision I noticed a man wearing a clichéd red béret, watching me observing others. I figured Paris was a city of watching, some might even say voyeurism, and I wasn't going to complain because I was doing it too. Everyone was watching someone.
I weaved through the gallery, taking in my favourite Impressionist Monet, the Post-Impressionists Seurat and Cézanne, and the great Symbolist Redon. I was in artistic heaven imagining what it might be like to give tours and lectures about the permanent collection there, and even their temporary exhibitions. I wanted to
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