Dulce and I decided to take the Metro instead of a taxi to visit the Eiffel
Tower. We quickly departed after having our free breakfast at the hotel
cafe. In our excitement, we forgot to ask the concierge as to where the
Metro station was and at which station we should emerge. We were
already a couple of blocks from the hotel and Dulce wanted to go back and
ask. I told her that there really was no need to and that we should
just be adventurous and just look for the nearest station and just take
it from there. Dulce looked at me with an expression that I instantly
recognized - one of futility.
I told her to just "...trust where destiny would lead us."
"Yeah," she said, "to a cab."
After
a few minutes of following a crowd of people rushing to work up the Bd.
Madeleine, we reached the Opera where the entry to the subway was. Dulce
took note of a landmark: the big Zara store. I guess I should explain:
whenever we're on holiday, our landmarks weren't the traditional statue
or historic structure but they rather would be whatever retail store we
passed. We would always know our way back to the hotel by just looking
at the shop signs. Of course, each sign represented a store we would
visit one by one on our way back.
We went down the stairs and
browsed around the small shops that sold magazines, candy, and
trinkets. I asked an elderly French man who ran the trinket shop which
station the Eiffel Tower was but the language barrier was so thick that
it was just futile. Although, when he was talking to my wife, the words
beautiful and very cheap were all the English he spoke. Dulce whispered to me if the old guy knew what bullshit meant.
The
exotic and magical looking ticket lady in beaded cornrows, who spoke
English in a West Indian accent, advised us to take the M8 and get out
at the Ecole Militaire station because the other line that would take
us to the closest station closest to the tower from the Invalides
station was closed for repairs. We thanked the lady though we obviously
did not know which station was from the other. We just crossed our
fingers and blindly took her advice. I guess it was her gentle and
motherly way of talking that somehow made us trust her.
Strangely, given
that it was still the rush hour, the train wasn't crowded. Almost
everyone was seated save alone maybe around four who stood. We quietly
held hands while we were seated. The only sound that could be heard was
the heartbeat-like rhythm of the train's wheels going over the tracks. Dulce noticed it, too, and whispered to me that she could feel the city's
pulse underneath. I complimented her on her observation. She then
leaned her still sleepy head on my shoulder and tapped her finger on my
hand in time with the tracks' rhythm - her usual quiet thank you.
When
we got off and emerged onto the sidewalk, we expected to see the tower
at once but we just found ourselves on a quiet street flanked by rows
of beautiful well-preserved old apartments. While we stood around for a
while to get our bearings, Dulce took pictures of the detailing of some of
the old buildings. She said that if she were French, she would be very
proud of her heritage and that uncontrolled progress destroys a
country's sense of culture.
I took her hand and said that I
sincerely agreed with her and said that I now figured out the way to
the Eiffel Tower. She gripped my hand tightly and smiled as we started
to walk on down to the Place de l'Ecole Militaire.
A large modern monument largely made of gigantic panes of tempered
glass with long lines of cursive text etched across them greeted us at
the edge of the Champs de Mars right across the Ecole Militaire.
Looming in the background was the elegant Eiffel Tower. Dulce remarked of
how the mix of past and present seemed perfectly planned and executed
everywhere in this city and that however glaringly obvious the contrast
was, there was still a subtle sense of harmony about them.
The
manicured trees lining the walks were starting to wake up from their
winter’s sleep with new sets of leaves as Dulce and I trod up the wide
gravel pathway towards the famous tower. Dulce wondered why they had to
have the tops of the trees trimmed flat. I told that the reason might
be to show off the charming old apartments flanking the park. These
ancient buildings exuded a silent grandeur as they bathed in the bright
spring morning sunshine and for a moment actually felt like they were
smiling proudly.
We would stop and sit from time to time, sharing an Orangina.
“Pinch
me, Eric” Dulce suddenly told me while we rested beside each other on one of
the park benches, “and tell me that this is all a dream.”
I looked straight into her eyes and tweaked her nose.
“It’s
not a dream.”
She laughed and retaliated with a tickle to my side.
The
tower opened at 9am and we had around thirty minutes. We mulled around
the base of the tower, taking pictures of the colorful flower beds. A
line had already started but we decided not to hurry to get in it.
There really was no hurry. We were on an open schedule and we had the
whole day. We just sat comfortably and, as usual, watched the tourists.
We
played games like who in the crowd looked the most effortlessly stylish
and who could identify a Filipino first. The former was
de rigueur
and effortless - we always would engage in it wherever we went. The
latter though was a challenge because it required a bit more on the
observation department; even without hearing them speak, although there
were particular gestures that are unique to Filipinos (a certain gait
or a facial twitch), we still had a horribly difficult time seeing
them, even in a totally alien environment where we knew these traits
would stand out.
There was this beautifully ornate carousel
nearby and the sight made us wonder about how Dustin was and what he was
doing at the moment. We actually felt a tinge of guilt for not bringing
him along but we had to be practical. Dustin was still five at the time and
we figured that he was still too young to appreciate the Paris
experience. We decided to return to Paris with Dustin when he was old enough.
We
finally got in line when the crowd thinned and the opening ruckus
settled down to something less stressful. Even looking up at the tower
from the bottom was already an overwhelming experience.
"Man, I never expected this thing to be so enormous," I remarked.
"Yes, I had the same feeling when I married you."
"Really?" I replied in a proud macho voice.
"Of course!" she replied as she stared wide-eyed at my gut. "...Fat ass."
When
we got to the top, we were relieved that there wasn’t a huge crowd; the
initial batch of tourists was already beginning to descend. The view
alone deserved a moment of silent respect. Dulce held my hand tight as we
peered through a viewing window. I felt her excitement and awe as she
smiled and pointed out to the vast expanse of the city. I knew that
feeling because I, too, felt it.
"It's beautiful, Eric."
"Still think it's a dream?"
"Definitely feels like one."
We turned to each other and kissed.
This
was the exact precise moment, atop Gustav's folly, looking down at the
world, that we both fell in love again with each other and, of course,
with our hostess, the beautiful Paris. I guess it's quite obvious that
the city, with her romantic charm and ageless beauty (not to mention
effortless style), had left us, as she had done to countless others,
enthralled and falling in love.
