I had a strange reaction the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower.
You might call it a 'non-sexual orgasm.' Let's call it a 'happygasm.' You're welcome, Mr. Webster.
To be sure, I hadn't expected to have a non-sexual orgasm that day (nor any sort of orgasm, for that matter). I had no idea that the Eiffel Tower was so exciting for me. I don't know that I'm a francophile, or particularly attached to strange-looking structures, yet the sight of the famous Tower, the icon of France, sent me into FLIP OUT AND EMBARRASS YOURSELF ON THE TRAIN mode. Maybe my blood sugar was low.
I guess it takes a substantial build up to produce a reaction as goofy as the one I had.
It must have started with Mr. Reese's seventh grade French class, when everyone had to pick a language to study. The choice was straightforward for me – Spanish was already full, German sounded ugly and harsh. I'll take French, merci.
Mr. Reese taught us the important phrases which we would surely need when the time came that we found ourselves lounging at in outdoor cafe in Paris in our carefully tilted berets, such as “I am a frog.” I can't tell you how many times I had to pull that one out during my stay in France.
He didn't just teach us French, he taught us to love French, to have fun with it, to play with it and, most importantly, to revel in silliness. And he taught us about France, the place where I'd eventually end up spending four months growing a new me.
France always seemed like a magical kingdom to me. We used to have to watch videos, you know those ridiculous one that were made before you were born and show people with bad hair and elastic waistbands discussing their favorite school subjects? Besides the unattractive people, the videos showed us medieval castles, tiny European alleyways, happy bicyclers rolling through the bustling streets of Paris, elegant ladies sipping their ruby wine, and of course, la Tour Eiffel, usually dramatically lit up at night. My years of French study must have crystallized these alluring images in my brain, and coupled with my extremely favorable first impression of French, solidified France to me as a strange and wondrous paradise, with the Eiffel Tower standing proud as its representative.
Thus the happygasm. I was riding the train to Paris with two of my friends who were also studying abroad, completely oblivious that a happygasm was bubbling just under the surface, ready to leap out and attack innocent bystanders. Actually, it's not as dramatic as all that. But I did get funny looks. Some seemed to say “Is she on drugs?” Others seemed embarrassed by my display, as if I were being totally amateur, and they wouldn't dream of being so green as to clap for the Eiffel Tower. Yes, I clapped a little. I couldn't help it. I also squealed. It sounded something like “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODIT'STHEEIFFELTOWERRRRRRRRRRR!WE'REINPARISOHMYGOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!” My grin was so abnormally huge it made my face hurt and my eyes water, and it probably frightened onlookers. I also bounced on my seat and couldn't stop laughing. I mean, I was like a kid getting a pony, only more spastic. It was probably totally out of proportion with the situation. My companions weren't nearly so silly, but my behavior made them laugh (not anything like my psycho clown laugh, though). The funny thing is that I was acting similar to the group of small children that were sitting in front of us, who were probably also seeing the Tower for the first time (although my reaction was decidedly stronger).
My abs and cheeks were still on fire when another manic cycle of uncontrollable laughter took me over later that day, this time when I'd finally made it to just underneath the Eiffel Tower. I had, of course, finally managed to calm down somewhat and process the amazing fact that I was walking around in Paris. But then a bird pooped on my friend Melissa's head.
Under the Eiffel Tower there is a sort of concession stand, so there were plenty of people walking around with napkins. While my other traveling companion, Tadj, and I were bent double at her unfortunate predicament, she walked frantically around the grounds, seeking out napkin-holders. The trouble is, under duress, her French wasn't that great. So she repeatedly raced up to people and shouted, “Napkin! Napkin!” while pointing at her head. Most of them gathered their small children closer and hurried away. At this point I'm laughing so hard I'm crying, and neither Tadj nor I are helping her out. Increasingly frustrated, she finally cut line at the concession stand and asked quite loudly and desperately to please have a napkin. But what she was saying, translated to English, was, “A bird! On my head! A bird! On my head! Napkin!” They thought she was crazy. There was clearly no bird on her head, and why was she screaming napkin?
She finally managed to get a napkin, no thanks to Tadj and me, and tried to clean her hair. I think she was not too happy with us. I got that when she kept repeating, “Stop laughing! It's not FUNNY! Ok you can stop now. Is is seriously that funny?” She wasn't laughing.
***
The initial excitement I felt was well justified. Paris is worth it. Paris is like a city of the gods. It's as if it was built on a completely different scale, a much larger, much grander one than what we're used to in the States. Everywhere you look there are enormous, old, beautiful buildings. I mean huge buildings. Some take up entire city blocks. And thankfully they're not ugly; to the contrary, they are incredibly beautiful, reflecting styles that have come and gone and which were designed to be aesthetically pleasing,as well as impressive. And you realize you're looking at buildings that have been standing for hundreds of years, and have known more people than you ever will. The streets are made on the same grand scale. Just look at the Champs Elysees! Eight lanes! And yet there are still so many little streets and alleys that have existed before cars were around and therefore are not big enough for them. There are entire sections of the city where wonderful boutiques, shops, cafes and the like crowd little alleys and skinny streets where only people can go, without their machines. You can walk freely in the middle of the road. It's like you can feel the history tingling in the air, to be extra cheesy. You know that you're in a world famous city, where you can find anything, absolutely anything and everything around any corner. That's Paris.
Le sigh. Paris, je t'aime!
