But first I dressed and strolled down to breakfast at 8 a.m., where I joined Lisa, Jim, Madelyn (an 80-year-old retired schoolteacher who valiantly attempted - and occasionally failed - to maintain the tour's steady pace), and Edna, for perhaps the last time. (Sigh.)
The day's first event was a 9 a.m. Metro ride to the Musee de l'Orangerie, a small, relatively peaceful museum (much more accessible than the Louvre and d'Orsay) that is home to works by Picasso, Renoir, Matisse, Cezanne, and most famously, Monet's Water Lilies.
It was a quick visit (approximately 90 minutes), but I saw what I wanted to see (I dare say, most everything) and then we were off to Montmarte, a packed tourist hub containing souvenir shops and cafes, Moulin Rouge, and Sacre Coeur. Thankfully we rode the funicular (an enclosed lift) up the hill, saving precious time and energy, both of which were desperately needed, and made a beeline for a restaurant, where I ordered a chicken salad and cafe creme.
After lunch, I left my tour mates and hightailed it outside to snap exterior photos of the adjacent Sacre Coeur, hastily navigating my way downhill to the Metro, where I rode several stops to Pere Lachaise, Paris's largest and most touristy cemetery. (I figured spending my final afternoon in a Paris cemetery was a fitting farewell to the city.) Once off the Metro, I wandered around (as I'm prone to doing) and finally Google Mapped my way to a cemetery entrance. Then I continued wandering (which is too easy to do there, even if you're not directionally-challenged, as I am) while attempting to locate Jim Morrison's grave (the primary reason for my visit). Google Maps directed me outside the cemetery, which wasn't terribly helpful.
In short, there was significant aimless wandering, boundless frustration, and profuse sweating (the temperature was 80 degrees and sunny) before I finally got serious and downloaded a cemetery map onto my phone that was easy to follow. Finally, at least 45 minutes into my search, I found what I believe was Jim Morrison's burial site. (I'll admit I almost expected neon flashing signs, which, of course, weren't there.) It is fenced in due to decades of naughty tourists, so I wasn't close enough to be sure, but I joined a throng of tourists, snapped a few photos, and decided to call it a visit. I would have liked to stay longer and visit the other famous residents - Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Chopin - but I needed ample time to find the Metro and wander back to the hotel to freshen up after I collapsed.
Fortunately, my return was much less problematic, and I briefly rested before retaking the Metro across the city to Les Capucines Cafe, yet another swanky Parisian restaurant that was much nicer than I would have chosen, where I sat with Lisa, Anne, Dave, Mary, and Jim at one of three long tables. After feasting on an incredible French onion soup appetizer (with approximately 1 lb of melted shredded cheese adorning the top), Louis walked by and asked if I would eat beef. Though I don't usually eat red meat, and would have preferred something else, I was willing to eat whatever I was served (when in Paris, right?!), so I told him that was fine. "Are you sure?" he asked twice, as if he didn't believe me, and I said yes.
And then, confusion. The waiter brought out fish and beef entrees and asked me to choose (or so I thought...). He offered me fish, and I said that was fine. (I would eat whatever he gave me.) And then, chaos. Lisa asked me if I'd ordered fish. I didn't, of course. (I hadn't ordered anything.) "That's someone's fish," she told me. And then, disaster. Alerted to the situation, and assuming that I was refusing to eat the beef he'd apparently ordered for me, Louis started yelling - "I ASKED YOU!!! - and wildly gesturing at me. Then two waiters appeared next to me, conversing frantically in French, each one grabbing one side of the plate (in a ridiculous tug-of-war) and asking (I assume) if they should take or leave it. And there I was, in the middle of it all, utterly confused, embarrassed, and chastised.
It might have been a humorous scene from a sitcom (a real French farce), but I wasn't laughing. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, the troublesome fish was redistributed to its rightful owner, and I was in tears, sniffling, wiping my eyes, and excusing myself to the ladies room to cry it out before reluctantly pulling myself together and returning to my beef dinner.
I didn't want to cry in front of anyone, but the rest of the evening was spoiled. Unfortunately, no one wanted to leave me alone with my misery. Anne (the finicky tour mate whose special demands were partly to blame for the whole unpleasant affair) offered me a bite of her fish and a now-calm, contrite, apologetic Louis made several attempts to speak with me before he disappeared and returned with a mea culpa Eiffel Tower keychain from a souvenir stand down the street, which made me cry all over again. All I wanted was to return to my room, but additional obligatory group activities - photos, goodbyes, a farewell speech from Louis, and drinks at a bar - prolonged an unbearable evening. Rather than excusing myself (not wanting to create another scene), I silently, sullenly endured it all.
Finally, much later than I would have liked, I walked back to my room and promptly fell apart. All of my emotion - the excitement, stress, embarrassment, anxiety, and melancholy that I felt - poured out that evening. Paris hadn't always been the fantasy I'd imagined - especially at that moment - but I dreaded leaving it for the mundane reality of my regular everyday life at home.
