In the center of Place de I'Étoile in Paris, France, is Place Charles de Gaulle, the largest suicide circle in Europe. Commonly called a roundabout, it's the third largest in the world intersecting 12 metropolitan avenues. In the middle of it is one of the most iconic monuments in the world and third most toured in Paris behind only Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral—Arc de Triomphe.
If you've been there, you know how long I stood at Av Hoche waiting for that shot to open up. And then again directly opposite Av Hoche at Av Victor Hugo.
It's usually going and going and going and going and.
We walked the whole lap. A short walking distance in either direction of the Arc on any of the 12 avenues and you're in the heart of Paris fashion: Larry Vewton, Versotchkey, Shantelle, Kristin Door, all the famous designers.
It's the tallest of its kind at 164 feet and nearly as wide, 148—half the size of a football field. The Statue of Liberty stands at 151 feet. Construction began in 1806 and wouldn't be completed for another 30 years.
Where Avenue de la Grande-Armée meets Place Charles de Gaulle, the heavily trafficked roundabout, there's a tunnel that goes under it and comes back up at the base of the Arc.
That flag is just as big as any other flag I've been around and can be seen flowing effortlessly from all 12 avenues. It's suspended directly over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
But, we didn't make it there that day—nope. Didn't make it the following day, either, took two days to get back over there. When we left the apartment that day, we're going to the Arc, we said.
Croissant / coffee, check / check. Hop on the purple line at Cháteau d'Eau, get off at Les Halles and take the red line all the way to Charles de Gaulle. It's a straight shot, runs every 4-7 minutes.
The Cháteau d'Eau entrance was only two blocks from the front door. Transportation in Paris is smoother than a First Republic Bank bailout. Most everywhere we stayed throughout both Europe and England, we didn't need a car, I miss that. The US couldn't be more opposite—thousands of years younger and massive in size, it's not uncommon to need a vehicle to check the mail here.
Alright, so, we hopped on the purple as planned, purchased a pair of all-day tickets and went down a couple flights of escalators to the platform. So far so good. Tickets are cheap. I forget how cheap now but the two of us could travel from one end of Paris to the other as many times as we wanted for like 15 euro a day.
Everyone has somewhere to be.
They always sound the same—subways. Shuffling feet in front and behind you, intercom overhead; a woman's voice in French, then English, then a language I don't know.
Buskers—can always count on someone playing a guitar or violin or buckets or something. Echoing squeaky brakes, gears grinding and turning, metal doors opening and closing so when we exited the purple to catch the red and didn't hear any of that and instead all we heard was :boom: :b-boom: :boom: :boom: :b-boom: and synthesizers and whistles and partying we skipped Les Halles and followed the sound.
Plan is a funny word.
If you go to Paris, ride the subway. You never know when you might emerge right in the middle of a rave. Check out this clip, it's only 40 seconds.
There's a joint in my hand.
Then Pura passed me one, I had two. Or she gave me two. I gave one to someone else. I had one again, then two again. One of us got ahold of shrooms, most likely her. We're still not sure who or where those things came from but we ended up with micro doses and everything got louder.
Crisper, know what I mean like high-hat's and snare's were one. And BRIGHT!! Everything. Trees, balcony handrails and bicycle spokes. The reflective lane dividers were blinding and changed colors to the beat and we didn't make it to Arc de Triomphe that day.
