“You can take a picture of something something you see, In the future where will I be?"
-Talk, Coldplay

Day 3: Tuesday, November 29th, 2005.
AKA Concert day, or the day we realized the incompetence of EMI Music and the people at the Bercy arena.

Very long and filled with pictures!

The day started off well (not that it ended badly either) with a delicious breakfast of croissants and other pastries we bought from a café. And I do love pastries or just anything that’s non-chocolate and comprised of sugar in general.

We used the hop on hop off tour bus again for the second day. It picked us up from the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, or what I take to be some sort of National Library and Archives-type place (something I am all too familiar with here in Canada). The bus took us past along the Seine, past the Palais Omnisports de Bercy arena where we would be seeing Coldplay that night. The arena itself is one of the weirdest things I have seen. I’m expecting the ACC or Corel Centre or some monstrosity like the Skydome (no, I will not refer to it as the Rogers Centre. I hate Rogers, with the exception of their delightful video stores where I purchase used DVDs). Instead, it is this concave (convex? I never could remember which was which), upside-down bowl like thing, but with much sharper and severe edges that a gently sloping bowl with blue metal “legs” sticking out of it in spider-like fashion. And the steep sides are covered in grass. You heard me. It’s weird.

Our bus tour took us past the Bastille, and we jumped off at the George Pompidou Centre, which is a modern art museum, among other things. We didn’t go in- they were having a Martin Scorsese retrospective and I just didn’t care- but took pictures outside in the weird sculpture fountain. I love weird sculptures more than Martin Scorsese anyway. The red zig zag is actually an escalator.

Weird....

From there, we walked over the Opera Garnier and caught another hop on/off bus route that took us up to Montmartre. We stopped at the Moulin Rouge and took pictures of the windmill (sadly, there is no Ewan McGregor here in real life, nor any singing of Police songs in tango format) and ate cheeseburgers at the restaurant next door. I had seen the show- Feerie- last year when I was in Paris with my Mom, so we decided to skip it this time around. Walking through Montmartre is always interesting because nestled amidst the picturesque views and old buildings are peep shows, sex shops, and the Museum of Erotica. Aside from the more seedy side where men shove pamphlets for nude revues at you, it is also the garment and fabric district so many shops have yards of beautiful fabrics on display.

Perched at the top of the hill of Montmartre is Sacre Coeur, a basilica. Why it is shaped like that, I don’t know, but it’s pretty. And there is a carousel at the bottom of the hill. There are also street peddlers who will try to grab your finger and start braiding a string bracelet for you to which, if they catch you, you cannot escape. Luckily, I knew they were there, told Rusty to put his hands in his pockets and ignore them. It almost worked until one actually grabbed my finger and pried my it out of a fist before I slapped his hand away. We didn’t go into Sacre Coeur, because it is much nicer on the outside and I had been in before. But the views from the top of the hill were spectacular as the sun was shining and it was actually warm.
We hopped on a metro and decided to make our way to Pere Lachaise cemetery. Not that I’m morbid, but I am fascinated by cemeteries, having worked in one for 3 summers (Best. Job. Ever.), and there are several famous residents interred in the cemetery. I had made a map of where certain people were buried before we left on the trip so I knew where we were going once we got there. Now, I know some of you find cemeteries creepy, but I happen to find them very peaceful and beautiful. This cemetery was gorgeous. All the leaves were a bright shade of yellow. I saw a pretty black cat that I wanted to pet but then this man scared him away and asked us if we wanted him to show us Jim Morrison's grave, which was directly behind him, for some money. We said no. Or non, actually.

We found Georges Melies, one of the founders of cinema (A Trip to the Moon). I enjoy his bust perched atop the grave. Somethign to consider for the future: your image glaring at anyone who comes to visit.

Eugene Delacroix, a French painter (Liberty Leading the People, which we saw in the Louvre) who I studied for years in art in high school and university. The one I really wanted to see was Oscar Wilde. The little spots on the monument are actually lipstick marks. Like Hell I would kiss a grave. It’s not like it’s the Blarney Stone or anything. And of course, the everyone’s favourite, Jim Morrison. It’s actually fenced off and there is a guard there because people used to have sex on it and drink around it so now it is guarded. A little underwhelming if you ask me. But then again, who am I to judge people on their graves?

We went back to the hotel and I had a much needed nap before getting ready for the concert. Now, as per my instructions (which I received with my plane tickets on Thursday before we left…and we left on Saturday) we were to pick up our tickets at the box office because my name was to be on the Coldplay guestlist. We walked to the arena, and first of all, no one could tell us where the box office was. Like people who worked there didn’t know, in English or in French since Rusty was my bilingual mouthpiece. We finally found it. It was in this bizarre cement tunnel under the weird grass walls of the arena. It was this tiny window in the middle of the tunnel. First the girl couldn’t find my name on the guestlist. Then she couldn’t find the envelope with the tickets. She finally did and I opened the envelope and there were only tickets in them that were marked “Invitation” on them, no passes. I asked her about going backstage and she said she didn’t know anything about what was inside the envelopes, and someone inside could help.

We get into the arena, buy our t-shirts for 35 Euros, and look for our seats. This is like the ACC. There’s only one entrance and then you walk up these stairs and around the arena looking for your gate. When you get to the gate, there are no numbers on the seats or aisles so women walk you to your seat and demand a tip. Imagine being at the very top of the ACC and having to walk all the way down steps to the floor area. Steep steps. Imagine that everyone else smokes, but you and the air is filled with a haze. We asked her and anyone else we could find about backstage passes. No one had any idea. Decided to find an Info desk. There aren’t any. Look for a payphone to call the only number I have in Canada as I don’t have a contact in Paris. No payphones. Something is wrong, and no one can help us, but at least we have our tickets.

The opener was a woman called Goldfrapp who I was vaguely familiar with when it came to movie soundtracks (like Disco Pigs) which is the only place I really ever hear British techno. She and her band are very Scissor Sisters, but not nearly as good.

At the intermission (no, I don’t mean the Colin Farrell/Cillian Murphy movie Intermission, although that would be nice) we tracked down someone else about the tickets and were told that we had the wrong tickets to go backstage. So we sucked it up and, while we were disappointed, rejoiced in our fantastic seats, close to the stage in a VIP section and 2 rows up from the floor. Speaking of the floor, they crammed more people than can fit into that arena on the floor. Usually, the ACC floor is 2/3 full with enough space for people to mill about at the back. Not in France! People were sandwiched in like sardines, even in their winter coats. There were so many people that even the entrance way to the floor was filled. And everyone is still smoking. This probably accounts for the fact that not 1, not 2, but 9 people passed out and had to be carried away by paramedics or in stretchers throughout the show. And that was just from what we could see on our side of the stage.

The pre-show highlight was that “Make Poverty History” video campaign with celebs wearing the white band (I’m wearing mine!). There was mild applause for George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and more applause for Christ Martin when he came on. But it ended with Bono and everyone went nuts and screamed. The French love Bono the way Germans love David Hasselhoff (do they Heidi??). Even video Bono is a good Bono.

Coldplay were great. Lots of energy. Played all my fave songs and Rusty’s (Green Eyes). For Yellow, giant yellow balloons fell from the sky and were filled with gold confetti. This fact escaped most of the crowd as they threw the balloons back onstage so Chris Martin and co. smashed them with guitars. They played Don’t Panic from a smaller stage in the front of the regular stage. Chris ran all the way up to the top of the audience on those steep steps for one song. Fix You was played with the swinging of the light like the video and was their final song. Weird thing is is that the audience sat most of the time. That never would have happened here. People would have been jumping from the first song. The concert was good, not U2 caliber, but then who is? I’d put it on my top 10. The concert got me more excited for their show here in March. So much so that I am glancing casually at eBay for their second TO show…

Okay, this post is unbearably long, so tune in tomorrow for more from Paris.

I wish our subway stops were this nice...instead we have fighting hobos to welcome us underground...

I turned down free passes to Memoirs of a Geisha tonight. It's not somethign I want to see. I've also been told to skip The Ice Harvest. That makes me sad. I loves the John Cusack. I even saw Must Love Dogs, voluntarily. I still might go see Proof at the discount theatre if I can overcome my aversion to Jerk Gyllenhaal.

And I asked the EMI Music rep if I could have backstage passes to Coldplay at the ACC in March to make up for their screw up...I'll keep you posted. perhpas I will meet the band on Canadian soil. If not, oh well. It's not like I missed Bono or something. And Chris Martin is no Bono, in the looks or vocal stylings department (yes, I'm sorry. I know several of you love him, but this is my blog and my rules. Bono is the king).

OVERRATED: Blogger. I spent a solid 1.5 hours trying to put up a column of what I'm reading/watching, etc., only to get an error and lose everything I had spent so much time on. I'll get to that next week I guess.
UNDERRATED: People (KATE) who email me to tell me that they're disappointed that I left the over/underrated section off of my blog. While it implies that I am a slacker for leaving it off, it shows that you care. And you like me. You really like me.

"I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak"