The Natural History Museum: Larger than Life

Larger than life seems to be an American expression-- things in France are much more understated and, in theory, more refined. The one place this seems to dissolve is in the Natural History Museum (Grande Galerie de l'Evolution). Located on the left bank, inside the walls of the Jardin des Plantes, this newly-renovated museum is awe-inspiring as soon as you walk in the door. This ode to taxidermy presents elephants, giraffes, butterflies and whales among other species, in a style that allows you to get as up close & personal with a lion as you would ever want. The African animals, for example, are put together in a scene mimicking an African valley. There are videos along the sides to show you actual footage of the area, complete with moving grass and elephants.



Whether your group includes a 9 month old or a 9 year old, this museum is a great stop-- and, ironically perhaps, something you don't see often in the U.S. Sometimes even the French are larger than life.

Overall rating: ****


Grande Galerie d'Evolution in the Jardin des Plantes
Address: 36, rue Geoffroy St. Hilaire, 5th arrondisement
Metro: Jussieu or Austerlitz
Website: www.mnhn.fr
Map:

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Going Home

American writer Gertrude Stein once said, "America is my country, but Paris is my home town." Having lived there twice and been a tourist several times in between, I couldn't agree more. It's one of the cities that captures your heart in a very real and personal way.

While I tend to be somewhat opinionated, and perhaps outspoken at times, I try to make a point of expressing myself without attempting to convince others I am right. For the most part, I'm not certain I am right. My conclusions about global warming, the economy, abortion and other hot topics are based on the information I've gotten from others to this point and are thoroughly intertwined with my principles, values and beliefs. Just because it all fits together for me in a certain way doesn't mean it will for someone else. My experiences in Paris, however, were ascertained first hand and, although my feelings on the subject are very emotional, I somehow feel qualified to convince others of the city's beauty and stature.

Given my wonderful experiences in Paris, it always perplexes me when I hear someone speaking negatively about their time there, and almost feel insulted, as if they were speaking of a dear friend. I've found a number of reasons people don't understand the city, but most of it revolves around Americans trying to "check off" experiencing Paris on a laundry list of things to do. I, personally, don't believe that you can really experience anything on a timeline for the simple reason that the timeline itself distracts you from the experience.

I was at a restaurant the other night and, in the same manner that you can hear someone saying your name even if you aren't listening, I happened to hear the people behind me talking about their recent time in Paris. Much to my relief (and enjoyment), they talked about how much they loved the city. They hadn't really intended to spend time there, so they went with no timeline, nothing to "check off" and had a simply marvelous time. They sat in cafes, sipped wine, walked along the Seine and made their way into the Louvre. In my (not-so) humble opinion, they experienced Paris in a weekend far more than the tourists who arrive, lists in hand, ready to conquer the city in one week.

The beauty of Gertrude Stein's quote is that it is really a telling statement on how Paris should be explored. When I return to my hometown, I sometimes arrive, list in hand, ready to conquer it. I see the people I want to see, do the things I want to do, and return to real life tired, having missed the experience all together. Other times, I go home and let life happen. I may not see all the people I want to see and I may not do all the things I want to do, but I return feeling like I walked down Main Street. The difference is subtle, but it's very real. I hope I can go home again soon.

A Little Joie de Vivre

I often wish I could bottle my children’s passion for living. When they are excited, every ounce of their bodies seems to shake with glee; when they are sad, you would think the whole world had crumbled at their feet. Perhaps as adults, we can’t get that excited because we simply can't get that depressed— we’re supposed to achieve some level of perspective, but the happy part doesn’t sound so bad.

In some ways, being a tourist is much like being a child; You see everything for the first time, find even the most mundane details interesting and dress for comfort, instead of style (at least to some degree).

I’ve lived in Paris twice now and been a “tourist” here many times in between, but having lived here first, I never really experienced the city as a tourist. I spent all my time trying to fit in— wanting to look, speak and act the role of a Parisian. I did it quite well, actually, but only recently did I realize I missed something.

So, in order to give real tourism a try, I bought a ticket and boarded the cheesy tourist boats that make their way up and down the Seine every day. I couldn’t think of anything more "touristy"- and they didn’t let me down.

As we made our way down the river (the guide giving his pathetically brief description of the world’s most treasured monuments), a funny thing started to happen. I noticed that after every description, the whole crowd started clicking their digital cameras. At first I scoffed at them. Wouldn’t it be so much better to buy a reprint of an image by a talented professional who wasn’t bobbing up and down the river as they clicked away? And then I realized that it wasn’t about having the best picture—or even a great picture. Instead, it was about being free to think everything was beautiful, new and interesting—and also about capturing the memory of that freedom. Shortly thereafter, I started clicking away. It felt very child-like. It felt good.

Now, whenever I see that look of excitement cross my children’s faces, I not only recognize it, but I understand it, too. In fact, I'm even a bit envious of it. Perhaps joie de vivre is a French thing or perhaps it is a gift of childhood; either way I truly hope I preserved a bit of it with the clicks of my camera. If not, perhaps a little red burgundy will inspire me.

Curiosity Killed the Afternoon

They say Curiosity Killed the Cat and, if so, I probably should have died a good half-dozen times by now. My deep curiosity seems to land me in some... precarious situations. It recently landed me in Paris' Museum of Curiosity and Magic. What could be more perfect?

The guidebook said it was great for kids- there was a show and lots to see. Given my quest to find the best activities for toddlers, it seemed ideal. Pulling bunnies out of hats and colorful scarves out of a sleeve would keep anyone captivated-- even a toddler!

Walking down into the museum, however, I was acutely aware that I was entering a cave and hoped desperately they weren't going to try me as an escape artist once I got inside. The museum itself was probably quite interesting in the 1980s when it opened, but would have more accurately been called a museum of the history of magic. There were many antique magic tricks encased in glass with French descriptions and a few that moved but, frankly, nothing my toddlers were so interested in seeing. On top of that, the show was more descriptive than "show" and was again, naturally, in French. I spent the afternoon in the magic museum rather similar to how I would spend it at the Louvre- chasing the kids, saying "don't touch," and trying to figure out why I had thought this was a good idea in the first place.

Re-emerging into the daylight, we made our way to a park and had a great time running, climbing and sliding. I quickly realized that curiosity should have killed this museum long ago. It certainly nearly killed our afternoon.

Stalking Cinderella

Having toddlers around means sometimes doing things you would never otherwise do. I occasionally swing on swings, read board books and I’ve been known to attend imaginary tea parties. I know the names of all the Thomas trains and can sing at least a dozen Laurie Berkner songs by heart. Having young children not only gives you the opportunity to do these things, it actually gives you license to relive a bit of your childhood. To that end, my husband and I recently found ourselves on the RER line headed towards Euro Disney. It wasn’t that we had always dreamed of going, nor that our children had been begging for it. It more seemed like one of those experiences that would bring out the child in each of us.

Arriving at the gates was fully reminiscent of the gates at Disney parks in the U.S. The magic of Disney seemed to emanate from each and every corner and I found myself becoming almost giddy as we made our way inside. We did all the toddler-friendly activities we could find— ate lunch at Buzz Lightyear’s Pizza Planet, toured “It’s a Small World,” met Tigger and Baloo and tried removing the sword from Excalibur’s stone. The thing that was really going to leave an impression on me, however, was meeting Cinderella— or, more to the point— almost not meeting Cinderella.

When we arrived in France, my 2-year-old daughter, Kate, had no interest in anything feminine. It remained that way until the day she happened to see the movie Cinderella— the music, the animals, the dresses, she was fascinated with it all. I went from having the perfect little tomboy to a pretty, pretty princess practically overnight— all due to the power of Cinderella.

The line to meet Cinderella was an hour long, which is a lifetime in toddler speak. I sat there weighing the drawback of spending an entire hour trying to keep Kate in line against the joy of making her dream come true. I didn’t want to be one of those moms who torture her children for a “fun experience” but I convinced myself this was different. I decided to go for it.

About half way through our wait, I noticed some activity up ahead and realized the princesses were trading out. Suddenly an hour waiting to meet Cinderella became an hour to meet Jasmine. In no time at all my Mickey Mouse ears came off and I became a calculating opportunist focused exclusively on making sure my daughter (who certainly won’t remember this watershed event) met Cinderella. I was one of those moms, after all. In fact, I probably bore a strong resemblance to some of the cheerleader moms that appear on the evening news, but I digress. With Kate under my arm and my camera in hand, I ran for it.

Thankfully there was a crowd gathering around Cinderella, so she wasn’t moving too quickly. I knew that getting in the midst of the crowd would get me nowhere fast, so I ran around the crowd and put myself directly in her path. She noticed us (how could she not?) and gave us a half smile while explaining that she could not stop. I snapped a couple pictures as we walked, but more importantly, Kate got to meet her.

In the end, Kate was thrilled to meet her, though it probably wasn’t worth the guerilla tactics used to get us there. As for me, well my Mickey Mouse ears are now firmly back in place and I can cross meeting Cinderella off my “to do” list. Perhaps I should just replace it with stalking her, though. At least that would be accurate.