Friday  –  Off to the Metro, which is indeed a breeze to use for the Louvre. The entry corridors and halls are jammed – midday is prime time – but again, I am waved past the lines and today bound straight into the arms of the Dutch, German and Russian painters. I elect to go without an audio guide, and pay attention to where my eyes go and my fancy pulls me. The twin themes of the day are ladies reading – naked, elaborately dressed, and on sarcophagi – and shoes. Fops, knights, maidens and emperors all have the most astonishing footwear.

 Around three I am limping, just a little. My feet ache, quelle surprise. Now I’m hungry and decide to set off in search Café Renard in the Tuilaries.  Out I go and realize the Louvre is overwarm and stuffy because it’s glorious outside, cool and fresh. I am halfway through the garden at the round pool when I have the I’ve been here before, déjà vu feeling and realized I know this place from paintings, particularly the impressionists.

 Trees are in pink blossom, violets and dandelions dot the grass, tulips and daffodils are still in flower. The gravel in the broad walkway has been ground into a fine powder by the feet of a million tourists, and gray dust coats my black jeans from the calf down. I find the café amidst the trees, have an indifferent mini-quiche Lorraine and a delicious cappuccino Viennese.  I worry for two seconds about the advisability of caffeine so late in the day, but figure I need whatever it takes get to keep me upright until 9.

 Back through the gardens to the Louvre, this time to listening to Jason Aldean’s Take A Little Ride’. On the way back noticed the original statue of the centaur carrying off the maiden. I’ve posted a photo of it on Facebook, captioned Robert and I leaving on our honeymoon, but didn’t know where it was from. I asked a passing Asian tourist to take my photo with it, and she obliged, but alas, the idea I wanted the statue in the frame didn’t translate.

By now my feet were numb and my calves and knees ached. I went straight to the grand hall of statues, sat on some handy steps and drew the front of one of the statues I sketched yesterday. After an hour I was joined by three small children, (maybe 4, 7 and 9)  They asked questions – how long does this take to do? What’s the easiest part to draw? Where do you get this toned paper sketchbook? What part do you have left to do? The most curious and vocal was the middle child, a girl, who fielded the questions her little brother asked and told me they were from Dubai. The youngest one sat down and leaned against my side to watch me draw. They were fearless and fascinated. I told her to Google art supply stores in Paris, and bring a sketchbook with her tomorrow, recalling how much my son had enjoyed that when he was in Rome with me. They were clearly well to do and educated; her English was excellent and they were all well mannered and unafraid of even strange adults.  They were with me maybe 20 minutes, while their caretakers watched them from a distance. I have all kinds of backstories for them in my head.

Eventually they left and I finished the drawing. It was only 7, so I decided to visit the Napoleon III apartments. Needless to say, he put the grand in grandeur, the decor version of shock and awe.  The only thing that really got to me was the bed of Madame Recamier (violet and yellow silk, and Egyptian influences on the frame), and the chair throne. Just the initial B, but in truly extraordinary embroidery.  You know your feet hurt when the strongest impression of the apartments are the wooden floors, so yielding after hours on unforgiving marble.

Somehow wandered into the medieval section and was limping through it when I realized I might run out of ability to walk before the Louvre closed, so made my way towards Denon wing where the masters of the Italian renaissance and Miss Mona reside.

The stairs were still swarming with people, but as many were leaving as were arriving, so that was a hopeful sign. Slowly made my way into the grand hall. Ah, no wonder its packed out. It’s not just Mona, it’s the grace and magnificence that Raphael and da Vinci and Titian and all their brethren possess in such abundance. It’s the greatest hits of the renaissance album. Everything’s excellent.

The best part was a surprise. There were young people stationed throughout, wearing orange and black teeshirts with ‘Les Jeunes ont la Parole’ printed on them. Orange is the new black even here.  They were art history students and this turned out to be a part of their curriculum, to explain various works of art in depth. They spoke a charming if rudimentary English, better than my toddler French for sure.

There was a gawky, red-headed lad in front of Veronese’s ginourmas Wedding in Cana. He held an ipad in has hand while he walked me through the various elements – how it came to France as a spoil of Napoleonic war, transported from Italy by soldiers who cut it in half, the identity of some of the figures, the way Mary looks as if she is holding an invisible wine cup, a hint to her son to get cracking with the miracle. Talking with someone as interested as I am is rare, you know?  A young woman discussed Correggio’s Mystical Marriage of Catherine and St. Stephen  all sublime tenderness and repose in the faces with brutal scenes of their martyrdoms in the background. One older woman student and I talked about finding our bliss in art after our children were launched,, as well as some fascinating details about Raphael’s portrait of the perfect gentleman Baldassare Clastiglione.  On my way to the exit, I said hey to Mona, who seems to be mostly used as a selfie photo op. She said to tell y’all hi.

Barely able to walk by now, in pain up to my hips, I limped to the street, found the correct Metro in the dark, stumbled to my apartment and collapsed. Ate an éclair and a cup of tea at 10:30 for dinner. More anon.

Headed out to an arts and crafts street market I looked up online, and used yellow marker to transfer the directions to my paper map. Feeling pretty cocky, I trotted along to music, courtesy of my kids – Kangeroo Court, Tech Romance and Katy Perry’s Dark Horse. After a twenty minutes I started to wonder if I had the day wrong, but the walk was so pretty – trees just hazed with pale green in the Place de Voges, a series of parks, each with a different garden design, down the middle of Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, grave old men strolling with their insouciant little dogs. The sky was blue, sun was out, life was good. Decided after a couple of miles to check Google maps and zut alors, I had gone in the wrong direction. Chastened and humbled I turned around headed back.  This time I kept my phone out and map app open. Got to the market (next to the Bastille – duh)  and cruised up and down looking at every vendor. I hate to say this, but it was lame, and I suspect half of it came from China. It made Atlanta’s Dogwood Festival artists market look ready for the Museé D’Orsay. Here is the lesson: the time I spent lost was better than the plan I made.

By then it’s 12:30, and my next stop is a church, Sainte Elisabeth de Hongrie, (195 Rue du Temple), to light a candle for a friend who lost his son in tragic circumstances six months ago. Afterwards, I start to crash. I haven’t eaten, I’ve walked four miles, two of them lost, and I am suddenly whipped. A couple of streets away, on an uncrowded corner, I find my sanctuary. It’ a little bistro that reminds me of the photographs of Brassai, all worn dark wood, red walls and mirrors. I greet the proprietress and order a café crème and a slice of cherry apple tart. So, so good.

Revived, indeed I think Lazarus would’ve sat up for that tart, I start out towards The Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature (62 Rue des Archives). En route I spy a tiny Yorkshire terrier outside of a flower shop, wearing a little harness with perfectly proportionate, iridescent butterfly wings. I cannot express how adorable and French this is. Everywhere I look, even the children are chic, especially the little girls. Barrettes match tiny sunglasses, socks pick up the pattern in the coat. Simple yet accessorized. Nothing is careless, yet the effect is effortless.  What might seem prim or pretentious at home looks charming and correct here.

 Onward and upward.  I find the museum using both paper map and Google map on my phone. It was amazing. Ideal! Everything I had hoped and more. Not only does it have amazing paintings by masters of the genre like Chardin, but they have a collection of ornate guns from the 1700s, back when they were called blunderbusses. Every firearm is inlaid from sight to stock with intricate embellishments of silver, mother of pearl, bone and gold. The facility itself is grand, with chandeliers, antique tapestried chairs, damask drapes with tasseled tiebacks. This is juxtaposed with modern bronze door pulls and bannisters which appear covered in leaves and feathers.

Wonderful paintings of hunting dogs, rabbits, boar, deer and foxes. Lots of excellent studies of birds. There’s even a unicorn room, with carved horns reputed to be from the mythical beasts. No virgins, but there’s a video of a white unicorn standing in a deluge of rain that slowly washes away the white paint, revealing a black horse wearing a harness with a horn attached.

The narrow, high-ceilinged trophy room had an odd smell and a plethora of stuffed and mounted beasts that to my modern eye just looked pitiful, especially the wolf, badger, tiger, bears and lioness. Boar and deer, not so much.  I guess if I’ve seen it on a plate, I have a different response. The best strange moment was realizing the red cat curled up on a tapestry chair was a stuffed fox.

The worst was on the top floor that had an installation piece created around photos of monkeys eating at a table. The awful part was two dead stuffed gorillas. It was like seeing grandma and grandpa stuffed and mounted. Creepy.

 The very oddest thing was a large bear in the center of one of the traditional rooms of paintings.  A big beast to be sure, but not bigger than the grizzly and polar posed in other rooms. Two rooms later there are drawings, sculpture, and a video feed of the artist who was living inside the bear for three weeks. I am not making this up. It’s performance art, they explained. You could watch the guy who was reading a book when I was there. (the author’s name on the spine was Haruki Murakami.) There was a diagram showing exactly how he fit inside and where his a water supply and air and food were located, along with, ew,  a way to eliminate waste. Crazy. But especially in this museum, in this context. I want to return and do some drawings.

  

I started back to the apartment by way of a little shop recommended to me, Pasta Linea, run by the Italian grandmother you wished you had. Only a few tables, the veritable hole in the wall, but perfect for take out. I opted for the vegetable lasagna and she added fresh parmesan and a half a baguette. (10E). At Miss Manon, I picked up a Greek salad and almond raspberry tart (7E). That’s my dinner. It was superb.

This morning I set the walking distance counter in my iPod, just to see how far I am walking daily. Seven miles today.

 

 

 

 

My calves whimpered. The soles of my feet ached. My hips wanted to stay in bed. Sunday, day of rest, right? But I just couldn’t resist the lure of Paris. I promised myself I would take it easy.

A bonjour to the nice staff of Miss Manon, who anticipate my une noisette, s’il vous plait order. I planned to just amble around a bit in the Marais. Do a little window shopping, maybe do an audio walking tour. I headed down Rue Saint-Paul in no haste. I kept half an eye out for an interesting knife to put in a painting, and a sky blue cotton scarf. I wasn’t far from the river when I heard drumming and the smell of oranges hit me.

Turns out the halfway mark (20 kilometers) of the Paris marathon route was at the end of my street. Volunteers were tossing out bottles of water and quartered oranges. There was a helpful row of toilettes portatives. The front runners had already crossed the finish line, but waves of plucky marathoners kept rolling by, bodies in motion as far as the eye could see. Squashed orange skins were flung all over the street and looked like a hundred pratfalls waiting to happen, but the runners took it in stride. (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.) I am in awe of every one of them. After a meager seven miles a day in the Louvre, my legs are jelly and alI I want to do is lie down.

In the crook of the curve where the street sloped down to the Seine, drummers in yellow shirts and white porkpie hats pounded out syncopated beats. They’d been playing for the runners since the race began hours before, their own  percussion marathon. Awesome. Just fantastic.

After watching and dancing in place for a half hour, I headed to Place des Vosges to do the ParisWalks audio tour, by Sonia and Alison Landes. They offer captivating details about the architecture and escapades of the famous inhabitants that puts what you see into historical context. I loved walking around the exterior of the imposing mansion of the Duke de Sully with their voices in my head.

I sat in the park in the center of the square for while, watching the people picnicking and kids on the playground. It was lively, yet peaceful. Around 1pm I stopped in Ma Bourgogne for lunch, and ordered skate wing with capers and butter sauce. Mm’mm…butter. I did not linger. I was inside in a dim corner because outside had the view, but also the smokers. C’est la guerre.

Took to the street to finish the walking tour and realized I walking right by Le Musée Carnavalet, the city’s history museum (23 Rue de Sevigne) so I turned in. Admission was free, but I gladly slapped down 5E for the audio guide. Parisian history in not my strong suite. Most of what I know I learned from Mel Brooks. Over all, I particularly liked the alcoves dedicated to writers; the bed of Marcel Proust stopped me in my tracks. The entire top floor was dedicated to the revolution. The Declaration of Rights of Man – Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité – represent! And on this historic week, only 225 years later, Paris elected her first female mayor. The Rights of Woman, hoo yah! (Yes, that’s a little sarcastic. Just a smidge.)

The strange thing was the conspicuous lack of reference to a guillotine. They refer to abolishing the monarchy, and there’s of painting of Marie Antoinette preparing herself to go under the blade but it’s all about the wretched plight of the people and misbehavior of the royalty. I’m not bloodthirsty, but isn’t guillotine kind of pivotal to the narrative? In contrast, the Edinburgh city museum has so many implements of punishment, torture, and execution, including an actual ten foot tall guillotine called The Maiden, that I felt a little queasy.

Okay speaking of weird anomalies, a French family was seated next to me at lunch, and the woman hummed quietly whenever she wasn’t talking. Hummed a tune. I heard it again at the Canavalet, a women strolling along, humming quietly to herself. Is this a thing in Paris?

Hit the wall around 5-ish, 7 miles on the Nike counter. Finished the last street of the tour and headed back to my apartment. Threw in my laundry, repeated my scrumptious dinner of last night, with the added bliss of something called a Charlotte Russe. It was so delicious. I may have to marry her.

My Lucky Day

Found my lost watch searching for my AWOL change purse that had about 50 Euros in bills and change.

Found my change purse with all funds intact on the steps outside my apartment where it had been placed by an anonymous honest Parisian.

Successfully used the machine in the Metro to purchase a carte of ten Metro tickets.

Spent a happy couple of hours drawing Hercules carrying the child Télèphe, and thinking how much Hercules’s physique reminds me of Robert.

Dined at Le Café Marly on a Salad Niçoise presented by savagely elegant young men in precisely fitted suits and bow ties.

Drew a striding lion on the back of a postcard to send to my art historian/DGA daughter.

Found the best bathroom in the Louvre. Clean, spacious and empty. No, I’m not telling you where.

Stopped in Magasin Sennelier, purveyor of art supplies and bespoke pigments since 1887. I bought a sketchbook.

On my walk home, picked up a perfect slice of brie and transparent slices of prosciutto for my dinner.

Unlocked my door just as the thunder rolled, the sky split open, and rain washed the pollen and smog away.

I get to do it all again tomorrow.

Since Tuesday is the day the Louvre is closed, I started by doing some  traveler’s housekeeping: found a post office, bought stamps, and rattled some Euros out of the ATM. First really cold day since I arrived, though the rain forecast changed to cloudy. I could have hie’d myself off to a small museum, but elected to do a self-guided walking tour and a picnic instead. Wandered around the Marais following a guidebook until noonish, then crossed the foot bridge over the canal St Martin and strolled along with cobblestone banks. I strolled past moored boats with planters filled with geraniums. This suggests they are houseboats, docked more or less permanently; an upscale floating trailer park, only nicer, because this is Paris.

I sat higher up the bank in a small children’s playground on a surprisingly comfortable wooden bench, curved to fit human contours. The playground was little strict, with a few sleek pieces of equipment on hard ground. It looks contemporary and clean, if somewhat sparse.

Rain mizzled off and on, but not enough to give up my view. I considered taking shelter beneath the footbridge, but kept eating my brie and ham on baguette and before I knew it, the sun came out. For company I listened to an audiobook, (Monstrous Regiment, by Terry Pratchett, read by the incomparable Stephen Briggs). I wanted to be able to look around at the oh-so-French cityscape across the water and at the puffy white clouds chasing each other across the periwinkle sky. The playground was part of a public garden with successive garden rooms. It was located just below street level and was elaborately planted with blossoming shrubs, climbing roses on arbors, and a long perennial bed. Two gardeners with hoes, rakes, and wheelbarrows carefully tended the beds as if they were weeding Downton Abby instead of a strip of land that’s basically a public thoroughfare.

I spent a goodly amount of the midday there, doing nothing much. Just being in Paris and thinking how lucky I am.  Headed back toward the apartment to have tea and something delicious. Picked up a caramel cake and a tarte citron and happened to notice an optical store. I have checked them out on my walking forays around the city, hoping to find some interesting eyeglasses for my souvenir of Paris. I’ve looked in several shops that were, alas trop féroce pour moi – frames so aggressively bold that they had more personality than I did. But today, ah, I saw a pair in a window that called my name. I practically climbed through the glass to get to them. After an hour of trying a dozen pairs on, I ordered two pairs, one in blues and yellows,

and one in shades of red, both from a Barcelona designer.

How could I choose between them? Plus, it was buy one, get the second pair for 30% off. And I’ll get a refund of 13% of the TVA tax. Such a deal!  I showed the patient lunettes vendeuse who assisted me the photo of Em and I at the Mason Murer Gallery opening in our eye-popping colors. “Oh yes,” she agreed, “black frames are too sad for you.” I couldn’t have put it any better.

Tea, my delicious pastries, and I think, an early night. Tomorrow, the Louvre, with audio guides. I can hardly wait.

Bounded into the Louvre, and ended up in my happy place, the sculpture courtyard Cour de Marly, drawing Cupid and Psyche which were on the level above me, while I listened to discussions of various artworks on my iPhone Louvre app. A teacher came by with a class of small children and pulled a ram’s horn out of his pocket, while he talked to them about the ram’s head on the side of an enormous stone urn. All day long I see children who sit attentively on the floor in front of some extraordinary work, and are rewarded with impassioned presentations on an art. What a standard, what cultural riches.

I fell into drawing and there went the morning. Had a quick cafe aux lait and tarte aux pommes at Angelinas, then explored the first and second floor. Standouts were the ivory madonnas, immense medieval tapestries, small bronzes, and medieval mirrors.

I wended my way towards the Egyptian painted sculpture of a scribe (my people!) past sphinxes, Pharaohs, and jackal-headed gods. I have now walked in every room and corridor of the Louvre. I have a sense of it, a map in my head.  I am ready to revisit particular works. Tomorrow, I’ll bust out the audio guide.

Did a few quick sketches, of heads mostly, then ate my picnic lunch (baguette, brie, proscuito & tomato. Warmed to Louvre room temp, brie is the consistency of soft butter.) near the Porte de Lion exit out in the Tulieries. I read my Nook and watching a tall man, who looked like a Nubian prince, direct squealing children in a vigorous running in a circle game that reminded me of Musical Chairs.

Left the Louvre around 3:30 to walk around the streets where I lived in 1970 – a fifth floor walk up room on Rue de Bac. As my feet began to falter, I found myself outside Laduree, and revived myself with a few salted caramel-filled macaroons. Bliss! Walked around St. Sulpice church filled with flickering candle light and light falling through the stained glass pattering colors on the wooden floors, saluted Delacroix.

Yearned for a bracelet I saw in a window – a sliver of silver with the words I love this life stamped on it, fastened to the wrist with a bit of blue string. So far I’ve resisted, but I know where it is.

Metro’d back to Saint-Paul around 6. Dinner from Pasta Linea (bolognese on orecchiette pasta, and a shaved carrot salade from Miss Manon, plus the rest of the tarte citron). Lights out.

Morning in the ‘hood, wandering around the shops of Saint-Paul, a warren of antique/second hand/flea market shops. I tell the shopkeepers I’m looking for a small unique knife, ,just in case I stumble across the perfect ornate or crusty knife for a tomato & knife painting, but I’m not looking hard. Picked up a seeded baguette with figs, arugula and soft white cheese called a Brillat- Savrin from a cart outside of a cheese store. I’m more relaxed on a bench in a garden on my own than in a bustling bistro.

Took the Metro to the stop for the Petit Palais. Immediately realized it’s called petit because the one across the street is vraiment énorme. My heart sank when I saw the long, deep line standing on the sidewalk, but I dutifully tacked myself to the end. God smiled when two women walked up behind me, flagged down a guard and asked for the Carl Larsson exhibit – which is what I was there to see. Wrong line – she led us to a side door and I was through security and had a ticket in  my hand moments later.  http://www.petitpalais.paris.fr/fr/expositions/carl-larsson-1853-1919-limagier-de-la-suede 

I have loved Carl Larsson since I came across his book ‘Home.’ Grim, Dickensian childhood, great talent, success in midlife painting what and who he loved. He is Winslow Homer-esque, with formidable draftsman skills,  though he trained in Paris. Imagine Ingmar Bergman who wasn’t bitter and haunted, memorializing his happy family life.

 

No photography allowed in the exhibit, but drawing was permitted and I did a few quick sketches, more to look closely than anything else. Also some fascinating early documentary footage of the painter and his family on the island of their summer home. His studio, painting in his garden, boating, small children and dogs everywhere he goes. I ate my baguette in the garden and enjoyed the mild weather.

I wandered around the rest of the museum, happy to stumble upon more Low Country masterworks that I have only ever seen reproductions of. I meandered around and found myself in an exhibition innocuously titled ‘Paris 1900, The City of Entertainment’. Hand-colored, turn of the century films of street dancers twirling and bowing, had a unselfconscious charm that does not exist in the self-regarding age. There were clips from movies by the Lumieire Brothers, photographs recording the opera, café-concert, circus and brothels, Oo la la. These included a wall of the classic French postcards, images of women who are definitely more naked than nude. One of the object displayed like a holy relic resembled a gynecology couch, complete with metal stirrups, mounted over a well padded sleigh, both upholstered in rich  brocades. This puzzling device turned out to be un dispositif de positionnement des prostituées reserved for royal visitors. Alas, no photos though I was very tempted to take one.

I did a sketch of one of the French postcard ladies to send to Robert, then retraced my Metro route back to Saint-Paul. Put in a load of laundry, ate my dinner while watching an informative and entertaining BBC show the Treasures of the Louvre on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJNU3vvZhMY

Picked up another Charlotte Russe avec framboise and wandered though the streets until I saw a spaniel with a yellow tennis ball in a courtyard. I struck up a conversation and got a good patting in. I miss my dogs.

Tomorrow I ‘ll be back at the Louvre. This time, I’ll do the head phones for sure.

 

Up early and under the pyramid of the Louvre as it opens. This time I do get an audio guide. It’s free for Des Ami des Louvre, declares the attendant at the Denon entrance. I have a strategy: gallop down the Denon wing to the farthest room, work my way back through le salles rouge, then along the famous Italian corridor, stopping at whatever catches my eye and listening to anything with an audio guide number. Discover no matter how jammed the central hall becomes, and it does get slammed, the side galleries are deserted, and I have all the time I want alone with remarkable works by virtuoso painters like Velasquez.

By noon I am ready for food and a break from the crowd that has attained horde status. During prime time, the major halls of the Louvre are a cross between a carnival midway and a religious procession, with a side of Times Square on New Year’s Eve crowded. I go back to the Le Café Marly, and sit inside this time, still within sight of the pyramid, but away from smoke. Shortly after I sit down a cat streaks through the door to the kitchen, and stretches out beneath the chair across from me. He’s the kitchen cat and his name is Richelieu. His imperious and self-satisfied expression seems exactly right.

I’m quite hungry and have been living on pastry, so I opt for a chunk of protein and order the cheeseburger. It arrives half as tall as my head, well, okay, taller than my mouth opens, unless I unhinge my jaw.  I demolish it with a knife and fork. I draw postcards until my order arrives, and read my Nook propped up on the table while I eat. I am less self-conscious about entertaining myself. I order a Viennese espresso, which comes with a little bar of bittersweet dark chocolate on the side. I slip it into the cup and stir vigorously. Voilà, DIY mochaccino.

 Digression – some of the places I’m eating, I’m paying as much for ambiance and histoire as the food, and that’s fine with me. My other rationalization is this: when the only restaurant meal is at midday, for one person who doesn’t drink wine, no bill is that steep. My bill was 30E for my lunch at Le Cafe Marly. The ingredients were top of the line, the room decor Napoleon III decadent, the pyramid in view, the waiters dashing, and the le chat de cuisine, Richelieu, added value. As the waiter shrugged, ‘of course it is not permitted, but where there is a kitchen cat, there are no mice.’ Oh and when he brought hot chocolate with whipped cream by mistake, he took it back to the kitchen and replaced it immediately, with a bow of apology. I was left in peace to read for while after my meal, no hurrying me along. And the supreme advantage – it was steps away from where I was walking seven miles a day.

Back to the Louvre and this time I follow the Still life Louvre trail I’d printed out and brought with me. The first painting is AWOL. I ask one of the guards, who is amiable, but can’t locate it either. I offer to just move on, but somehow it becomes a mini cause célèbre. ‘No, we must find this for you’, he insists. ‘This is why we are here.’ Three guards confer, phone calls are made, notebooks that kept under lock and key are examined. It remains lost and they seem genuinely distressed. Once the French exert themselves on your behalf, no effort is too difficult, though occasionally a task may prove impossible.  Perhaps someone looking for an artwork is a welcome change from inquires about the direction of the toilets or the exits.

I soldier on and find most of the rest of the listed works. Though they are all in the same wing, there’s a lot of backtracking and retracing of rooms that makes it more tiring than necessary. Just sayin,’ Mr Louvre. Along the routes I also stop at anything with a white numbered ticket and hear what the curators have to say. The way it’s translated throws a distinctly French light on the works. Turns of phrase are both evocative and precise. By 4pm I am knackered and sit on the bench of a window seat next to the Holbein room. I do a bit of reading on my Nook, and rest. Afterwards, I return to the sculpture courtyard and draw Eurydice.

When I left at 6pm to Metro home, a woman was playing Pachelbel’s canon in D Major on a violin in the Louvre carousel corridor. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Af372EQLck  My feet kept walking but I suddenly remembered how I played that music over and over when I lived in my fifth floor walk-up garret on Rue de Bac in 1971. I turned around and put two Euros in her violin case.

Back in the Marais, I bought three large ripe figs, reverently selected for me by the greengrocer, a small quarter of triple cream brie, and a ficelle. That, plus some prosciutto from the other day, make up my dinner, followed by peppermint tea, which I am hoarding as a panacea against homesickness, and my remaining Ladurée salted caramel macaroon.

I have a short conversation with the concierge about how he used to haunt the halls of the Louvre when he was a lad at the Sorbonne. It’s free entry for the students and a hangout of sorts. He recommends I visit Monet at L’Orangerie, and advised me on where to go when I visit the flea market tomorrow, which is still maybe, maybe not.

I strolled down Rue de Turenne and window-shopped on my way to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges (39 Rue de Bretagne), a small street market located on the north side of the Marais. All the little restaurants inside the market smelled great – the Japanese bento box, New Orleans boudin stall, Italian trattoria, French bistro  were cheek by jowl with the fish monger, cheese shop, butcher, boulangerie and flower stall. It had a wonderful atmosphere.

I wanted to try the Moroccan stand, but couldn’t figure out how to order a kebab that wasn’t spicy. I would’ve had the b’stilla (pigeon and almond pie scented with cinnamon and wrapped in cracklingly thin layers of pastry like a feuille), and intensely sweet mint tea, if I could have carried over to the park across the street. My long ago days traveling through the Moroccan deserts came back to me with the first whiff, an olfactory  madeleine. There was something that looked like a cross between a pancake and Indian nan, being cooked on an upside down wok over coals, with something melting on top of the dough. Not a crepe exactly. I tried iTranslating the menu board from French to English, but even Google was stumped.  I ended up with a slice of apricot tart and some version of ham and cheese on baguette. I’m going to hit that Moroccan stand next week.

Off to eat in the tiny park in front of a grand church veiled with scaffolding. I unwrapped my baguette and was instantly besieged by sparrows. They flew up on the ends of the bench, darted under my feet, and one flew up and hovered right in front of the baguette in my hand. Cheeky buggers. I threw a few crumbs away from me as a diversionary tactic. Hitchcock came to mind. They were just as interested in the tart.  Glad I’d brought a little packet of wipes because I was good and sticky and greasy afterwards. Emphasis on good.

Figured out a metro route thanks to the extremely helpful Paris Metro app  http://www.ratp.fr/en/ratp/r_90747/visit-paris-by-metro/ Don’t leave home without it, folks.

Here might be a good time to note how helpful the iPhone has been. Working out routes on the fly, translating for irritable taxi drivers and puzzled shop clerks, used more often than my excellent camera to take photographs, Googling historic info, checking weather, museum hours, listening to the official Louvre audio guide, writing trip notes, uploading photos to FB and email.  It’s been a major trip enhancer. And that Mophie case that doubles the battery life? Get one.

Walked from the Lafayette Metro stop to the Musée National Gustave Moreau (14 Rue de la Rochefoucauld). It’s in the painter’s home, which means the walls are blanketed with drawings, photographs, prints and paintings. They are pieced together as tightly as jigsaw puzzle, from the egg and dart moldings to chair rail.

The second floor is the was one big open, airy room, high-ceilinged and bright from a wall of windows.Tall canvases lined the other three walls. The paintings were certainly large and parts of them drew my eye, but they seemed an odd mashup of classical, surrealism, and impressionism. To my eye, they lacked coherence.  Neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat, as the saying goes, but in all his works Moreau was trying to tell a story, and that gave me a thread of connection. I sought out what I could admire.

I raised an eyebrow at the explanation of his painting The Daughters of Thespius. “In gratitude to Hercules who killed the Nemean Lion…King Thespius offered that he sleep with all of his fifty daughters in one night. The hero, shown here in a meditative pose very reminiscent of Michelangelo, readies himself for the great procreative act. ”

Truly a Herculean >cough< feat.

Yeah, right. Dream on, M. Moreau. Do the math; that’s nine minutes and six seconds apiece, from wham to bam to thank you ma’am, aaaand next! Figuring eight straight hours, with no breaks. Even if Hercules could do it, why would he want to? But I digress.

I had paid my due respects and am about to upstairs to the studio when I notice a row of dark green café length velvet curtains pulled across cabinets under the windows. I look behind the curtains and eureka! The cabinets hold multiple wooden panels that can be pulled out and opened like the pages of a book. Each panel has many drawings. Goddesses, youths, monkeys, horses, vultures, elephants, hydrangeas, and landscapes, just to name a few. Paydirt! Lovely, lovely stuff. From extremely detailed and shaded work on toned paper, to rough outlines. There are complete scenes where he’s considering the composition of one of his grand scale paintings and pages where he’s working out various angles and perspectives on a hand gesture. Some of the drawings are gridded, some are obviously studies from the Louvre (hello, La Belle Ferronnière). I grab a low wooden stool and start working my way through them. I feel like I’ve struck gold.

            

When I’m ready to go, I use Uber for the first time, and it works just like Boston. I order a car, and see the familiar map appear with driver confirmed. The driver is an Algerian engineering student, with impeccable BMW and lovely manners. Twenty-five minutes later I arrive on my street, buy some fresh raspberries and yogurt (in a glass jar) for dinner. Talked to Robert tonight. Just needed to hear his voice. He hasn’t read any of this blog, he’s been really busy with the show closing down until the next season and shepherding his equipment onto other shows that are gearing up. But he has looked at the photos. And he misses me. And he’s glad I am happy. It’s all good.