I woke up several times in the night, people coming home at 1am are in a chatty mood apparently, but went back to sleep quickly. I got up at 7:30, dressed in my conquer Paris best, and ventured forth. The first person I saw, a young man leaving the building, glanced behind himself as he exited, saw me at the end of the long corridor and waited, holding the door for me. That turned out to be an omen.

I didn’t walk two blocks before I turned around and went back to ditch my light raincoat, gloves, and hat. Though the weather.com temperature was 56, it felt much warmer. At the wonderful boulangerie/patisserie on the corner, and I grabbed a noisette, (espresso with a tablespoon of steamed milk and a dot of foam), walked to the Metro, bought a ticket from the machine. It was happy to take my 5 euro note and give me a ticket and change. There was an Australian woman and a Japanese man at the machines beside me, and I felt right at home. Using my baby pigeon French, I asked the janitor which train to take and he directed me. Again, everyone on the train was on their iphone, except for one old woman reading a book. I turned on my iPod Paris mix and counted stations to the Louvre. Maybe six minutes. Everyone was clean and nicely dressed; scarves tied and draped with panache and jackets that fitted precisely. Lots of high-heeled boots and Converse sneakers in various colors. A few beautifully embellished ballet flats.

I jumped off at the Louvre to Pharell’s ‘Get Lucky,’ and metaphorically danced my way down the tunnel made from the walls of the moat. As I entered the Louvre, the playlist switched to ‘Happy’. Seriously. I had a big, stupid grin on my face. Walked past the long snaking line to a guard to ask where I should go, showing my Des Ami de Louvre card, and he pulled aside the barrier and waved me through. I was in a line of none. Joy! Walked to the security and they gestured me to the head of that line, then waved me through. Yes!

I headed like a homing pigeon to the Flemish and Dutch paintings on the second floor of the Richelieu wing. Didn’t make it past the escalator. Turned right into the vast, airy, light-filled  atrium  with sculpture on multiple levels. Started drawing this wonderful cast bronze nude man, and that was it for an hour or so. I noticed his hands, which appear bound, aren’t.  He’s holding the rope behind his back, it isn’t knotted or tied anywhere.

Afterward I headed on to the Northern painters. Ducked through a hall that turned out to be a darkened room lined with small portraits. Very Holbein-esque. Glorious frames and gorgeous detail. Time stopped again, and so did I. Finally got to the Netherlands and Germany rooms and I knew they would be good but it’s a banquet! A feast! It took me two hours to get through 21 rooms.  That may sound like a lot, but on the second floor of this Richelieu wing there are 116 rooms.

What does that mean for my daily plan? I started laughing around noon. It’s confetti, that’s what. All those – I’ll see the Dutch then go to the Napoleon apartments, then tour the Middle ages section blah blahblah.

Hahahahahahahaha.

Um, no. No, I won’t. If I get through the Dutch in two days, it will be a miracle. And I want to go back to see some of the pieces many times. There’s a Brueghal that has a teeming landscape filled with people I can barely see, they are so small – maybe the size of half of my little fingernail, but perfectly proportioned and exquisitely detailed. How did he do that? With a microscope?  And the subtle expressions on the portraits, and the freaking detail of embroidery and the luminosity of the skin. I’m dizzy with admiration and envy.

I tore myself away at noon because I’d skipped breakfast. Ate a Croque Monsieur – grilled ham and cheese dipped in egg and fried- with a side salad (15E), followed by a Viennese café; espresso covered in whipped cream (7E.) I showed my card thinking ya never know, and sure enough, got a price break. Remembered service was comprise, so no tip. It’s still pricey but well worth it. I particularly enjoyed  the view of the famous glass pyramid in the courtyard that came with my meal. Successfully ordered a carafe d’eau (free pitcher of water) and drank the whole thing. Back to the Flemish world and by 3:30 crossed over to the Dutch section to find it’s closed on Thursdays. A good thing, as by then, my feet hurt and I was flat worn out. I went back to the great sculpture hall. This time I sat behind the marble runner who brought word of the victory at marathon.  Drew until 4.

et out and walked to St. Sulpice. Saw many interesting shops en route. My favorite was a clock maker. I asked permission to take photos of his windows. He turned out to be a national treasure, an acknowleged master of the clockworkery with a certificate to that effect. I was mesmerized by the pieces and parts. We bonded over gears. Very tired by 6, so grabbed a taxi waiting at a stand. The driver had gray hair in a ponytail, was listening to Led Zeppelin, and introduced himself as a old hippie. He visited San Francisco in ’72, lived in the Haight, and was a follower of Jimi Hendrix. We had a grand time reminiscing – Country Joe and the Fish! Oui! Le Grace Slick! Oui! Grateful Dead! Bien sur!

I’m flat on my back on my comfortable queen bed, with the 15C beams overhead. Dinner was tomato and brie on Baguette, Earl Grey tea, and a warmed slice of tart tatin. I finally figured out how to make the weird induction cooktop work.

Here’s what happened today to belie the Parisians reputation for rudeness. 1. That guy who held the door for me 2. The janitor who pointed me in the right train direction. 3 A lady who caught my eye and to let me know my scarf was trailing on the ground. 4. The man who stopped his cell phone chat to give me directions to the right exit. 5. I did a spectacularly clumsy semi-fall, tripping over a low curb I failed to see, pinwheeling my arms and staggering, before breaking my fall by grabbing on the edge of a stone bench before I hit the stone walkway. I didn’t hurt myself, but two people who were briskly walking by stopped to make sure I was okay.

Figured out I need to carry my battery pack – my iphone was down to 13% by 3pm. Not nearly as paranoid about the scammers/beggars. No eye contact and purposeful walking does the trick. I’m using my backpack as a desk for my drawing instead of putting it down anywhere. This is not the Paris I dimly remember from 1971. This is the Paris of my dreams.

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.