Paris – Page 3

Monday, April 14, Day 13

April 16, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Late start, but I’ve realized that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I am in Paris, so no worries. Decide to do something from my fantasy of a Paris trip; stroll to the Louvre along the Seine. En route I stopped at La Caféothèque (52 Rue de l’Hôtel de ville), a coffee shop with a TripAdvisor rep for excellent java. Little, odd-shaped rooms on multiple levels, a mix of chairs and comfortable, cushioned banquettes, nothing corporate about it, welcoming staff; it gets my vote. When strong espresso goes down like water, you know you are in excellent brewing hands. My noisette was smooth and silky and powerful. I’d say this is where good beans go when they die but since they roast their own beans on the premises, maybe an analogy of beans gone to hell in a hand basket is more accurate.

After two of delectable cups and one small postcard sketch, I galloped down the road to the Louvre. I breached the gates close to noon and it was a madhouse, confirming that my early morning arrival strategy is a superior approach. By noon the Louvre is trying to stuff twenty thousand pounds of tourist in a five thousand pound sack. I flashed my card, which worked its magic, but it still took fifteen tense minutes dodging through the masses to find a relatively quiet corner – French painters and a special exhibition of the artists who created the Louvre ceilings. Stopped in my tracks by Le Christ en Croix by Simon Vouet. It’s a standard-issue religious theme but it had a passage of such delectable color on the robe of a kneeling Magdalene that I couldn’t stop staring.

Photography in the ceiling sketches exhibit was not permitted, but the guards were delighted to let me draw. I stood and copied a sketch of two men by Charles Le Brun. By the time I was ready to stop, I felt calm and peaceful. Hand-eye time is very meditative – cue the alpha brain waves. Saw a lovely little painting of a Cuisse de Nymph rose by the incomparable Henri Fantin-Latour that I’m still thinking about, along with a Christ on a slab post-crucifixion painting, which is the last work of art I saw ten years ago when I had to leave the Louvre after a brief visit, and didn’t want to. That was the bit of grit in the oyster that resulted, years later, in the planning of this trip.

Walked around Place Saint-Sulpice in the late afternoon. Looked in the window of the store with that bracelet I like. It’s still there.

Tuesday, April 15, Day 14

April 18, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I’ve started sending myself an email that has the exact addresses of the places I might visit – this makes it a quick copy/paste to Google maps walking directions, or using the Metro app for best public transportation route, or showing to taxi or Uber drivers what to plug into their maps.

Since the Louvre is closed today, I have options – Do one of the audio walks, visit one of the small museums or head for a market. The weather – a few degrees cooler than is has been helps me choose, and I call Uber for a ride to the Musée Jacquemart André, 158 Boulevard Haussmann. This is an exquisite jewel box of a museum, that reminds me of the Frick in New York City.

They also have a free app, that I preferred to the audioguide offered at the door ( I tried both) https://itunes.apple.com/en/app/musee-jacquemart-andre-application/id582936499?mt=8. It is a sad truth that the dim lighting required to preserve the works and the placement of paintings can mean that the Fran Hals portrait that’s a muted glimmer high up in a darkened corner in dim room in real life, is as clear and vivid as if I held it in my hand the sunlight, with subtleties of texture and brushwork easily visible on my iPhone screen.

What the screen lacks is scale and three-dimensionality, what reality lacks is everything else. This is not true (or as true) with sculpture. Even dark rooms and remote placement offers more to direct experience that the flattening screen image.

Back to this mansion, which was a marvel of its age, with walls that would sink down into the basement by way of hydraulics to accommodate tout Paris society. The version the museum puts out is charming and civilized – they loved each other and both loved art and he had pots of money which they spent hand over fist on the best art they could find. They differed only in that he preferred the Venetian artists and she championed the painters of Florence. I take it a face value and my visit is a pure pleasure.

This includes my brunch, since I’d had nothing but that cup of tea. I lined up at the café door promptly at noon. I expected pastries and maybe a sandwich but it was ever so much nicer. The regular menu blew my skirt up by naming every dish after a painter; Watteau, Bellini, Chardin, Mantegna, Fragonard, Ruysdael, Canaletto, Van Dyck. There was a special themed menu (as did the Isabella Stewart Gardener when I visited Boston in December) created for the current exhibition; De Watteau à Fragonard, Les fête Galantes. I opted for duck breast in honey and soy, with risotto and It was divine.I read my Nook, glanced around the cheerful company from time to time, and cleaned my plate down to the shine.

Two French ladies were seated next to me and they sounded like finches perched on a fountain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmdBSn-34E8 A rapid and variable sequence of warbles, with a lyrical, burbling undercurrent. The French language seems to have a naturally musical quality. Perhaps it’s better to listen to the sound uncontaminated by meaning than be distracted by content.

I took in the special exhibit and, once again. the preparatory drawings seemed superior to many of the finished oil paintings.

Refreshed in spirit, off to the Joséphine exhibit at the Musée de Luxembourg (19 rue de Vaugirard) The audio guide was something of a hagiography, and I quickly realized how few facts I knew about her or Napoléon. The exhibition claimed the 5’6″ Napoleon was average height for the times, though as you can see by her charming fur-lined and beribboned walking boots, Joséphine wore flats. That is why I have spent most of the evening chasing biographies of Joséphine around the Internet instead of writing my blog. I have sworn to have lights out early, as bleary vision is the bane of the museum visitor.

Dropped by the jewelry store that has the bracelet I’ve coveted. I’ve been back twice to look at it. I can’t justify it, but I decide if it’s still there, I’m going to get it. It’s as delicate as a filament in a light bulb with I Love This Life engraved on a delicate silver bar, a twisted thread of aqua blue tying it on. Very simple. I walked in, and walked out wearing it ten minutes later. From the bracelet to the optometrist. Secretly worried the frames wouldn’t be as fab as I remembered but no, still totes adorb. Moment of unexpected hilarity. As the clerk checked the fit of the glasses, she handed me a card to read, to check the acuity of the prescription lenses.

I started laughing. I couldn’t read it, but that was because it was in French. I could see it with perfect clarity.

A fantastic day.

Wednesday, April 16, Day 15

April 19, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Bounded out the door – I could hear the clock ticking, counting down the hours until I leave on Sunday. Discovered I could order a noisette double, heck yeah. Onward to the Louvre via the Metro. Trotted towards the entrance via the Carousel, the gateway to the Louvre that’s like a high-end fancy mall, and skidded to a halt.

It’s 9:30am, and there’s a line stretching all the way back through the Carousel. What happened? Was there a sale? It looked like Filene’s Basement’s Running of the Brides, or Wal-mart before the doors open on Black Friday. No joke.

Armored with my Des Amis De Louvre card confidence, I forged past the twisting, shuffling line to the clogged security area and… yes! Open Sesame! The guards unhook the barrier and I waltzed right through and hand off my bag to security. I breezed by the giant anaconda line for tickets, zipped up the escalator, flashed my card at the actual entry point to the Richelieu wing, and moments later entered the sanctuary of the Cour de Marly. For the next thirty minutes, it was all mine.

Here’s the good thing about the giant lines, as long as you are not in one – it holds back the tsunami waves of people, dribbling them inside at a measured pace, which means you get more quality time with the art. The good thing about the Louvre’s holy trinity, those three works of art that are on every tourist’s hit list (Mona Lisa, Winged Victory of Samothrace, and Venus de Milo) is that they siphon off the casual tourist. Again, this means you get more time with the other 34,997 amazing works of art. You can even sit on the floor and sketch to your heart’s content. Like this:

My Des Ami Des Louvre membership has been worth every penny. Spent a quiet happy morning communing with statuary (Cour de Marly, Middle Ages, 19th-century sculpture) that made the Pygmalion’s plight completely understandable – special mention to the gallery of French Royal academy entry works). Look at this Cupid’s gesture, introducing a butterfly to a rose.

,And who doesn’t love a hot guy who reads?

My nominees for most fun couple:

I knocked off early to visit a restaurant suggested by my friend and fellow painter, Nancy Franke. Took a taxi driven by a man from Cameroon, who sang ‘Georgia on My Mind’ when he found out I was from Atlanta. Arrived at Les Papilles,  (30 rue Gay Lussac, 75005,) took a seat and waited for them to serve me what they were fixing that day. It’s a tiny place, near Luxembourg Gardens. I knew it would be good, I didn’t expect it to be one of the best meals of my life.

It began with a tureen of carrot soup. The soup plate had a stack of ingredients – slivers of carrot, something porky, dab of creme fraiche, a tiny bouquet of thyme on the top, a spice dusted on the side, dots of something on the bottom and croutons. Oh, and something with tiny green leaves and long thin stems – watercress maybe? I ladled the soup over that, stirred it up and tasted Nirvana. I ate two bowls, knowing so much more was coming but it was so good! And there was another serving left. You wouldn’t leave hungry.

This was followed by a copper pan of roasted vegetables and pork loin, and dish of polenta. The pork loin and vegetables came in a smoking hot oval copper pan. I know there were carrots and think in more than one color. Something red, probably a pepper? Snow peas, onions in thin rings, and bits of apricot. Another bouquet of thyme and several whole cloves of garlic. I ate until you could have cracked a flea on my belly. I left one piece of pork because I could not possibly fit it in.

Dessert came in a glass that widened at the top. Bottom layer of banana (and maybe some chocolate?), a layer of creme englaise type pudding, a layer of chocolate cream, a layer of cream and a layer of caramel foam. Hail Mary.

Espresso in a tiny cup, almost turkish, with a side dish of chocolate-covered coffee beans. I added two cubes of sugar to it (cubed sugar comes in cellophane packets on the table here and at the Cafèoteque place). I knocked it back, knowing full well it was all that stood between me and a coma. This took about two hours. I had to put my fork down for breaks. I didn’t read because my attention was fully commanded by the food. That almost never happens to me.

The restaurant is in a narrow room with a bar down the side and a little elevated area in the back. Warm wood and colorful tile on the floor and the stairs.

Kind of a masculine vibe. Not fancy, but clearly thought went into it, and the overall effect is cheerful, goodnatured and welcoming. Two people for service; a black woman who was a beauty with a dimple and kind look about her, and the guy who ran the bar and read the menu and talked with one of the patrons. Nothing snooty about it. They seemed to be serious about the food, not themselves. How refreshing is that? Oh, and it cost the same as the Café Marly burger.

Believe me, my words just don’t do it justice. It’s like saying Fred Astaire moved his feet.

When I finally surrendered and retired from the field, it took ten minutes before I could move. I decided a walk was called for. Google maps told me where to go and that it would take about half an hour. And that’s what I did. I have never walked by patisseries and felt not the slightest twinge of interest but today, not a flicker. Not just full, but truly satisfied.

I’ve been writing this ever since. Peppermint tea for dinner. If I can find the room.

Friday, April 18, Day 17

April 21, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday was my last visit to the Louvre. After a maudlin start, I knew I could either be all elegiac Canon In D Major sad, or bask in my good fortunate Pharell Happy. I chose happy. Packed my backpack carefully, refilled my bottle with Perrier, made sure I had my sketchbook and pencils*, Nook, maps, and back-up battery pack**. No line at the Metro ticket machine, and a seat was open on the train, double win.

Galloped into the Louvre, with my iPod blasting Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,’ blessing my Des Ami des Louvre card, straight into the arms of the Flemish, Dutch and Germans on the second floor of the Richelieu wing. I followed my eyes and heart. At some point, I began taking photos of women with books or swords.

Bonus points if they carried both.

That carried me through the next three hours. My mood cycled from happy to be there, to sorry to be going. Finally, it occurred to me that the harder it is to part, the luckier I was to have been there. I had just taken a photo from the window with the Tuileries ahead, Eiffel Tower to the left and the city gleaming white in the distance, when an ear-splitting alarm went off, followed by a voice telling everyone to evacuate the Louvre, for reasons of safety.

The announcement, in multiple languages, alternated with the alarm. I wondered if someone had started humping the Venus de Milo, or if there was a shooter loose, maybe a bomb threat. I watched people wander by in the direction of the escalators as the announcement kept repeating, but it was like trying to turn the Titanic. No one seemed to feel any urgency. I started towards the stairs but didn’t rush any. I saw a security guard and asked him what gives. He shrugged one weary shoulder, blew a puff of exasperated air out of his lips as only the French can, and said, “It is a drill. You may ignore it.”

All righty then. No problem. I decided to consider it the lunch bell, since it was past 1pm. I went to Angelina’s and tucked into grilled sole and lemon hollandaise, with a basket woven out of shaved carrots in three colors, followed by noisette, and a macaroon for dessert. I did another little drawing of Joséphine on a postcard, this time for Robin. Afterward, I went back to where I started on Day One, the sculpture court, and sketched my favorite view of Roland, Furioso.

I walked in and out of the various levels of the sculpture court until I finally made myself quit stalling and leave. I took the Metro back to Saint-Paul, and, en route, took a sip of water. Or planned too, but when I unscrewed the top, it blew off with a bang, like I’d popped a champagne cork or fired a Glock. I sat there, stunned, sprinkled with l’eau mineral. No one was injured, and the guy next to me thought it was very amusing. I was obviously shocked down to my shoes. So kids, today’s lesson is don’t put water that’s carbonated in your water bottle, then walk all over Paris before you open it.

I left the metro without further incident, and walked over to a shop with scarves I’d liked and bought one in vivid Mandarin orange with white polka dots of varying sizes. Then I walked to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges, thinking I’d have pigeon pie and mint tea for an early supper, but no, too late. Headed back and passed a Scandinavian clothes shop called Cheap Monday and bought a white tee shirt with C H E A P P A R I S printed on it in black lettering. Maybe you had to be there, but it cracked me up. I ended up eating a savory buckwheat crepe at Breizh café, a joint everyone raves about, but not me. Meh, is the best I can say. I scouted Monoprix for a cheap and sturdy tote in case my purchases max out my suitcase and pulled some Euros out of the ATM. Home to the apartment, where I started the laundry, nuked a couple of apples in the microwave and wrote this up. Tomorrow is my final day in Paris. I figure I’ll pack then just wander. Maybe do a ParisWalk from the audio guide.

*I’ve only needed one sketchbook, but it’s the one I bought at Sennelier (not too big, not too small, etc).

** I haven’t had to use the battery pack since I started charging the iPhone and its Mophie case at bedtime. The iPhone battery is down to 20% around 3pm, the way I’ve been using it. Hit the Mophie recharge and there’s usually 60% or so left by the time I’m done for the day by 6 or7pm. Mophie is a game changer, in a good way.

Saturday, April 19, Day 18

April 22, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Packing went easily and well, which meant one less thing to distract me. Picked up a baguette with Brie to go from Miss Manon, and tucked it in my bag. Road the Metro to St. Michel with a line change, which showed me how confident I’d become with something I was nervous about when I arrived. I followed the cultivated, intelligent ladies who recorded the audio guide through the Rue de la Huchette walk, which gave me insight into medieval times. It was quite the disconnect, looking at stones carved ages ago while bobbing like a cork on the tide of tourists. What the guide had to say was insightful, but it was my first exposure to being caught up in a super touristy area lined with cheap trinket stores, cafés and the barbarian hordes. I bought a piping hot butter and sugar crêpe from a walk-by window, delicious camouflage that gave me a legit excuse to stand in the street when I paused to look and listen. Eventually, the audio guide led me to Rue Jacob. I sat under a tree in a courtyard garden of the oldest church in Paris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and devoured my baguette with Brie.

Among the gifts of the day, was watching fitful sunlight bloom and fade translucent colors through the stained glass onto the flagstone floors of the Church.

The audio guide explained exactly how the whims of royalty and the depredations of war had influenced the church’s interior. I sat on one of the small wooden chairs that have been in every church I’ve visited in Paris (as opposed to pews) and felt the centuries stretching behind me. Thought about the enduring power of faith, no matter how human being have twisted or denied it. One thing the audio guide pointed out was how the St of Rue St Severin had been gouged out of the stone street sign by the revolutionaries, who wanted to erase the influence of church. It’s the day before the resurrection is celebrated in the Christian world, as it has been for 2014 years. The older I become and the shorter my string gets, the more I am astonished at the ability of us short-attention-span monkeys to conceive of and create such a thing as art.

A little bit further along, I found myself on Rue Buci, which rang a distant bell. ‘Number three on the fifth floor’ floated up out of wherever I store information that hasn’t been accessed in 43 years, like the fortune in a Magic 8 ball. I thought I’d just walk over and see if there was, in fact, a number 3, and if it had a fifth floor. And yeah, there it was. The garret I lived in when I first came to Paris, before I tripped and fell into modeling and my life spun off in an unanticipated direction.

I took a couple of photos to show Robert and noticed a motorcycle’s mirror was in one of the shots. Appropriate, as this was a pure stare in the rear view mirror of my life moment.

On I went. I happened by Ladurée at 4, just when my blood sugar fell into the cellar. I decided to sit down and have tea and a salted caramel macaroon or two. Upstairs I went. Blue velvet, gleaming silver, Earl Grey tea, sugar. I wrote postcards to my loved ones and contemplated the many pleasures of Paris. Time well spent.

My time is done here, though so much is left undone. It will have to suffice. I don’t know how or if this will manifest in my work. For all the riches of this city, I love my life, my real life. I will be glad to get home and be with my darlin’ Robert, my spoiled rotten dogs, and my studio. And, when they get back from their travels, my beloved children. Out of the rear view and into the present moment. But not just yet. Ten more days to go.

I’ve heard the King of Holland is going to throw a party, his first birthday as the national holiday. Good thing I’ve got that tangerine scarf. Heading for the CDG airport at 7am and the next chapter in this travelogue; Amsterdam, and the Rijksmuseum.