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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

 

 

 

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.

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.