audio tour

Sunday, April 13, Day 12

April 15, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Woke up to the sound of the church bells. Even in these modern times, in a secular city that worships at the altar of cuisine and couture, the bells toll as they have for centuries.
Today is a good day for an audio guided walk. But first, Instead of my usual grab and go noisette, I sit down in Miss Manon’s patisserie, order fresh orange juice, a noisette and an apple pastry, take out a postcard and a pencil stub, and start a little drawing. I knock back the noisette, and time disappears until I’m done. I stretch and look out at the passing street scene. The shoes alone are worth watching. People are carrying boxwood clippings under their arms. Ah, it’s Palm Sunday. I order another noisette, and set my little cup carefully on the postcard, twice. An authentic two-ring, Paris café stamp.

The audio tour begins with the incomparable view of Notre Dame from the bridge next to the Quai de Montebello. The third stop on the audio tour is Shakespeare and Company, the legendary English bookstore and holy ground for a writer. I go in with the fizzy feeling I had pushing open the door to Sennelier. Everything about it is appealing, from the quotes on the walls, a glass dome with a slot over a lighted basin in the floor filled with coins, and a ‘Feed the Starving Writers’ sign.

So many interesting books of varying vintage crowd the shelves. It’s like joining a party in progress with charming rakes, notorious wits,wily politicians, deadbeats, drunks, and philosophers all talking amongst themselves. I wander through the warren of rooms below, then climb the twisting narrow stairs to find more little rooms with floor to ceiling shelves of second-hand book available to all to read. I sit in a room with a typewriter in front of the window and a fat white cat napping on a worn velvet cushion.

I write – on my iPhone – an email to my daughter and a few notes to myself, then I pull out my Nook and read. I soon discover that waves of tourists wash up in that front room, some hushed, some raucous. Everyone takes a selfie with the cat, whose poise is unshakable. A young man sits next to me and opens a book. After fifteen minutes or so, he asks me if I’m reading something interesting. He’s reading love poems, because, like all young men in Paris since the dawn of time, he is hoping to get some cherchez la femme leverage. Youth is truly wasted on the young, y’all. I advise that love poems aren’t a reliable field guide to women, but might help him hold onto one. It is a truth universally acknowledged that chicks dig romance. Surely he has no problem meeting women. Just strike up a conversation with any one of the pretty girls here. Too transitory, he says glumly. Plus he can only muster the courage to approach women like, erm, me, implying that as an old lady, I am safely beyond such foolishness. I whip out my iPhone and show him photos of my girls and Robert. Ah, the King, he says. Astute lad. He’s forgiven.

So we talk. He’s one of the writers that sleeps on the floor in exchange for a couple of hours working the register each day, while he writes a book. I urge him to e-publish. I suggest writers’ blogs to read who have broken new ground in the field. I recommend Facebook pages and links. It’s what I’d be doing if I was trying to be published and make money doing it. We exchange emails. He keeps one of my painting showcards and says it will be his bookmark. A signal honor, coming from a writer. I do miss the scraps of notes and postcard bookmarks in these electronic reader times. Before I leave on my audio tour, I walk back through the rooms and see typewriters on window sills, end table, and alcoves., reminding me of my recent typewriter paintings.

I continue on my walking tour, learning all sort of curious facts about the Julian le Pauvre church, and the lives of the Parisians in this little corner of Paris. At the end of the walk, I decide to walk back along the Seine. Before I head down the stone steps, I stop at one of the green wooden book and poster stalls along the road, and buy risqué 1930s vintage French postcards (2E for five). The antique aspect somewhat blunts the edge, keeping them just this side of filthy. I walk underneath a bridge bristling with padlocks snapped to railings by hopeful lovers.

I buy a carrot salad to go with the brie and figs I have in the apartment, and a chocolate and nougat pastry called Little Saint Antoine. When I spent a month in Italy I swore that espresso replaced my red blood cells. In Paris, I’d bleed butter.

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.

Friday & Saturday, April 25-26, day 6 &

April 28, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday. Walked to Nine Streets, looking in the windows at things I things I can’t afford, but enjoy admiring. Stopped for apple pie and coffee (it’s a Dutch thing) and drew a couple of postcards. Cranked up a Rick Steves’ audio guide of the Red Light district. It’s a hoot, like having your pastor show you around. The guide discussed the church while prostitutes tapped on the glass to attract customers; a different kind of window shopping.

Inside the church, I visited Saskia’s grave (the first Mrs. Rembrandt). An art installation was in progress in a side room, involving embroidery on church chair cushions. In another alcove, a black & white animated movie explored the effect of religion on the artist’s ancestors. Just outside the Lady Chapel, another film ran; a heavily pregnant, naked, brunette woman leaned forward and collapsed in slo-mo, falling out of the frame, the film maker’s response to the Virgin of the chapel.

Following that, I had lunch in the church’s café, out in the garden. A note on my plate informed me that my soup was made by (formerly) sex-trafficked women. Amsterdam seems to relish contradiction and thrive on containing multitudes.

More walking, and I nearly stumbled over the bronze breasts and hand underfoot. Such is Amsterdam that I can’t tell what the artist’s intention might be. Shame? Pride? Weighing fair measure for money paid?

Crowds increased, testosterone rose. Walked into the New Church to use the bathroom, stayed for an exhibition of the top photographs of 2014. http://www.worldpressphoto.org/ The impact was the emotional equivalent of a punch in the stomach. I felt gutted by the fifth image, but kept going until it was done. Soldiers under fire, a man making IED bombs, domestic violence, collapsed building victims, cancer-riddled athlete, Boston marathon bombing, tsunami aftermath. There’s a lighter side; nudists, a subsistence farmer stirring plum jam, hermits in rakish leaf hats, bonobos. My favorite; a man bringing a sheep home for a festival dinner. The ewe sits calmly in his car’s passenger seat. The image captures the moment the man behind the wheel lights his cigarette and you think, eh, that’s a really awkward blind date.

“Occupied Pleasures” photo by Tanya Habjuqua

Walk back to the B&B past men unloading and setting up scaffolding, barricades, and port-a-potties, gearing up for the first King’s Day in 129 years.

King’s Day, Saturday. In orange socks and my orange polka dot scarf, I walked toward the museum through the Vondelpark, which Amsterdam sets aside on this holiday for children and their families. It’s a cross between a PTA bake sale, a yard sale of outworn clothes and toys, and kids playing violins or guitars, with a hat for tips. Not bad at 9am, but inside of an hour even this park on the fringes geared up from busy to crowded to crushed. I skedaddled to the Rijks. Lucky for me, it meant the museum was not slammed and I had a great morning there.

Since I was here the other day, oversized yellow post-its have popped up. They are a commentary on a common response to the art, and what it might mean looked at from another angle. I start following these because so many of them echo what I’m thinking, then give it a spin. It feels subversive, and I like the way it jostles my thinking. Here’s an example.

When I walked back to the B&B around 2pm, there was blasting music from boats packed to capacity riding low in the canal, drunks everywhere, a sea of orange people. Population on the sidewalks was at capacity. Enterprising people are selling access to their toilet for 1 Euro a pee.

Welcome to the orange jungle.

Depending on your point of view the atmosphere was either enthusiastically festive or borderline mob. I got pushed into the street a few times by the oblivious throng. And this isn’t where the party is – that’s in the center.

I called it a day, lazed around in my room, read a book and wished King Willem-Alexander many happy returns of the day.

Prague, Day 7

April 8, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

We did a little early morning photography. In the window of my room;

Hopped on a tram, led by the fearless traveler on public transport, Robin. Got off and reversed direction a stop later, arrived without further incident at the Trade Fair/Veletržní Palace – museum of modern art – without further incident.

Saw adorable kids dressed like street workers in banded reflective vests drawing the Zodiac Heads installed by Ai Weiwei along the front terrace of the museum .

From the brilliant light of a bright sunny Prague day, I entered the dim world of the Slave Epic, the twenty enormous canvases the comprise Alphonse Mucha ‘s magnum opus.

Awesome achievement on often harrowing themes. Not entirely liking the roles he assigned women in his work, but holy Christ on a cracker this stuff is egg tempera and oil. I liked the graphic strength of the compositions combined with his frequent use of subtle pastels. I loved his dedication and his commitment to his ideals.

He gave it his all.

Gives you an idea of the scale of these paintings.

Here’s two details, a lovely curve of a belt;

And corner of the knight on the lower right hand side of the canvas.

And people say I’m obsessive.

It puts me in mind of the questions about art raised in the book, The Forgery of Venus by Michael Gruber.

Afterwards, I strolled to Lokal and pigged out on ham, whipped cream and horseradish, ‘cabbage salad’ (Czech for coleslaw) and potato puree, aka mashed potatoes.

Did one of the audio walks around the old town, glad they encouraged me to look up above the gaudy tourist tat and focus on the architecture and history, like this peacock;

I saw a lovely painting of Mary and St Luke in the church of Tyn, where Tyco Brahe is buried, then back to the Golden Well.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":0.04221610625716643,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Patron Saint of painters and sitters

Prague, Day 8

April 8, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Bright and early, I passed by the Lennon wall on a morning stroll down to the river.

"Don't talk about it, do it." — “Don’t talk about it, do it.”

Visited the Museum Kampa by the water with the giant alien crawling bronze babies. If you come up with a better description, have at it. Went inside and felt that sense of disconnection and ennui I all too often experience in the presence of contemporary art. Great bathroom though.

Ubered over to the town at 1:30 to meet Robin for lunch at the restaurant Field, (motto; Free Range Dining). Hatchets, rakes and scythes accent the spare décor. We have high hopes because of their newly awarded Michelin star. We decided to go for broke and did the tasting menu. What tipped me over the edge was the fact that they offer the option of pairing the courses with specially crafted non-alcoholic drinks. Oh wow!

And the entertainment began. Everything was indescribably delicious, and the presentation was half the fun. The service struck the right note of being both serious about the food and relaxed. The snails were served on something that looked like the country home of elves and fairies.

fairy and elf territory for snails, pumpkin, marrow, dried apples

fava — Woundwort, goat cheese, bread leaven, spruce

They poured smoke into one dish.

Fallow deer, black garlic, chokeberry, ginger

The fish was an abstract composition that put to shame what hung on the walls of Museum Kampa.

fish course — Pike perch, mackerel, kale, kohlrabi

The cheese course came in a picnic basket that was put together like a Chinese puzzle, which we unpacked; cups, plates, fresh cheeses in a wooden box, and clasp-lidded glass jars.

Super delicious; crisp circles of meringue over a soft, sweetened curds atop dollops of plum and graham cracker crumbs.

Tasting menu with the non-alcoholic drinks pairing;

Snails, pumpkin, marrow, dried apples – Drink: Apple, red pepper, pumpkin

Woundwort, goat cheese, bread leaven, spruce – Drink: Celery, elderflower, bay leaf

Pike perch, mackerel, kale, kohlrabi – Drink: Plum, cranberry, dill

Fallow deer, black garlic, chokeberry, ginger – Drink: Red cabbage, cranberry, rosemary

Beef brisket, veal, potatoes, onion – Drink: Potato, cherry, thyme

Cheese from Krasolesí – Drink: Plum, Earl grey, juniper

Curd, plum jam, plum brandy, spruce – Drink: something unlisted but it came in two egg shell halves in a bed of growing chives.

Intense chocolate truffle, almond nougat ball – Drink: kickass espresso.

Replete, entertained, and satisfied we departed, astonished that it was now past 4pm. In charity with all the world, we impulsively stopped in the Alchemist Museum. This was unfortunate choice. Dim room, crammed with props so fake even poor lighting couldn’t disguise them. In a word, cheesy. The one thing worth seeing was a bookcase that pivoted, opening a secret door to an underground stone and brick passage that led to two rooms that sadly had still more inept props and a horrendously lame soundtrack (loud bubbling and clanking sounds). Don’t get me started on the cringe-worthy paintings of the Rabbi with his golem and Tycho Brahe. Robin and I made sotto voce cynical comments, so we wouldn’t spoil the experience of the only other customer, a gullible young woman who very badly wanted it all to be real. “Here is a beaker with real gold distilled from flowers! We have the original recipe for eternal youth, elixir for sale in the gift shop!” Oh please. Go home and watch Death Becomes Her, I wanted to suggest. It’s more realistic.

This looks way better here than it did there.

Make a slight detour to the Bakeshop (don’t judge) en route to the art supply store. I found a Czech-made sketchbook with toned paper, just the right size, while Robin did an audio tour of the old town. Walked back via a bridge not the Charles, listening to the Mala Strana audio tour. Followed signs to a little fabric shop at the back of a courtyard, and bought a dusty rose-colored silk scarf because, color.

Back in my room at the delightful Golden Well, I struggled a little with iPhoto, which seems to be my daily penance. No idea why some images download and others do not. I keep trying various methods to semi -effective avail. I keep swearing I won’t blow another evening trying to make that dog hunt, and then I fall back into the abyss. It will all be worthwhile later, when I have this record to remind me of my adventure.