Louvre

12 Random Observations

April 16, 2014 by Virginia Parker 3 Comments

In my imaginary Paris, there are no cars.

I’ve seen more Asian people in the Louvre in the last three weeks than I have seen in my lifetime, total.

Angelina’s is ground zero for thick, luscious, not particularly sweet hot chocolate, with a side of whipped cream.

Walking along the Seine over cobblestones is a tricksy, ankle-snapping risk, I don’t care what shoes you’re wearing.

Fascinated to see the way women actually moved in long skirts and corsets, via archival film footage in exhibits.

Pockets are absolutely essential, which is why I have only worn my otherwise ideal leggings once.

Most dangerous place in Paris is the stairs, whether marble (Louvre), wooden (apartment), escalator (Monoprix), stone (Seine) or concrete (Metro). Hiking up or down, it’s a compound fracture just waiting for a moment of inattention to happen.

I have to fight the urge to stroke, caress and pat the sculpture. And not bitch slap the people I see give in to the temptation.

Most useful tools; a tie between my iPhone (with a temporary global plan) and a small box of big safety pins, thick rubber bands, and large paper clips. I use these all the time.

I have never worn either coat I brought.

Skinny leg jeans are a must, Chucks are great, long thin scarves required.

Walking down the boulevard, lovers lean toward each other as if they are north and south poles of a magnet. I miss you, Boatie. Viva l’amour à Paris.

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.

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.