My neighbor David told me about the "rules" governing French retail. Certain kinds of stores were allowed to sell certain kinds of products. Some stores could sell only a limited selection of certain kinds of products but a wider variety of others. You pretty much have to ask someone who knows the rules in order to know where to look for what you want. The closest the French have to an American type "Department Store" is a "Monoprix." And why can't you buy a disposable camera anywhere else? Don't ask, it's Chinatown Paris. Anyway, it keeps Walmart out, so the practice has some redeeming value.
On the way back to the Tuileries with my new disposable camera I stumbled upon what I am pretty sure are the colonnades where Cary Grant and Walter Mathau had their gunfight in "Charades." I'll have to rent that movie again some time.
I spent most of the morning exploring the Tuileries Gardens. I found a Monoprix but not a 1 hour photo, nor a crepes place. I gave up so that I would not lose the light to photograph the exterior of the Louvre and the Gardens. But the light sucked, with dark shadows near the building but intermittently bright light shining on the maze and statues. Only a small handful of my pictures came out well. Still hungry, I noticed a guy eating a chocolate covered waffle. Judging by how little of it he had eaten I guessed that the source was not far away. When I took a sort of rising overlook to have a better look at the Egyptian obelisk, I saw the crepes and waffle stand. Mid-morning snack: acquired! (I went for a chocolate waffle, as I already had a crepe over the weekend and the waffles looked too good to miss).
After I finished my waffle I headed for the Picasso museum. I took a few wrong turns, (it's in a warren of narrow streets) but found it pretty quickly anyway. I then doubled back to a Brasserie that I spotted in my wrong turn adventures to eat lunch. A tuna sandwich here contains no mayonnaise: just a 14" baggette cut in half crosswise, then each piece sliced lengthwise and filled with tuna, lettuce, tomato, some shredded carrots and cucumber. No condiments needed because the vegetables were fresh and actually had flavor to them. I had forgotten how fresh vegetables that have not had the flavor genetically engineered out of them to survive longer in transit and on the shelf tasted.
The Picasso museum had a good number of pieces that influenced Picasso, including Cezzanne, Matisse, as well as native Pacific Island and African masks. The order of the exhibit I found helpful. It started out with other artists who influenced him and then proceeded more-or-less chronologically through his career, allowing you to see the development.
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| Behind the Picasso Museum |
After the Picasso Museum I found a brasserie that served a kind of "Croque" that I could eat. My phrase book French by this time enabled me to ask them to leave off the ham without difficulty.
The recital was supposed to take place at a church called St. Ephrem in the 5eme, behind the Sorbonne. While searching for this church it started raining. I took cover in a Russian bookstore. One of the staff asked me in French what I guess was "may I help you." I answered in Russian asking if she understood Russian. No, she did not. Oh well, the one foreign language I *can* speak somewhat passably and no one in a Russian bookstore to talk to in Russian. After some searching I did find St. Ephrem but soon realized that I arrived way too early. But no harm done, as the interior of the church had numerous pieces or artwork to admire and I had a chance to catch up with my travel journal. Before the concert I found a great brasserie in this neighborhood that served a vegetarian croque: red and green peppers, grilled and then baked under gruyere on bread. I did not take note of the name but I'm sure I can find it again, if it's still there, even years from now.
The concert proved a bit mediocre. The cellist was a conservatory student, with great technical ability but still needs a few more live performances to work out the expressiveness. He sounded better when I overheard him warming up before the concert. But the evening still passed pleasantly. The church interior consisted of a really tiny alter and congregation area, on the same level and generally oval rather than rectangular. The art looked late Renaissance to 18th century and the acoustics were wonderful. During intermission a woman sitting next to me asked me a question in French. I was writing in my travel journal. When I answered in badly mangled French that I did not understand French, she switched to English.
She wondered if I were a music critic, because she saw me writing in my travel journal. It turned out she's Australian named Louise and has been living and working in Europe for the past few years. She created this musical theater act which she does for school children in Ireland. Taking a break from that, she came to visit Paris for a week. We met for a little something to eat after the concert where we agreed to meet again the next day and visit some museums together. During the conversation I did manage to place my foot firmly in my mouth. While talking about music we did and did not like I mentioned my intense dislike for the accordion. My brother used this instrument as a ruthless tool in his teenage rebellion. Our mother was a piano teacher with frustrated ambitions of classical music stardom. The only thing worse would have been a banjo, and I suspect had one been cheaply available in town I would have been spared the embarrassment of discovering that Louise played the accordion, as one of the characters she portrayed in her musical review show for the Irish kiddies. Oops.
Tuesday started out well, but upon arrival at the D'Orsey my morning turned out not badly, but also not so well either. I had forgotten a friend's warning that Tuesday is not a good day to visit the D'Orsey - The Louvre is closed Tuesdays, thus making the crowd at the D'Orsey much larger. I arrived later than I planned (again, not wanting to rush breakfast). It was so cold that my hands were shaking while I tried to catch up with my travel writing while I waited for a long time before the line outside crawled to the entrance. I did remember what my library director told me - I walked immediately to the back to find the staircase leading to the top floor. The Impressionists' exhibit starts in the top rear and progresses chronologically from there. This also helped me avoid the crowd. The exhibits upstairs started out with an artist I had not known or had forgotten (sadly, I did not note the name and have already forgotten again). The paintings showed European artists coming out of the dark of Rembrandt. From salon to salon it progressed: Renoir, Sisley, Cezzanne, Monet, and then Van Gogh. The most intense of Van Gogh's self-portraits, the blue-green one with the swirling background, I think it was his last self-portrait. It had a big crowd of Germans (big: number *and* size) who were taking a package tour surrounding it, but I managed to have a clear view of it for about a minute. Later, I found my favorite Monet (after the "Waterlillies" of course): the one of his cathedral paintings in early morning light and fog. I asked a very nice, polite French guy to take my picture next to it. By accident of the shortcomings of disposable cameras together with the light inside the gallery, the picture developed resembled the cathedral painting in its overall effect. I could never have done something like this on purpose:
I took a break, going to the museum cafe on the top floor. My notes here are a bit sketchy. I mentioned the family at the table near mine and the wild 3-year old girl who broke loose. Her older sister/cousin (not sure) caught up with her when the little tornado stopped to eye my apple-tort covetously. I guarded it with equal covetousness. In Europe, an apple-tort is no joke (they taste ten times better than any sort of apple pastry in the U.S.).
Back to the gallery, I found impressionists I never heard of before. Odilon Redon's painting hung behind glass in a darkened salon. His work showed cross-over between impressionistic and more naturalistic work. There were more, but unfortunately, the crowd grew too large and my claustrophobia kicked in. I decided to return again on Wednesday. I also had to go to meet Louise for lunch near the Bastille.
Louise and I found a nice vegetarian restaurant specializing in North African dishes. I had a kind of variety plate with couscous, brown rice and several different steamed vegetables in a delicious sauce/dressing made from sesame. On the way to "Les Voges" we (mostly me) had a bit a trouble finding Victor Hugo's house. It turns out he *lived* in one of the townhouses of Les Voges. In addition to many pieces of beautiful dark wood furniture (including a writing desk that folded up against the wall) and china he had owned, we saw some of the pages from his early drafts of "Les Miserables," mounted on the walls. If I had understood French I would likely have obtained more from the display of various drafts of "Les Miserable." I noticed that he wrote his first draft only on the right-side of the page, saving the left for notes on the next re-write and additional sentences, etc. I wished I thought of that when I wrote my early drafts of my college papers by hand.
The last museum of the day, Carnavelet (sp.?) had exhibits by and explaining the history of Paris. In some small respect I felt a bit disappointed, as most of the exhibits were paintings *of* Paris without much context or explanation - not much of a history museum. Carnavelet did have some interesting artifacts. One artifact that had both of us puzzled was a weird sort of ornate commode-like seat. An English-speaking museum person explained that it was as 19th century chair designed for a woman wearing a dress with a "bussle" on the back. The oddly placed hole in the "chair" would allow a woman to sit, although not too comfortably, without crushing the bussle against her lower back. The other memorable exhibit was the model of the Bastille. The tourist books call the Bastille "the most famous tourist attraction that does not exist." The revolutionaries blew it up. When I friend asked me after I returned from Europe if I saw the Bastille I answered, "Yes, it's about two feet high" : The model of the Bastille in Musee Carnavalet.
Louise and I parted company in the Metro station after we had some expresso and pastries at a cafe nearby. We made no plans to keep in touch. She was a good "museum buddy" and I'm glad we ran into each other.
I decided to try the "moul frit" at a restaurant near Pere Lachaise for dinner. In France this is not just a plate of mussels. This is a bucket of mussels - at least a half gallon. The order of fries - big thick, not quite "steak fries" - turned out to be generous as well. I enjoyed a nice leisurely walk back along Avenue de la Republique, back to the neighborhood of my hotel. I stopped by the internet cafe to make contact with my neighbor from San Francisco, to confirm plans we made to meet again the next day. Mousier Grumpy looked happier than I ever imagined possible. I noticed a very young woman, possibly a teenager, standing in front of his desk and speaking to him very animatedly. She said a very enthusiastic "bon jour" to me as I entered and echoed his "Au Revoir" with equal enthusiasm when I left. She continued to speak to Mousier Grumpy nearly non-stop as I sat a PC in the back room. The dynamic between them suggested father/daughter to me. She said something that cracked up the French guy sitting next to me. He looked at me to join in but all I could do was smile, nod and shrug, as I did not want to appear impolite. I guess a father of a teenager will be happy that she even wants to talk to him.
Next: my last day in Paris, a better visit to the D'Orsey, more interesting people, night on the Seine.
