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

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.

Thursday, April 24, Day 5

Simple plan made the night before: visit the Hermitage Museum outpost in Amsterdam to see the Silk Road exhibition,  then head back towards the B&B, with a stop at the van Loon museum or maybe the Albert Cuyp Market. Rain is forecast to start at 10am and that will decide how much walking around I’ll be doing. I put on my raincoat  (the only time I have worn it. The winter coat has not left the bag it was stuffed in)  and slip the collapsible umbrella in my bag.

Ubered over to the museum, which reminded me of an Apple store on the inside – curving white walls, glass and metal stairs, lots of interaction features – swipe your ticket over a sensor to be admitted, doors swing open as you approach, the audio guide is triggered from a point on the wall you swipe with you audio unit, like the self check-out at Kroger.

My experience with the Silk Road exhibit will be all tell and no show, since photographs were prohibited. It ranged from fragments of damaged, extremely faded wall murals, to an entire silk garment lined in squirrel fur, preserved in ice for over a thousand years. Multi-media elements included a stuffed dromedary, a two-story high wall projection/slide show of individual items in the exhibit, and audio of Tibetan monks chanting.  There were sections on the archeological aspects, past and current, For me, the idea of the show was more interesting than the artifacts on loan. I think the Hermitage mother ship could have been a little more generous with what they made available for this.

I left on foot through spitting rain,  toward the Museum van Loon.  Passed by a bustling entry and peered inside at what turned out to be the Tassenmuseum Hendrikje, the Museum of Bags and Purses. I hesitated, but with a museumkaart, entry was free, so what the hay. Once inside I winced at the sign announcing a special exhibit – 50 years of Barbie! – but figured I could skip that, no one ever had to know.  The collection is housed in a classic, canal view mansion, with the earliest objects on the top floor. One four-story climb later I walked in, and saw a goatskin drawstring bag with iron clasps from 1600. I was hooked. I loved it when they put a painting from the same era behind the purse – instant context.  Like this:

The displays address the evolution of material and function. There are examples of  beading, basketry,  leather, plastic, and metal. Purses for brides and for chatelaines. Exhibits of what women carried, in various eras. So many of the purses were playful, inventive, or as  hand held sculpture, like the clutch that mimicked a steamship. I pressed my nose against the glass more than once.

A cafe on the second floor had two formal rooms set for a high tea.  They found me a table, slipping me in between the reservations.

I promised to be quick. Clotted cream, jam, and biscuits, how I missed you. I wolfed down crustless triangles of smoked salmon sandwiches, that biscuit, and a pot of Earl Grey. On my way out, I ducked into the gift shop. A Margaret Thatcher lookalike enthusiastically assisted me, and a mug, postcard, and one secret item later (a gift for Robert so I can’t include it here), I made it out the door. Guilty pleasures are the sweetest.

Walked on to the Museum van Loon, in the home belonging to the co-founder of the  Dutch East-India Company.  Interesting tension between the portraits of van Loon children by Dirck Santvoort and Nicolaes Maes, and a series of contemporary children’s portraits by artist Katinka Lampe they inspired.

Both disturbing, in their own way.

I revisited rooms multiple times. They had massive bouquets of fresh flowers throughout the mansion, a living version of Rachel Ruysch’s stilleven met bloemen paintings.

The formal garden behind the house was blooming in a palette of  orange and purple and graced with a copy of the sculpture I last saw in the Louvre, Hercules carrying his son Télèphe.

Thirty more minutes of walking over bridges, dodging around bicycles and trams, and I was back at the B&B. It was a day that convinced me of how good it is to have a museumkaart in my pocket. and time to allocate as I wish.

Wednesday, April 23, Day 4

Tired, cranky, and tense, thanks to the inconsolable infant next door. Breakfast and a hot shower improved my mood before I Ubered over to the Rembrandt House for a three-hour tour (I can’t type that without hearing the theme from Gilligan’s Island). I booked it with Context Travel, based on the one other tour I’ve done with them at the Vatican Museum.  http://www.contexttravel.com/city/amsterdam/walking-tour-details/rembrandts-amsterdam

Arrived at the Rembrandthuis  and was delighted to discover the tour consisted of me, an American Rembrandt scholar for my guide, and a trainee docent, a Dutch woman from Rembrandt’s hometown of Leiden. Booyah! Let the education begin.

I was one enthralled client. Our timing was such that the man who does print demonstrations began the process to accommodate us. As he did each step, he explained both the how and the why of the process and how Rembrandt worked. Show and tell at its best. There were examples of the way Rembrandt changed plates over time, scraping away some figures, adding other details, how you can track the order in which a particular image evolves by putting the prints side by side.

He prepared to make a print on rag paper, explaining that Rembrandt also used linen, Japanese mulberry paper, and vellum. The demo guy used a decidedly anachronistic spatula to scrape the ink over the plate, then wiped it with cheesecloth, and finally his own chalked palm. One of those odd facts that will stick in my brain forever is the authentic tamp (instead of the spatula) was made from the skin of a dog. Since dogs don’t sweat they have no pores, and their skins were the best for not absorbing the ink.

Then he used the press to make a print. Magic! The print on the bottom is the one hot off the press.

Upstairs, in Rembrandt’s studio, there was another demo in progress; how Rembrandt made his paints. A woman ground organic pigments into linseed oil. I petted the brushes. Heaven.

My guide seemed to know pretty much everything there was to know about Rembrandt, his workshop, and clients. The Dutch trainee talked about the culture of the times. Big fun for me. Huge.

We parted in Dam Square after a brief walk around Rembrandt’s neighborhood. There was a funfair set up in the square, with carnival rides, a haunted house, ring toss type booths, lots of shrieking and screaming.

Welcome to hell.

I skedaddled around the side of the church to De Drie Graafjes café and ate a broodje on the second floor, watching the street scene below. Wandered afterward to the Nine Streets, known for boutiques of local designers/creators. Walked around until the no sleep thing cut my legs out from under me, and I headed back to my room. On the way, I passed a number of shops that reminded me just how seriously the Dutch take their cheese.

Very, very seriously.

Tomorrow, either back to the Rjiks or over to the outpost of the Hermitage museum for the Silk Road exhibit.

 

Tuesday, April 22, Day 3

Back to the Rijks and began this time in the medieval section. But first, for those who suggest my work is a tad detailed, here’s a large portrait of a Dutch noblewoman, Maria van Strijp, by Johannes Cornelisz. Verspronck,1652. Note the lace cuffs.

Here’s a close-up detail, taken by my iPhone, of those cuffs.

 I rest my case. I am positively loose and sloppy compared to the precision of this painter. Another painter’s skill I marveled at – here’s a detail of a Bathsheba painting (Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, 1594) where skin appears to glow as if lit from within.

How did he achieve this astonishing luminosity? No edges. I’m thinking layers upon layers of glazes and a delicate touch with a brush.

Back to the medieval section, along with paintings that blaze with color and expressive faces, there are  many wonderful objects, including this carved ivory head.

It’s the grip of a flintlock pistol.

There’s a tremendous father and son diptych, saints galore and a marvelous carved elk antler, used as a shield, culled from a beast killed a thousand years ago.

As I’m walking through other sections, I notice a room that is pulsing light at intervals. Really ? In the center of a recreation of an 18^th century room, on temporary loan to the Rijks, is a glowing sphere with a reflective, geometric pattern on the surface. Light within it glows and dims, and as visitors stand near the surface, it ripples and twitches. The Lotus Dome. by Daan Roosegaarde,  is a reactive dome, lit from within and covered with a geometric net of flower shapes. The Mylar petals open and twitch in response to the warmth of a human body, as the LED light glows and dims. Hypnotic. It took a while before I could make myself move on.

Lunch again at the café, then back to the rooms. There’s a great variety here, from an armada of wooden ship models, to walls of locks that resemble lace in the complexity of their designs. Heaps of clothes and jewels and porcelain. It’s more like a Smithsonian museum, a country’s historical attic, than a straight up art museum. One thing that puzzles me is the scarcity of sculpture. Very few works in the Rijks, and many of those in terracotta. It isn’t until my visit to the Rembrandthuis, with the enthralling docents of Context tours, that the penny drops. This city is built on soft, wet ground. Think Venice or NOLA. Hundreds of buried pilings hold up the Royal Palace. There’s no stone here, no marble quarries. Streets are made of brick.  That’s why sculpture is lacking.

Another lunch at the museum cafe,  More thinking about the particularity and the humanity of the Dutch paintings. I walked back at the end of my day in charity with the world, and after a light supper, fell into bed, exhausted. And all hell broke loose. Two words.

Crying baby.

On the other side of the wall of my comfortable room is a baby who has a really bad night. Maybe it’s colic. Maybe the parents believe in letting a baby cry it out. Don’t know. I do know that baby cried without ceasing from 6:45 to 9:30, and wailed again at 11, 1am, 3am and 7am. My earplugs helped, but couldn’t completely erase the plaintive wailing.  I thought about going over, knocking on the door, and offering to walk the baby, since I wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

Rough night for both of us. I seriously considered moving my bed into the bathroom. If it happens again tonight, I will.

 

Sunday & Monday, April 20-21, Day 1 & 2

Cue Monty Python’s And now for something completely different.  Easter Sunday the plane was jammed but the flight was brief, landing twenty minutes early. I got a taxi right away and was at my B&B door in no time. My driver had a blonde buzz, blue suit, dark glasses, and a deadpan expression. He looked like he could be working a secret service detail. I’m in an Ingmar Bergman movie in terms of how people look, which is a lot like me. Tow-headed women are bare-shouldered in sundresses and flip flops. It’s like I went to sleep in NYC in the winter, and woke up in LA in the spring. People are in bright colors and patterns, clothes fit haphazardly and loose, flaxen hair as far as the eye can see. And everyone is physically bigger, hale and hearty, like they all just came off a farm in the midwest. The thin, edgy, sleek, groomed-to-the-teeth look that everyone and their dog had in Paris is a fading memory.

I was welcomed into a bright and airy kitchen/breakfast room/garden by my host, and I can tell immediately why this place is #1 on TripAdvisor. He offers me a much needed cappuccino, and spends a good 45 minutes acquainting me with the area around the bed and breakfast, using a map he annotates for me with restaurants, stores, and museums. He’s patient with my questions and just easy to be around.

In my room – large and bright, simply and very comfortably furnished, I spread out my belongings, plug in my electronics, and head out to buy a museumkarrt that will do for me what the Louvre card did, get some Euros out of the ATM and find a lunch.

Hit the Seafood bar – which was slammed, but they found me a seat at the bar. Sad to be told mussels are now out of season, I settled for fish and chips. Seafood is very different when you live by the water, unlike my landlocked hometown.

Afterwards walked to the Stedelijk – the modern art museum – because that’s where I could buy my museumkaart and not have to wait in line. Because I was there, and because I had the museumkaart and a ticket to the place in my hand, I walked through the galleries  Now, I was raised by a southern lady and taught that it’s better not to say anything, if you can’t say something nice. So here, I’ll post some photos. Recall that I’ve been marinating in the Louvre in all her gloire and magnificence and this is what greets me at the Stedelijk.

Here are two art works which are, yes, a black square and a white square. I think somebody wrote a play about this.

But wait! There’s sculpture too.

If you happen to love this kind of thing – terrific! You can have my place in line. More room for you! Feel free to dismiss me as a philistine and a fossil.

To be fair, on the second floor there was a visiting exhibition of large format photographs by Canadian Jeff Wall, which I found captivating. I spent a long time with his work, which functions as a kind of portal into his view of the world.

Moving right along,  Monday morning breakfast was brought to my happy, sunny room on a tray. It’s exactly what I wanted. plus a flower.

I lounged just inside the door of my balcony that overlooks the private gardens in the courtyard. Pots of flowers on most of the other balconies, baby laundry strung out on some of them. The gardens are charming, with tulips and grape hyacinths, vines and trees. It’s a homey little neighborhood-within-a-neighborhood. Lots of baby and child ambient noise, which I don’t mind. It makes a change from drunks singing on the street at 3am in Paris.

Went to the Rijks today and it It is petite after the Louvre. I arrived early and got a good look at the Hall of Honor residents before the deluge of visitors arrived. Vermeer and Rembrandt and Franz Halls. My idea of a good time.

Lunch in the museum café was a tasty open-face pastrami on rye with sauerkraut, and I drew postcards. Weather is variable. When I left the B&B for the museum, a pleasant fifteen minute walk  women were in sundresses and flip flops. When I left the Rijksmuseum, it was spitting rain, and I wished I had my mittens.

Amsterdam has me reeling, in a good way. It feels more like a village than a city. Owls hooted through the night, and birdsong woke me up, including one that sounds like a bicycle bell. I picked up fresh fruit and green salad for my dinner from a market. I’m in bed, writing this, all cozy and warm and listening to the rain. Oh, and the marble floor of the spacious, modern bathroom is heated. Ah.

Saturday, April 19, Day 18

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, April 18, Day 17

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.

Wednesday, April 16, Day 15

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.

 

Tuesday, April 15, Day 14

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.

Monday, April 14, Day 13

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.

12 Random Observations

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.