Paris

If the goal is to improve and put a stop to bad habits, I'm failing. Last night I finally turned out the light well after 1 a.m. 

It's impossible for me to end the day! After a very wonderful time, I have a great need for downtime. Explore new ideas time. Writing/editing time. Calm moments of reflection, but more likely in the pursuit of new ideas. In travel, if the trip is good (and when is it not good?), I need recovery hours built into the day.

Besides, I can get up at 9!

And eat breakfast at 9:45.

But then I do have to be brisk. Lesson learned: buying tickets for exhibition entrances at 11 is too early! At least go with 11:30 next time!

Today, I am to see the special exhibition at the Orangerie devoted to Monet, celebrating his work, given that he died 100 years ago (December 5, 1926). The walk there is a little over half an hour and it's a lovely one. Initially -- lots of gallery window displays, cafes with those iconic chairs...

Eventually I cross the river (yet again!) and note the light mist lingering into the late morning hour...

Go through on the side paths of the Tuileries Parc (which is a delightful park to cut through)...

(misty here as well; I've developed a new appreciation for the need to pot and winterize weather sensitive trees...)

 

Straight to the entrance of the Orangerie. 

There is a long line even if you have a reservation for a specific hour. It does move relatively quickly (I'm in at 11:15), but it has me wondering why at the d'Orsay there was no wait at all for reserved entrances. And I have a uneasy feeling there'll be chaos inside, since this museum is tiny compared to the d'Orsay.

I needn't have worried. Most people seem to head straight for the Water Lillies. Me, I go downstairs to the special exhibitions hall.

Let me tell you right away what my thoughts are about this: first of all, I do love Monet, though perhaps for the wrong reasons. I love his art form, his devotion to Impressionism (a period of sensual gentility in art, in my view), but I especially love his dedication to flowers, plants, and gardens, and to painting a moment in time (rather than scenes that are locked into neither time, nor place, nor season). This is so splendid for me, because I share this love of the movement of light over a garden in the course of a day. And of course, I am almost as obsessed about what I plant as he was. The theme of this exhibition is in fact Monet and the way he depicts the passage of time. If you are familiar with his canvases, then you probably know his series on haystacks, on poplars, on the river as it passes through Giverny. I took some photos to jog your memory.

And of course, many, many on the Japanese bridge at Giverny...

And those water lilies, which I have displayed for you amply on previous visits to Paris.

 

At the end of the exhibition, there was a video running of Monet painting not far from the bridge and the willow dripping down into the pond. I've seen many many pictures of Monet, but this clip was rather interesting, as it showed the way he would glance at his object and paint, on repeat, over and over and over again. But if the light changed during the day, how is it that he could stay with the mood of the morning on a very different afternoon? I do not know. The guy needs a camera to help preserve an image, no?  You'd think so...

 

 

 

All this is beautiful and the rooms are not too crowded. I'd say that Monet is so frequently exhibited that finding new language to describe his work is hard. And so the writings on the wall (as you navigate the exhibition) are in my opinion not as captivating as they were for the Cassatt exhibition. Good, but less emotionally engaging. But there are exceptions that I found extremely compelling and by the end of it all I thought -- my but that was special!

Then come the surprise: I'd forgotten (and thus have ignored for years and years) the Orangerie rooms next to the special exhibition space. A Utrillo room. A Renoir room. A Matisse room. Rousseau too. A Picasso wall. Modigliani . Exceptional, and really without many visitors at all.

From there, a quick look at the gift shop (not for me!) and finally, I do poke in to catch a glimpse of Monet's waterlilies, but the rooms are densely packed and there is nothing new or exciting for me in viewing these massively beautiful canvases from behind the shoulders of strangers. 

(True, you can always find a canvas that for some reason is ignored by the hoards, creating a misleading image of emptiness, but it's never going to be your favorite one...)

 

And besides, it is 12:20, and I have a ticket to another exhibition for 12:30 (what was I thinking??), and the place is a 25 minute walk from the Orangerie. Should I skip it or should I sprint? 

I choose the latter. Back through the park...

And from there -- a deep dive into the blocks of the Right Bank.

 

 

 

This walk does remind me why I stick to the Left Bank (unless there is something compelling that I must do on this other side of the river). The Left Bank to me is a series of neighborhoods, each with its own character, each with pockets of quiet in between the busier through streets. The Right Bank is a city. Always full of cars, tourists, souvenir vendors, except where it becomes posh store central. One could argue that where I stay (on the Left Bank in the 6th Arrondissement) is poshy as well, but it's modest to what you can see on the Right. It's not Musk territory here and the nearby Latin Quarter further tames the lean toward affluence. 

So, where am I rushing to this afternoon? To the Bourse, which was, in the 18th century, the Commodities and Grain Exchange, and now houses the museum of contemporary art.  It, too, has a special exhibition called "Remember Me," celebrating the upcoming 200th anniversary of photography.

This is a serious exhibition, with great attention given to the place photos held in our collective psyche in the past and how it all evolved into something else over the decades. There are iconic photos of course, but, too, there are the unusual pieces and presentations, ones that shake us up a little as we begin to recognize the sometimes unsettling aspects of the more modern take on this art form. Are the photos supposed to be, should be required to be objective documents? With no tampering and improvisation? Commemorating events, people, places? Surely not that. Not anymore, and perhaps not ever. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You had to look closely and read a lot to process the exhibition and I have to admit, this was a big ask for a person who had just gone through a lot of Monet and other 20th century art at the Orangerie. I ran out of steam at the end, even though my favorite segment was in fact at the end: this in the room in which one photographer (Depardon) traveled all around France with his van and camera some 20 years ago, and took photos of the less known, seemingly insignificant little towns dotting the French landscape. What he was doing (photojournalism) was a better version of what I do here, on Ocean. I looked at every single one of his photos very carefully and thought at length about how I would have handled that shot, understanding, of course, that he was a master of framing an image.

It's time to walk home. 

(French men always appear so engaged in their cafe conversations...)

 

 

(the bridge across the Seine)

 

Back to my side of the river. With a stop at what surely has become my favorite coffee place (to be distinguished from "cafe' as in the place you might drink coffee and eat a meal. Coffee at French cafes can be notoriously bad. Nothing about it is flavorful and killing the taste with milk, tepid milk at that, doesn't help. But in recent years, I've seen an explosion of these very small places that offer specialty coffees and perhaps a cookie or a piece of cake. Take-out is an option. And the coffee is invariably fabulous. The Cafe d'Auteur is a favorite for me because they really do make the very best latte in the world. They'll use whichever coffee you select and they use the right amount of both coffee and milk. A rarity indeed! At home I pour in too much milk and a typical cafe will use too much acidic coffee for my liking, but they do it exactly right and it's fabulous. Their cake of the day is carrot cake and I take that, and along with the latte, this becomes then my lunch. Late as it is! 

 In the even later part of the afternoon, I meet up with friends at Les Editeurs. Friends from the U.S.

This is not unusual for me: someone who reads Ocean finds out I am in Paris, they are here as well, and boom! We make a date. However, with this particular couple, it is unusual in that our friendship is unusual. She and I were at first just Ocean friends (since the beginning!), but some ten years ago we finally met in person (her academic work was somewhat similar to mine) and since then we have an open line of communication going. I would say we have become good friends, if somewhat unusual in the way we conduct ourselves, rarely seeing each other, because, well, she now lives in D.C. and I live in Steffi's House. The unfortunate story of my life is that just about all my very good friends live far away from me. A quick coffee? A walk together to mull over some trivial event of the day? Can't be done. Still, reconnecting like this is a significant boost for us. Our meet up over Spritzes and Camparis and cheeses and sardines was absolutely the best!

And dinner? I booked Breizh Cafe. I figured I would want to side step the typical French menu by the third night and do something easy and light. Breizh and their buckwheat pancakes are as reliably good as you could possibly hope for. Of course, the preferred seats are outside, and they will remain the preferred seats here until an Arctic blast shoos most (but not everyone) indoors. 

 

 

 

Not for me! I like cozy. (I also like my autumn mushroom crepe with comte cheese and an egg. Oh, and pickled veggies because I miss veggies which I feel are always underappreciated in French restaurants. 

Now, the goal is to not stay up past midnight. Noble goal. Terrific idea. Let's see if it takes!

with so much love... 

 

Paris

When you're home, it's impossible to fully appreciate every small detail of your life. Your thought can only stay for so long on the pleasure of, say, putting on a foot cream you like. Or taking in the scent of a rose. You have to move on and consider what lies ahead of you. Where you need to go, what needs to be done. I find that when I travel alone, however, all that spinning about the next moment and the one after stops. You truly understand what it means to live in the moment. All your senses concentrate on what is happening right now. It is amazing really how grand the small stuff becomes, how magnified the small pleasures seem. The irritants are obliterated, the lists of must-do's disappear. Your senses pick up what is there right now.

I had stayed up until midnight. I dont know why. Enjoying the chocolate. editing the post, thinking about nothing important. And I slept very well after that. I finally zonked out thinking about my flowers. Two small worries: is there really going to be a light frost this week? And secondly -- is there really yet another rose coming my way? It appears so. The rosarians who sent me a rose with a broken main cane are now sending a replacement. But I had planted the one with the problem, and I think I can nurse it back to life. What do I do with the new one? I walked through my garden (in my mind) and considered each spot, rejecting it, moving on to another, and eventually I fell asleep.

This morning, I was late for breakfast. Though really, what does that even mean? Is there a time I need to be down in the breakfast room? Surely it doesn't matter (so long as it is before 10:30).

I ask for my usual. Muesli, croissants, yogurt. Fruit, juice, coffee. Perfection, all of it.

 

 

I listen to the conversation between tables. Two American couples, one older than me, the other a bit younger. My French is so rusty! I had a horrible high school French teacher... How did you find this hotel? I did extensive research! (did they read my reviews? I posted plenty...) It's wonderful, isn't it?! (It is.) 

 

Since I eat a late breakfast, I dont linger afterwards. I have an 11:00 ticket for the Musee d'Orsay for their Mary Cassatt special exhibition. I'm posting a link to her Wiki page in case you a unfamiliar with her paintings. 

Walk to the museum: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing is, I have always liked Cassatt's paintings (all those sweet children!), but have regarded her as less important than, say, Monet or any of the Impressionists I tend to favor. Why? Because historically she has been treated as the less important artist. And when all signs point to others, well, you tend to look to where the fingers are pointing. She is sidelined.  Something to do with gender... And now here we are, 2026, the 100th year anniversary of her death and what is everyone celebrating? The 100th year anniversary, also this year, of Monet's death instead. I write this even as I really do love the work of Monet.

I bow down in admiration to d'Orsay for giving her top billing this Fall. (I must add that d'Orsay is in partnership with the  Orangerie and they are celebrating Monet!) 

I was enthralled with the Cassatt exhibition and enraptured with the detail provided, linking her art to her life, her values, her passionate fight to stay independent. She was born in Pennsylvania, but moved to France early on, but she never forgot her American roots and worked hard to familiarize an American audience with this revolutionary at the time painting style of Impressionism. People thought (I thought) that she was rather tied to the concept of mother and child (she did so many of those!)  because, we think, she herself was a woman and probably had a soft spot for the bond between mom and babe. In fact, Cassatt never married and never had children, preferring to devote her entire life to painting. For her portraits of children, of women, she used mostly models, unless commissioned to do someone's important next of kin. I have many thoughts about all this, but it's late and I must move on to part two of my day, so let me run a stream of favorites. Few words, many photos.

(She wasn't really a painter of still life, preferring to insert nature into her paintings of people, but this one of lilacs to me is so beautiful, I cannot pass it by.)

(Perhaps the most well known of her pieces is the next one here. She had plenty of admiration and also advice from Degas on it)

 

 

I skipped the rest of d'Orsay. Deliberately. It's as if I wanted to atone for my neglect of Cassatt over the years. 

I shopped some Cassatt posters and such, and then walked over to Place de la Concorde (across the River Seine). 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's something to note about this day: Half a million Parisians joined the protest that is ongoing here right now. It has to do with schools and lack of funding for upkeep and staffing. I'm fully supportive of it, but though I knew it would take place and disrupt life in the city, I could not figure out where and when the protest would be. And I admit I didn't try very hard, as I had such a full day! Besides, I have plenty to protest about back home.

My goal was to take the metro to its last stop on line 1 at Chateau de Vincennes. 

The idea for this came from Madame Sylvia Harralut at the hotel. She had asked me if I ever visited the Parc Floral there, and I have to say, I never even thought about it as a possibility. Remarkable. Ocean tells me that in the last 21 years I have spent 274 days in Paris and I have never been to this particular park. Madame Sylvia told me that the roses would be faded by now, but that this is a good moment to see the dahlias.

It's a bit of an expedition: walk to metro, ride metro to the end, walk another 15 minutes to the park, and once there, find your way to the relevant flower beds (not easy to find them!). Still, I admit to being quite excited. But also thirsty and thinking somewhere in there I should grab a drink and a bite. And pick up a few cards, since the park's little shop is essentially a homage to the gardener.

(oh! It also has sweet little dolls! Millie would love this one! Way over budget, considering that her goal would be to rip it apart.)

 

(I pause for coffee, which is as awful as many French cafe coffees are, and a granola bar, which is wonderful) 

 

 

I stroll out rather randomly afterwards. The park, which charges a nice sum as an entrance fee, stops with the charges in October. Meaning it's free now. Is that why there was almost no one there? The quiet was incredible. A few older French people. No one else. I came across this flower planting -- they boasted that no fertilizers or pesticides were used here. Well of course! We don't need any of that for most perennials or annuals.

(So quiet...)

 

I then found their roses, indeed on their last breath. I think that has more to do with their awful summer here (heatwave after heatwave) than with the lateness of the season. Still, the last roses were pretty and I had to be amused with myself as I studied and photographed the names of each rose like never before. None of this would have been important to me even three months ago. Now? I'm enthralled with each bloom!

 

From there I wandered over to where a small sign read "dahlias." 

Oh my goodness!

Oh heavens, this is incredible!

I was absolutely stunned by the beauty of it all. (Again, where are all the Parisians? This place is amazing!)

This was my second surprise of the day -- I've always liked dahlias at the farmers market, but my one or two attempts at growing them resulted in meh flowers. Okay blooms, but never at the height that should have been majestically theirs. Why? Because I did not care enough to study their horticultural traits, needs, and habits. 

Next spring, I will plant dahlias (though heavens knows where! Steffi's gardening space is so small! But I will find room, I promise!

A walk back, a ride back, a stop at the post office, and since it's on the way (everything in paris seems to always be on the way...), I pause at Moustaches -- the dog store. People here dress their pups even when it's not freezing cold outside. That probably is not necessary nor especially good for them, but I have to say, Millie would sure look sweet in this shirt from Brittany...

 

 

 

And here's a more appropriate and less expensive pup doll for her! No hair to pull out, but I'm sure the life of those poodle ears will be very limited under her ownership!

 

 

 

And then home. I had an hour to breathe, to maybe write, review photos. I did none of that. My credit card was hacked (no I did not apply for a passport in India!). This isn't the first time that it has happened to me while traveling in France, but this time I do think it was my fault. Two of the hotels from this trip had their data stolen, and though my card info was not taken, I had actually fallen for a scam. Remarkable, because I am SO CAREFUL not to give out information over the internet. But a message requested card info from this hotel, and at the time they asked for it, I knew that I had yet to give them a credit card number, since when I book, the hotel often takes my word for it and requests card info upon arrival.  And so I thought -- well sure, they need it now, so here it is. Boom, a day later someone is using my card in India.

Taking care of this while abroad is a pain. I have learned to travel with more than one card and to keep the second one hidden away from the first. Still, I needed to delve into the immediate consequences of the theft, so I barely made it to dinner on time for my 7 pm reservation.

Where did I eat? At Seulement Sea. It was supposed to be a simple seafood dinner at a nearby restaurant that I have been going to since it opened (and to the one that was there before Seulement Sea took over!). It's not fancy, but it's solid.

Today it was not solid. The fish, a sturgeon, was undercooked. Now, I'm not shy about evaluating food quality, if mostly only to myself, but this time I wasn't sure if it was intentional. I mean, do I really know that this fish isn't supposed to be half raw? So I ate it, then googled it. AI tells me you should never eat it undercooked. Parasites, bacteria, you name it. The risks are obvious. A follow up discussion with AI reassured me that if eaten in Paris, my risks were small, since their rules about serving fish in restaurants pretty much eliminate the parasitic dangers normally present. Still, I was told to be vigilant for the next 24 hours. I am vigilant, and mad at Seulement Sea and especially at myself for not speaking up. It didn't taste right half raw (salmon, for example, tastes just fine that way). So, no restaurant photo. Not from tonight's meal anyway. Will I return? Oh I dont know... Maybe it's time to find another nearby seafood place. Every restaurant makes mistakes of course, but once you find yourself in the thick of one, you start noticing other things that are not great about a place. The blandness of the food. The rather indifferent attitude toward their diners... etc.

The walk home was lovely. People out and about, including at the tip of my quiet block. 

 

 

 

Students, or in that age category anyway. Lots of them. Maybe celebrating a successful manifestation? Greta Thunberg was here for it. How grand that you dont have to fear retribution for demonstrating! 

And yes, how grand it is to be in Paris!

with so much love...